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lucy90712 · 5 months

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Can you do a Jude Bellingham imagine where his girlfriend is very burnt out from school. They do long distance so she tries to get everything done so she can go spend time with him & watch him play. One day when she lands to watch him play against Barcelona he finds her stress crying in the room alone because she tries to be there for everyone around her but it’s costing her to stress out about getting things in on time. Somehow Jude calms her & they enjoy their day before he plays against Barcelona.

Thank you

-a very stressed & burnt out student

A/n: this is me right now too, I hope things get easier for you soon

WC: 2.0k The last few weeks maybe even months have been so stressful. Ever since I went back to university I have done nothing but go to classes and study. I know it's my final year but I didn't think it would be this difficult but there is just so much to do between assignments for classes and preparations for my dissertation. For the first few weeks I feel like I was coping pretty well but recently it's all just hit me like a truck and now I feel like I'm drowning in books and being suffocated by deadlines.

To make it all 100 times worse where I chose to go to uni is away from my family and very far from my boyfriend. Don't get me wrong I love it here but at times like this I just wish that I had someone here to tell me it's all going to be ok. I've been really missing not just my family but my boyfriend Jude as well, I haven't seen Jude since before I came back to uni which was at the end of august and it's been killing me. I also haven't been able to talk to him as much as I would like as I've been really busy and he's been busy too with his move to Real Madrid and having to get used to living and playing over there.

These last few months have been hard on our relationship, even though we've been long distance for a few years now we have never gone this long without seeing each other and the fact that we haven't talked as much hasn't helped. Finally we are going to see each other though as I'm flying over to see him play and just to spend a few days with him which has got me through the last few days. In order to be able to go and see Jude I have been working extra hard to get my work done as I want to actually spend time with him which I can't do if I have assignments to do but it's been difficult. All week I've only left my apartment to go to classes and I've pulled far too many all nighters but I've got quite a lot done so I guess it's somewhat worth it although I still have some things to do.

I had an alarm set to wake me up before my flight but it wasn't needed as I'd been awake all night packing and doing uni work. The worst part was despite all my hard work I had to pack a few of my textbooks and my laptop as I didn't manage to finish everything in time. I tried to put that behind me though as I got to the airport because I still want to enjoy my time with Jude and if I'm stressed and feeling down then I'm not going to make the most of the time which I really do want to do. Jude has been telling me all week how much he's been looking forward to today he promised me that we was going to get up early to pick me up from the airport before he has to go to training which is how I know he's serious as he hates getting up in the morning.

~~~~~~~~~~

After a few hours in the air I landed on Spanish soil and somehow I immediately felt a bit more relaxed as I knew it was only a matter of time until I would be in Jude's arms which is exactly what I need. As I got off the plane I text Jude to let him know I had landed which he answered right away telling me he was already waiting for me in the arrivals lounge with a disguise on so he didn't get recognised. Knowing he was waiting for me made me walk a bit quicker to collect my bag and once it was in sight I grabbed it and ran towards where Jude would be waiting for me.

It took me a minute to find Jude but eventually I saw him stood with a hat and sunglasses on which didn't offer much of a disguise but he wasn't surrounded by people so clearly it does something. Once he saw me coming he swiftly made his way over until he was close enough to pick me up and nearly kill me with how tightly he held me. It felt so good to be in his arms again and smell his cologne it made me feel like I was home again which is exactly what I've been needing. Jude held onto me for a good while before he took my bag in one hand and my hand in the other leading me out to his car which was parked outside. Once we got in the car Jude leaned straight over the centre console and smashed his lips onto mine which led to us making out for a bit too long so we had to rush back to Jude's place on he could drop me off before going to his training session.

Once Jude had left I went and made myself some breakfast as I didn't have time to eat before I left and I had to make myself a cup of tea because despite being in Spain I'm still British and we can't go a day without a cup of tea. Jude knows me well enough that he had brought a new pack of my favourite tea and put it on a shelf he knows I can reach along with a mug which he had clearly just brought for me. I enjoyed my cup of tea before I took my bag upstairs to go and unpack. To my surprise the room was quite clean and Jude had cleaned out one of his draws for me, well not quite there was a few hoodies and t shirts in there still but he left me a note telling me I can wear them so they are mine now. Of course I had to put a hoodie on before starting to unpack all of my stuff.

I unpacked most of my stuff pretty quickly but then I got to the bottom of my suitcase and saw just how many text books and folders I had to pack. Seeing it made the realisation hit me that I still have so much work to do and once again all of the stresses started weighing down on me like it was physically crushing me. All week I've been so deep into work mode I bottled up all my emotions but now they are all coming out at once and for some reason I can't stop crying. It's like all of the pressure and stress has finally reached the surface and the mental breakdown all my friends warned was coming has finally arrived. I've never felt so overwhelmed in my life and I just don't know how to cope all I do know is that I need to get myself together before Jude gets back as I don't want to worry him plus I want to enjoy our time together.

My attempts to calm myself down didn't go well if anything I just got more overwhelmed and cried more. I was so in my own world that I completely lost track of time so when I heard the front door close and Jude call my name I panicked. As his footsteps got closer to the bedroom I desperately tried to wipe the tears from my face but then I realised my eyes would still be all red so I just put the hood on the hoodie up to try and cover my face.

"Hi darling do you need any help unpacking?" Jude asked a he walked in

"N-no I'm f-fine" I sniffled

"Babe what's wrong?" He asked clearly concerned

"Nothing" I said

"I know you're lying to me I can hear you sniffling what's made you so upset you know you can tell me anything" he said trying to make me open up

"I'm sorry I'm just stressed I've got so much work to do for uni I worked so hard all week so we could actually spend some time together but I couldn't finish everything and now I have loads of texts books in my suitcase and I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed I'm really sorry I'm ruining our time together" I rambled

"Hey hey slow down it's ok there's no need to be sorry it's ok tell me exactly what's going on and we can fix it together" Jude comforted

"I still have two assignments I need to finish before the end of the week and I'm so exhausted from pulling so many all nighters but I just want to actually spend some time with you because I've really missed you" I said a bit more calmly this time

"Ok we can work this out I know you're tired but how about I help you finish those assignments then we can just have a relaxing evening together get some sleep and be ready to do something together tomorrow" Jude suggested

"That sounds good" I said

Jude then picked me up and sat me on his bed before grabbing my laptop and books for me. I explained to him what I needed to do and then we go to work together. One of my assignments I just needed to reread so Jude did that for me to make sure there were no mistakes then I just needed to finish one other assignment and then do the same. Jude was so helpful and read the parts of my textbooks I needed to me while I typed and he let me talk through my ideas with him even though he doesn't understand what I'm studying. In just over and hour we were done and I instantly felt so much better and when Jude started giving me kisses I felt even better.

Being the amazing boyfriend that he is Jude got some chocolate from downstairs for me to eat while he ran a bath for the both of us to share. It was only when Jude came to ask me which bubble bath I prefer that I realised just how much he had brought for my visit. He doesn’t like to take baths so he wouldn’t have bubble bath just lying around and the chocolate I was eating was my favourite one so he must’ve got that especially for me as well. Jude is such a sweet boyfriend all the time but little things like this just make me realise how truly perfect he is and it makes me so grateful that I ended up with Jude as I know he truly cares for me.

Once the bath was ready Jude helped me get in then he got in himself and sat behind me letting me rest my back against his chest. The entire atmosphere was so relaxing which helped me finally let go of all the stress and anxiety that has been fuelling me for the last few weeks. Nothing needed to be said either both of us were more than content just sitting there in silence as Jude’s fingers played with the rings on my hand especially the promise ring which he gave me last Valentine’s Day which I think is my favourite piece of jewellery I own. After a while of just relaxing Jude started to wash my body for me which meant I didn’t have to move at all as his hands gently rubbed over my skin.

Once the both of us were clean we got out the bath and Jude gave me some of his clothes for me to put on which I very happily did. He then picked me up and carried me downstairs to the sofa where he piled blankets on top of me before sitting down and spreading them out properly. All of the sudden I felt the tiredness take over so I snuggled up to Jude and just let my eyes close and sleep consume me. Just as I was drifting off I felt Jude kiss the top of my head and whisper I love you which put a smile on my face just as I went into a dreamland.

#jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham imagines #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham #football imagine

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 5 months

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WIBTA for blocking my suicidal friend?

TW for suicidal ideation, mental health.I know this sounds bad but hear me out.

I (25F/NB) met F(26M) in January 2017, a few months after I started university through a mutual friend, and we quickly hit it off. We started dating a few months later. We split near the end of 2021, but aside from a few awkward months right after the split, we've stayed friends. We've both seriously dated other people: F had a girlfriend, A(mid-20s F), for a little under a year, and I've been dating my boyfriend, H (30M), for about 9 months.

Throughout the time we were dating, F and I had a few problems. Money was a big one: he would borrow money a lot and not always pay it back (either when he said he would or at all). He currently owes me about £8000 that he borrowed for uni. For most of the time since he borrowed it he hasn't been in work, so I haven't been pushing the matter. One of the last straws for our relationship was when he bought a brand new PS5 and lied to me about it when he had recently borrowed money from me.

The other big one was his mental health. F has been dealing with poor mental health for about as long as I've known him, but he refuses to do anything about it. He often talks about how much he hates his life and how he should just kill himself. He often punched himself in the head or punched walls when he was upset, but he refused to admit that this behaviour was unhealthy. He wouldn't go see a therapist or doctor, or speak to anyone except me. Once, when I was visiting family, he became upset about something and I was worried he would hurt himself, so I asked a mutual friend to check on him. He refused to let the friend in, and got very angry with me.I wanted to break up with him sooner but he'd often tell me I was the only good thing in his life, and I was scared he'd kill himself if I left him. We eventually broke up near the end of 2021. Fast forward to this summer. In August, A broke up with F and F had to move back in with his abusive parents. He initially asked to stay with me but I said no (I live in a tiny flat, I can't afford to financially support another person and to be honest I'm just not comfortable with it). I later changed my mind and offered him my sofa when I realised how bad the abuse was, but he declined.

Also in August, I found out my grandmother was dying. I went to see her with my sister and brother-in-law, and the same day received a message from F venting about his life. I replied with: "Hey I'm kind of dealing with something right now can you talk to someone else? I don't really have the emotional bandwidth rn"When he asked what was up, I told him my grandmother was dying. He expressed his sympathies, and told me that his stuff could wait. He sent me the following message four hours later: "I think I'm going to kill myself""I've totally ruined my life, I've got nothing except daily torture from my parents". Again, this is four hours after I'd explicitly told him I don't have the capacity for it. I spoke to my sister and brother-in-law (28F and 30M) about it and they both said I should block him.

In September I started a new job (I recently qualified as a teacher) which has been very challenging, exhausting and intense. My grandmother died at the end of September, so the past few months have been hard for me. He knows all this, but he keeps sending me all these messages about how much he hates his life and how he should just kill himself.

Early October, I was added to a group chat between A, F's ex, and a mutual friend Z. A told us that F had sent her an email that was essentially a suicide note. I called F and made sure he was okay, and passed that along to the group chat. F was angry that, as he perceived it, we'd been talking about him behind his back. He didn't speak to me for a day or so but quickly went back to normal.

At the end of October, the day before my grandmother's funeral, I woke up to a message that was essentially a suicide note. This was not the first time this had happened. I had a panic attack, though I'm not sure whether that was due to the message or imminent funeral. I send him some messages saying that I didn't want to receive these kind of messages unless it was actually something I could help with, that he wasn't respecting my boundaries and that the friendship had become entirely one sided. I told him that I didn't want to block him but I would. He seemed to accept that, but this morning I woke up to another suicide note message. After verifying that he was still alive (he is), I started writing this ask. I feel bad, but I'm so tired of doing all the emotional labour. I have my own shit to deal with and i'm not his therapist. WIBTA if I blocked him?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole #self harm cw #suicide cw

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neonghostlights · 1 year

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A/N: Hey, y’all. So this one is gonna be a wild ride. I do have a tag list for this but I will only add you if your bio confirms you are over 18. If you’re a minor please don’t interact with me or my blog. Also, I named this after the song by The Pixies.

Summary: You haven’t been the same since you woke up in the hospital with memory loss after the earthquake hit Hawkins. When strange things start happening and you feel like you’ve started losing your mind, a group of strangers offer to help. Even though you’ve never met them before, they seem to know you better than you think.

Warnings: Post Season 4, Blood (a lot), Nightmares, Head Injury, Memory Loss, Brief Mention Of Hospitals and Doctors, Medication (Pills), Not a whole lot of dialogue in this chapter mostly world building, 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 2.5k

Eddie Munson x Fem Reader

Series Master list

Part One

Friday, August 22nd, 1986

There was blood, screaming and devastation as you crouched over the body. The blood was forming a dark puddle around the person. It stained your hands with a deep crimson but you didn’t care. All you knew was that you needed to help this person. Whoever they were.

The screaming roared in your ears, so loud that you were certain you would burst an eardrum. You weren’t sure where it was coming from though. You didn’t have time to search for a source. You needed to save them.

Tears made your vision blurry as you pressed on the wounds, hoping to keep the stranger's blood inside of their body. Your hands slipped along the skin through their torn shirt, making it difficult to apply pressure.

Wherever you were was dark. Red lights flashed in the distance but you didn’t have time to focus on that.

There was too much blood. There were too many wounds. You were losing them.

Another scream, louder this time rang through the air. The person was trying to talk to you but you couldn’t hear their voice. Another bloody hand pressed against your own, like they were trying to comfort you despite their bleeding out.

You looked at the person's face to see what they were saying but they were gone. Where their body once laid was suddenly empty. Blood still stains your hands, your clothes, the pavement. So much that you could smell it on your skin and taste it on your tongue.

Another scream.

You pressed your hands to where the body once laid.

“No. No. No. No. No,” you wailed as you ran your hands over the ground, hoping that they would appear again. “Come back.”

You jolted forward in your bed. Sweat coated your skin, causing your shirt to stick to you. The air wooshed in and out of your lungs loudly as you panted. The beating of your heart echoed loudly in your head. A crinkled top sheet and blanket were tangled at your feet while your pillow laid on the floor from your thrashing.

Your alarm rang loudly from your nightstand beside you. Signaling the start of a new day. You slammed your palm down on it to get it to stop. Reaching over, you clicked off the lamp that you had started to leave on everynight in hopes that it would rid you of your continuous nightmares.

So far, it hasn't worked. Not that you had much hope in it anyways, nothing you had tried had helped you in your predicament.

The room was hot, or maybe it was just because you were still worked up from the nightmare.

Nightmares, nosebleeds, headaches, memory loss. All normal from your head injury. Or so the doctor tells you at every visit.

You had gone from normal to nutcase in a moment's notice. Ever since you had been injured in the earthquake, you hadn’t been the same. You knew it, your mom knew it, the whole town of Hawkins probably knew it.

You didn’t remember the earthquake. Nor did you remember much of the week leading up to it. All you did remember was waking up in a hospital bed with your mother by your side.

Just a head injury. That’s what the doctors had said after tests upon tests while you were in the hospital. Like that was the most reassuring thing in the world to hear.

If your mom didn’t force you to go to your appointments then you would have stopped going a long time ago. If you had to hear someone in a white coat tell you to ‘just give it more time’ again you thought you would go even crazier.

You tried to appear hopeful to make your mom happy. But even that was becoming tiring. She could be overbearing. It was enough of a fight to allow you to live on your own even though you were an adult. You couldn’t blame her though. Ever since your dad had died when you were younger she had been a nervous wreck. Your injury was just the tipping point.

You physically couldn’t stand to stay in a house with her anymore. She hovered over everything you did. And though you were grateful to have a parent that loved you so much, you had enough.

Every nightmare where you woke up panting and screaming was reason enough for her to burst into your room to check on you and scare you even more. The constant fussing over you with your headaches and nosebleeds even though they were common occurrences now had made you feel ten times worse, causing you to snap at her when she tried to help you.

Enough was enough. So after a lot of fights and heated debates, you moved into the small home that your grandmother had once owned. Really this arrangement worked out for everyone. The once empty house now had life in it again. You would be able to take care of it and try to fix it up while you also got space from your mother.

You liked being alone in your little house. The only downside would be the silence making your thoughts louder. Playing your music cranked up all the way from the little radio that sat on your kitchen counter seemed to help with that for the most part. Not only did it help with your thoughts, but the music also miraculously helped your headaches. And when there wasn’t the music, there was always the heaps of medicines you had been prescribed.

You didn’t know why the music helped. When you told your doctor he just raised his eyebrows at you and wrote something down. So who knows.

The house was a small two bedroom in a wooded area not too far from Lovers Lake. Far enough that the house received minimal damage from the quake.

If only you could say the same about yourself.

You pushed yourself out of the bed and trudged to the bathroom. Surprisingly, you didn’t wake up with a nosebleed today. They happened so often that you had to switch out your white sheets for a darker color because you got tired of scrubbing them everyday. At this point you felt like you could single-handedly leave a crime scene spotless while armed only with a scrub brush and hydrogen peroxide.

Your days were usually all the same. You get ready for work in the hallway bathroom, remind yourself to fix the leaky sink, take your medication, grab your lunch, and run out the door.

Your drive to work was full of detours and sharp turns. The earthquake happened back in March, and seems like the town is taking its time to rebuild. Some roads were still shut down, including most of mainstreet.

There had been a large number of environmental scientists roaming the area around the quake. A lot of men with hazmat suits frequented the sites of destruction. Every time you saw them it gave you the chills. Reminding you of something from an apocalyptic movie.

You pulled into the small brick building with the bright yellow sign outside. Hawkins Daycare was not your first choice for a job. But as it turns out, bills do not stop for natural disasters or medical emergencies. So here you were.

You walk in through the front doors. No kids were there yet so you joined your coworkers in getting things set up for the day. The two ladies you worked with were older than you by at least 30 something years. You also suspected that they didn’t like you since you replaced their friend that had retired. This left you all working together in silence.

Not that you minded. You just wanted to do your job and go home for the day. The worst part would be the days that the headaches are bad. Kids screaming and crying over spilled paint or missing toys definitely didn’t help.

Today was definitely one of those days. It had started out so well but around lunch time your head was pounding. Every noise and glare of the harsh fluorescent lights intensified the pain to the point of nausea.

Your coworker, Connie, must have noticed you rubbing your temples, or maybe it was the squinting or winces at every loud child but she gave you a pointed look. “Are you okay over there?” She said as she sat in a chair too small for her, helping a kid glue some papers together. It wasn’t hard to miss her condescending tone.

“Yep, I’m just gonna run to the bathroom really quickly. Be right back.” You got up and grabbed your bag. Determined to make it to the bathroom before she could even reply to you.

You slid the lock on the bathroom door the second you shut it. Standing in front of the sink you pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

You pulled away from the sink to reach in your bag and dig until your fingers made contact with the plastic bottle.

Using the water that flowed from the sink and your hands as a cup, you swallowed down the 3 pills of extra strength whatever you had grabbed from the pharmacy.

Another breath.

You opened your eyes again when you felt the wetness on your face.

“Shit,” you muttered as you cupped your hand over your nose to try to catch the blood before it ruined your shirt any more.

You grabbed a handful of the harsh paper towels, wetting them in the sink before you wiped the blood from your nose to your upper lip.

You leaned closer to the mirror to ensure you had gotten it all when you saw a dark figure run quickly behind you. The shadowy silhouette had moved so quickly you almost missed it.

“Hello?” you called. Back pressed against the sink. You knew you had to be alone. The doors were open to the two stalls in front of you leaving the intruder with no place to hide.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“It’s not a nightmare. You’re okay,” you reaffirmed yourself before spinning to make sure you had cleaned all the blood off before going back to work.

The rest of the day went by without any more mishaps. You could’ve gone without the judgemental looks Connie purposefully shot you and the blood stains on your shirt from your nosebleed.

At least it was friday.

The weather was nice enough to roll the windows down in your car for the drive home. The loud guitar solo playing from your speakers assisted in clearing your mind as you navigated the roads home.

Times like this were your refuge. You had always loved music but since your injury it had become your lifeline. It was the only time you didn’t have to think about the headaches, the nightmares, the nosebleeds, the memory loss, or the constant feeling that something was misplaced. You could just exist.

The memory loss was probably the worst part. The days leading up to the earthquake were gone. A large chunk of highschool was gone. Certain birthdays and holidays were gone. Your highschool graduation was gone. It was an unsettling feeling like a large part of you was lost forever.

Whenever you asked your mom about the hospital or about how exactly you had gotten hurt in the quake, you were always met with a deflective answer. You assume it’s just too hard for her to talk about.

The ding of the gas light turning on drew you from your thoughts. Making a sharp last minute turn you pulled into one of the only gas stations on this side of town.

On the way into the store you dug in your bag, in search of your wallet. You didn’t realize the man was there until you ran right into his chest. Your wallet hit the ground with a loud smack.

“Shit, are you okay?” the man said, grabbing your arms to keep you steady.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry about th-” your words died in your throat as you realized who you had run into.

You cleared your throat and pointedly looked at where his hands still rested on your arms . “Yeah, Eddie. I’m fine.”

He pulled his hands away quickly but his look of concern didn’t disappear.

“You know who I am?” he said so quietly that you almost missed it.

“We went to school together, I think.” You shuffled your feet awkwardly. “Besides, I think everyone knows who you are.” You tilted your head towards two older men that stood outside the gas station smoking their cigarettes and glaring at Eddie.

Eddie had gotten himself into some trouble right before the earthquake. You had no memory of it happening but according to the news reports and the talk around town it was a big deal.

The murders of Chrissy Cunningham, Fred Benson, and Patrick Mckinney had rocked the town of Hawkins. You couldn’t remember the story you had heard exactly but apparently there had been a manhunt for Eddie. He had been the main suspect due to some damning evidence. The rumors of his ties to Satanism and the occult surely didn’t help his case to the town either.

You didn’t have many memories of Eddie from school besides the occasional class or his lunch table rampages that you only vaguely recalled. He seemed to have been just a passing blur in the hallway. Honestly, if you hadn’t seen him in front of you now you probably wouldn’t have been able to put a face to the name.

“Right, from school. Let me just grab that for you,” he said as he snatched your wallet from the ground and held it out for you.

You took it out of his hand and clutched it protectively to your chest. It didn’t go unnoticed from you that Eddie kept opening and closing his mouth like he had something else to say to you.

Eventually he gave up and snapped his mouth shut. His eyes never leaving your face, bouncing around each of your features like he didn’t know where to focus. You felt uneasy. Not that Eddie was as scary up close as he looked from a distance but a nagging voice in the back of your head reminded you that he was accused of murder. Yeah, all of the charges had been dropped, but it was still scary.

What if the courts had gotten it wrong?

You were saved from the awkward silence when one of the men smoking in front of the building spoke up. “Hey, is he bothering you?”

You and Eddie both snapped out of your trances. He took a large step back away from you to give you some space.

You shook your head at the older men and gave Eddie a polite smile before sidestepping around him to head into the gas station.

When you made it inside you glanced over your shoulder to see him still standing where you left him. His shoulders were tense and his head was tilted down like he was staring at the ground.

Weird.

You grabbed your snacks and paid for your gas. Ignoring the strange sense of panic overtaking your body.

By the time you made it back outside, you were relieved to see that Eddie Munson was gone.

Taglist: (* means tag wont work)

@sadbitchfangirl @gaysludge @daisydamed

@mandyjo8719 @josephquinncore @stevieharringtonswife @hazydespair @sheneedsrocknroll92 @mopeymopeymouse*

18+ only for the taglist. Ageless and blank blogs will not be tagged.

#eddie munson au #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson series #eddie munson x y/n #eddie stranger things #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson angst #eddie munson season 4 #stranger things

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astronautforhalloween · 3 months

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Charon's Obol

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Gator Tillman x Reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You really didn't want to cover a shift at your new job. But when an old familiar face walks through the door, the night yields some unexpected results. Some more welcome than others.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Gator. Some hints to his misogyny, blood, canonical death. Not proofread, not written with the reader's gender specifically expressed but it is implied to be female (Gator refers to them as 'princess'). Gator does refer to reader as 'little bird', but it isn't a reference to height or body type. It's more so condescending.

ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: 7.9k words. Might do a pt. 2? (If so, there will be some changes to Gator's character) The story takes place during the end of episode 2 but diverges at the end. Banner by @saradika

It had been a bit of a surprise when you watched him walk in through the taped up front door, glaring at Andy - someone whom you've learned to be a frequent regular - like the man had personally affronted him with his mere existence; his lip was curled in a sneer and there was a scoff waiting to be released from his chest while he stared the older customer down with an incredulous scowl. The same scowl that he's had since high school - looks like all that much hasn't changed. And you expected some sort of conflict, a quick shove to Andy's chest or a smart quip, though thankfully the interaction ended with Gator slipping past the regular. But not without roving a scathing glance across his body from head to toe as the man dipped out of the doorway.

He didn't even notice you behind the counter as he immediately set off in the direction of the restrooms, and a part of you was relieved for it. Sure, when you had been making plans to move back down here to assist your mother, you had briefly entertained that Gator was still living in Lehigh, even though your old childhood town was about a seventy-eight-mile drive from where she was living now. Before the move she used to give you all the local gossip during your daily phone call, and Gator had been a frequent focal point in the scoop of the day, with his bad behavior and quick temper. It seems that being on the police force has done nothing to teach him manners. If anything, from what you've heard, it's only amplified his complete lack of boundaries.

He had been passionate about football for a time, but then there had been that accident in mid-August back in senior year which left him favoring his right leg with a slight limp. From what you had heard through the grape vine way back when, he had also wanted to be a sheriff. To follow in his father's footsteps and protect Stark County like the previous men of his heritage had.

And if the big, white bold letters printed on his vest was any indication, it looked like he was working his way up to doing just that.

You had been taking shifts here at the gas station for about a week now. Had moved boxes packed full of your belongings from a U-Haul and into your room inside of your mother's new trailer home a week before that. But for some reason seeing him again seemed to solidify that you were actually back here in North Dakota after you had worked so hard to get out. It was like being shoved into a time machine and forced to a point in your life that you didn't want to return to. There isn't necessarily wrong with this state or the people who live here. It's just quiet, tight-knit, and everyone knows everyone. Secrets are difficult to keep here and evading bored, curious eyes can be difficult, if not impossible at times.

There wasn't anything here for someone your age, who had dreams and longed for something more than church potlucks and being barefoot and pregnant.

But now here you were. Reaching for the broom propped in the corner to sweep up a cluster of glass shards peeking out from underneath the bottom of the counter into a small pile. They seemed to be everywhere, no matter how hard you scanned the floor while you cleaned, more and more glass just seemed to pop up as soon as you thought you had gotten it all. You had even found a piece in the cash register when you were counting out a customer's change, and you nearly sliced your thumb on the damned thing. How it had it had managed to find its way in the till, you aren't sure. Though as frustrating as those little slivers are, you actually find yourself being thankful for them. It gives you an excuse to at least look busy instead of just awkwardly standing around, uncomfortably hyperaware that Gator Tillman is in the store.

You aren't even sure why you're so nervous about the thing. Yes, you and Gator had never been particularly close, and the interactions that you had were few and far between, mostly due to forced proximity because of your position on the cheer squad. But apart from the after-school activity that both of you participated in, you mostly had your own circles that you kept to, the two of them hardly ever merging. Based off of what you'd seen of him back then, he wasn't all that impressive. He was abrasive and cocky. A bully, to put it lightly, that liked to slam other kids against locker doors as he passed.

You didn't think much of him then. Just a guy who like to flaunt underneath his father's shadow and abuse the privileges of being the sheriff's son to taunt others. And you don't think much of him now, so you aren't sure why your gut is sinking like a nervous pit.

It isn't odd that he's here. Sure, the gas station is a short drive outside of Beulah which happens to be about an hour's drive from Lehigh. You suppose that it isn't completely wild to see him outside of his county, but for some reason it still catches you off guard, even if it was just a matter of time before you crossed paths. Whether that had been while you were out having dinner at one of the local restaurants or him walking in on one of your shifts. Though the kicker is, is that this isn't technically your shift. It was meant for Derreck, but he was unable to show up because he's no longer one of the living. You don't want to speak ill of the dead, especially one so recently passed, but you can't exactly say that you're all that surprised. Even with just your short interactions to base off of, he didn't seem exactly like he was the sharpest.

And when Miles called you just the night before, fretful over the state that the gas station was left in after a particularly horrendous break-in, explaining that Derreck was gone, that he had tried to scare an armed perpetrator with an airhorn of all things and got a chest full of bullets in response, you were horrified and regretful but not exactly shocked.

He had also mentioned something about an attempted kidnapping in between his worried rambling before he zigzagged back to the point of the call, which was trying to cover some of Derreck's shifts that had been left vacant due to his murder. Apparently, no one else was willing or able to cover them and that had left you as his last resort. You nearly said no. You weren't usually one to work the graveyard shift. You liked the peace that came with it, but your mother, despite her wanning health found old habits hard to break and was typically an early riser. Doing chores as early as 7 am; vacuuming and doing laundry or poking around in the garden behind the house. Which is roughly around the time that the nightshift ends. You knew that it would make falling asleep a task with how thin the walls are, but you couldn't find it in yourself to say no. Not even with your own fears of being shot while standing behind the register gripping you like a chill. And not with money so tight.

You could just picture him in your head, pacing around in his office underneath the oily glow of his desk lamp and you could hear that click-click of his teeth gnawing on his nails through the other end of the call. An anxious tick of his. And then there was the medical bills and the torn open envelopes declaring that bills were past due splayed out over the kitchen table. You had just been able to put some good money aside for those but there was still an intimidating amount that was owed and every bit of cash counts. Even with the pressures of debt and financial insecurity hanging down over you with an unbearable pressure, you hadn't been exactly psyched about accepting a solo nightshift at a recently burglarized (and that's putting it lightly) gas station. But you couldn't refuse. You hadn't told your mother about the tragedy that had taken place here. She never would have allowed you to leave the house for work this evening if she had. But it's just a matter of time before all the gossip finally reaches her ears; nothing ever remains a secret or quiet for long in small, sleepy towns. But fortunately, by the time she becomes to date the crime, you'll already be on your way home to take a shower and fall asleep in your bed.

The sound of one of the freezer doors slamming shut has you pausing to look up from the pile of glass and dirt on the linoleum and over to the back of the shared chip and candy aisle where Gator now shuffles around. You can just hardly make him out from behind the other shelves full of microwavable mac and cheese and Campbell's soup, but he appears to be idly scanning the rack of junk food with a bottle of pop in his good hand. The other, you've just noticed, seems to be fixed inside a cast and blue gauze bandaging. You wonder how he managed to get that injury.

Your curious little inspection doesn't stop there. You let your eyes sweep over him from his cap to his knees (which is about as far as you can see of him from the angle), and on their way down you take notice of the holster secured to his thigh. And for whatever reason your focus seems to settle there and just stay for a good breath or two. It looks good, those black straps wrapped and pulled tight around his thigh. In fact, he wears the entire uniform in way that you shouldn't find appealing. The weight of his vest seems to pronounce the slimness of his waist and the fatigues that mold around his hips are doing him nothing but favors. It's almost stupid. It's jarring. You have to tighten your grip on the broom handle, forcing yourself to look away to pin your gaze down on one of those solar powered bobble heads placed between the register and a mini shelf stocked full of Bic cigarette lighters.

But it's facing the wrong way. Instead, it's turned towards you. It's supposed to be cheery. A Christmas themed orange cat peeking out of a stocking with its head still steadily wobbling despite the fact that it's been sundown for more than a few hours now. Its cartoon smile feels judgmental. Like its criticizing your shameful ogling.

Seriously, since when have you ever checked out Gator Tillman?

Sure, a part of you had found him cute in the past. A surface level sort of attraction, with his pretty, round brown eyes. But it was never really enough to compensate for how crude he was. All packed full of harsh comments, inflamed bravado and plastic charisma; always searching for an excuse to fight. If anything, it garnered nothing pity from you. An awful aching sorrow. Especially whenever you could see something soft peeking out from underneath that boastful, sarcastic exterior of his. The potential to be kind. Sweet even, if it had been nurtured enough in him. But Roy Tillman was anything but nurturing.

The entire town had known how harsh the Tillman patriarch was on Gator, even though they all kept their mouths shut tight, in fear that he might raise his hand down against them instead. All of the split lips, black eyes and pulled muscles that were all conveniently filed away as mishaps caused by a wayward cow during a roundup on branding season.

Of course, your only excuse for not outright speaking out had been that you were hardly more than a child, busy saving up for your first car and writing out college admission essays. And the harsh, whispered warnings of your mother telling you to keep your nose out of things that aren't your business never helped. Not that you have ever been particularly well at heeding her advice. You had tried once, to reach out to him and let him know that he wasn't alone, one evening near the bleachers before graduation. Maybe you should have kept to yourself like everyone else had warned you to. To not get involved. But it was hard when Gator showed up to school one day with his right cheek swollen red and purple, the molted shades of plum and a nasty vermillion dotting up around the corner of his eye like a crescent. Seeing Gator banged up with a new cut or scrape wasn't a new development by any means. But all the excuses were getting old; wore you down even though they shouldn't have impacted you personally.

His cover for the swollen cheek was that he had gotten it during practice the evening before. But that was bullshit. He hadn't left the field swearing like he usually did whenever he got hurt during training. When Gator got hurt it was something that everyone would become uncomfortably aware of; usually by a string of loudly exclaimed expletives that could be heard reaching across the expanse of the field. There had been none of that. He didn't leave campus with an icepack clutched against his cheek the day before. He got that bruise when he went home that night. And you would have put good money on it that the one that did the damage was his father.

And despite all the warnings you told yourself that you would speak to him about it. That you'd try to at least. Your friends must have noticed the moment you decided to go and talk to Gator. Maybe they'd seen the glint of it in your eyes. And they had all told you not to. That it wasn't your place. That you'd best stay out of it. But you couldn't listen.

It took you the entire school day to build up the courage to approach him. To calm your nerves. You remember vividly how awkward the air around you had felt when you asked him to meet you behind the bleachers. It didn't escape you how flirtatious the invitation could have been construed as and you're sure that he was expecting some sort of sloppy make out underneath the grandstands and not an intervention. You're sure you had completely blindsided him when you had opened up the conversation with words of sympathy and not some flirty spiel. You had tried to be delicate about the whole thing. After all, for the most part the both of you were hardly more than acquaintances. You did your best to be gentle when you had offered to be someone that he could talk to if he ever felt like he didn't have anyone at home to confide in. But he had turned you down then with clear irritation in his eyes when he told you that he didn't need your help. That he didn't want it, and that was that.

Your eyes flicker back up to him from the bobbing fake cat, and he's moving down the aisle now, still browsing but apparently uninterested in the available chips and assorted junk foods. But he does reach for a bag of jerky from the cardboard display on the end of one of the shelves and his eyebrows perk up when he inspects the packaging, and he nods his head to himself like he's intrigued or pleased with what he's seeing.

You wonder if he'll even recognize you at all after all of the years. You suppose that it wouldn't be all that bad or unexpected if he didn't. It has been a while. The last time you've crossed paths since now had been a little after graduation, before you scrounged all of the money that you had saved by serving at Patty's Diner over the summer together and piled all of your stuff into your shitbox of a car and set off for the state line.

You finally allow yourself to let go of the broom, reluctant to release your little lifeline in preparation to scan his items, propping it against the wall behind you. But what you hadn't expected for him to do was to quite literally toss his bag of beef jerky at the counter. The throw seemed lazy, but regardless of that, the jerky almost goes flying off the countertop entirely and rushes towards the edge. You have to scramble to catch it, mostly out of reflex, grabbing at the packaging with clumsy hands before it could land on the pale, dirty tiles and next your feet.

Even with unease prickling at the nape of your neck you can't curb the displeased scowl from making an appearance. And the look that you pin him with is entirely unimpressed. He, on the other hand, doesn't look apologetic in the slightest. In fact, there's a smile curling at the edges of his mouth and his eyes are sparkling underneath the fluorescents with unrestrained mirth. "Oh, sorry there, " he says with the hint of a laugh on his words. "I forget my strength sometimes, ya know."

You should have let it fall.

You don't bother entertaining his joke. You just flip the package of Jack Links over so that you can scan the bar code while he sets his drink down on the counter. You've interacted for less than five seconds and you're already remembering why you didn't care for him all that much in high school. But luckily for you, he hasn't seemed to recognize you and all you have to do is cash him out and he'll be on his merry little way.

You can smell his cologne once he's up against the counter. It's woody, a sort of musk and there's hints of something warm with a few notes of vanilla. It seems he's graduated from layering his body with Axe body spray, thank God for small favors. He used to wear that cologne like it was a repellant. "You can smell him before you see him," your mother had noted once, after he had walked past the both of you one afternoon during a communal chili festival. And she hadn't been wrong. But now you can also pick up something artificial and sweet coming from him too. Like berries or some other kind of fruit. Watermelon, maybe?

"Eight dollars and thirty-eight cents." You supply after ringing in his bottle of pop, leaning your weight on your hands. And thankfully, he already has his wallet out and is thumbing through the bills, but his attention keeps jumping from between his cash and back up to you like he's trying to piece something together. And you're hoping that he isn't trying to place you. That the memories are too vague, that he didn't care enough to remember you. That this interaction won't have to be any longer than necessarily.

His eyes brows are pinched, and he almost looks studious when he hands you a ten. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I don't think so, " you respond quickly, punching the given amount into the register and counting out his change as soon as the till pops open.

But he doesn't seem to be deterred. He even shakes his head just a bit, unconvinced and squints at you like it might help him take in your features better. "Nah, I know ya from somewhere."

"I'm not so sure, " you say and hold your hand out, offering his money, but he doesn't take it and just continues to stare at you silently. It's awkward. Tense for no reason. Suddenly, the music playing over the speakers is too loud. Some old country song with warbling vocals and a gentle guitar but it does nothing to ease the weird energy that's dipped over the room. You can hear the fluorescents too. Buzzing above you in a steady, pulsing thrum.

"I'm sure. " He replies, voice low with concentration and his eyes dance over your face. The shape of your chin, tracing the curve of your lips, roving over the swell of your cheeks before settling on your own gaze. You can see the exact moment that he recognizes you. Something seems to spark in his stare. The elation that comes with recalling something that's been on the forefront of your mind but eludes you at every turn, and he exclaims your name with a sort of surprise and maybe even wonder. "I never forget a face! C'mon, don't tell me you don't recognize me."

He settles down against the counter, crossing his arms to lean his weight against its surface like moving in closer might help you recall him better, toeing the line of almost closing in too close to your personal space. You briefly entertain the idea of continuing on with your ruse. Of playing dumb, even if it's just to frustrate him. But really, you'd rather this little impromptu meeting only be as long as it has to be, and you find yourself nodding. Feigning a sort of awe, pretending to a put a name to a long-buried memory.

"Oh, yeah. " You nearly gasp in faux surprise. "Gator! Gator Tillman."

He smiles in a pleased way, rapping his knuckles against the counter. "What the hell are you doin' here? I heard you ran off to uh . . . which was it?" He snaps his fingers together like it'll help him recall the information better, or tries to, but his fingertips sort of just slip against each other uselessly from around the obstruction of the cast. " Arkansas?"

"Arizona, " you correct. And you give up, placing his change on the counter in front of him for him to pick up whenever he decides to take it.

'That's the one. " He agrees. "So, what brings you back? Got tired of all the dirt and heat, huh?"

"Uh, no, I'm just here to help my mom." You say and reach for a stack of sticky notes to absentmindedly flick through. "Do you need a bag?"

"Oh, yeah, how is she doin'?" He asks, completely ignoring or unhearing your question. You'll take that as a no then. "I haven't seen her in a bit. Not since she moved."

"She's . . . doing okay." You shrug, glancing off in a random direction, hopeful that training your focus on something else other than him might make you feel less exposed. Less examined. It doesn't. "Could be better, could be worse."

He hums in agreement and for a moment falls silent. And you think that maybe the conversation has fallen out. Run its course and he's grown bored past the temporary marvel of reconnecting with a familiar face from the past. But that'd be too easy. "It's been about, what? Nine years, give or take since we've last seen each other."

Dammit.

"Yeah, that sounds about right." It's a simple response. And you let it settle at that, just wishing that he'll take the hint and leave. He has to be somewhere to be, right? Patrolling or whatever. He's probably on his way back to his county, surely, he doesn't plan on standing here all night, chatting you up. But to be fair, he's never been particularly adept at reading basic social cues.

"To be honest, I'm surprised they got you workin' this shift. " He nods his head towards the front doors; covered up with cardboard and a plastic sheet as a temporary means to keep it sealed until it could get properly repaired. "Ya know, with the break-in an' all."

"Yeah, well no one else volunteered, so I agreed to come in."

"A little bird like yourself, here all alone." He says it casually. Probably doesn't really mean anything behind it, but knowing Gator, maybe he does. But regardless of his intent, the comment does make you bristle. The sentiment wasn't necessarily harmful. Feeling worried for someone being on their own to work a shift at a business in the middle of nowhere is normal. Understandable. Especially considering that the said business had just been the scene of gruesome crime, but the air with how it was said rubbed you the wrong way. Granted he's never been one to have tact.

It seems that he really hasn't changed all that much since you've left. Except for maybe growing an inch or so taller, but that could be due to the boots. And the planes of his face have slimmed a bit more, having officially lost what little bit of baby fat was clinging to his cheeks. Still, that condescending air that he used to carry himself with has seemed to survive his younger years, not like you were expecting it not to.

"You must be pretty scared being here all on your own. " He wasn't wrong, per se. There was something intimidating about being here with the horror of what had taken place still fresh in the back of your mind. You hadn't seen the aftermath and all of the smeared blood and shattered glass; you hadn't been here with Miles to meet the cleanup crew. In a twisted sort of way, it almost seems worse that you didn't walk in on this place when it was still stained with viscera and signs of struggle. Seeing the store all taped up with shotty repairs to try and regain normalcy left too much to the imagination. Everywhere you looked your brain tried to fill in the pieces. You couldn't bear to clean up the restroom. Not without thinking about how a man had died in there. Slipped and split his head open on the toilet. There was still a sense of paranoia that latched its claws down your back and has yet to let go. It even has you looking at some of your customers funny - even the regulars, the people who you talk to almost daily. It was even worse when you reminded yourself that Derreck had died in the very spot where you're currently standing.

"No, not really. " You lie easily.

Gator laughs. Almost scoffs, really. Dipping his head low and for a moment the brim of his baseball hat blocks half of his face from your view before he tips his head back up to look at you. He rocks back on the heels of his shoes. "Well, I just gotta say, it doesn't sit right with me."

What?

He's worried? Why would he even care?

"I'm sure I'll be fine."

He doesn't seem to be persuaded or assured, and he sits up from his leaned over position, straightening to his full height. He doesn't break eye contact once, and for some reason you feel like you couldn't look away from him, even if you gave it some real effort. The dark brown of his eyes is a rich shade, even from underneath the blunt glow of the fluorescents, and you swear you can see delicate flecks of a honeyed amber.

" That may be, but I'm not a man to take chances." And he reaches into one of his front pockets to retrieve a lime green vape for him to lift to his lips. When he nonchalantly exhales the smoke in the middle of the store, the scent of something syrupy and sweet reaches your nose. That explains that bit of watermelon that you had smelt on him earlier. "I mean, anyone could be a threat. Even that fella that was just in here."

Your eyebrows raise at the comment and for a moment you just stare at him while you wrack your brain. "Do you mean, Andy?" You ask, thinking back on the outright rude way that Gator had glared at the regular. "No, he's fine. Possibly in need of an AA meeting, but he's always nice. Sometimes he brings his girls in for a drink . . . a fountain drink. Not . . . alcohol. "

"Those are the ones you gotta watch out for the most." He presses, taking one more drag from his vape before stuffing back into his front pocket. "It's always the one's ya know."

You aren't sure how to respond to this. How to reciprocate the conversation now that this is the direction that it's taken. You aren't sure where this apparent desire to keep you safe has come from. It's certainly something that you've never experienced before. Or fully witnessed. Even the protectiveness that he had shown his teammates back in high school seemed to come from a place of ego. It always came off that he had some sort of point to prove; that he could take a hit or get even if need be. That he saw his friends as an extension of himself, and by taunting or harming one of them was as good as personally offending him. And he couldn't stand for that. But you'd like to believe that it came from somewhere genuine at least.

"You should take my number. "

He says it so casually that it throws you off more than the previous statement did, except this time your outright gawking at him. There's only one reason why Gator Tillman would want your number, but you can't for the life of you figure out why he would be trying to flirt with you. You aren't even sure how to feel about the situation. You never would have assumed that he, of all people would have an interest in you. Yes, in the past you had caught him giving you intrigued glances when he thought you weren't paying attention. Especially whenever you had been in your cheerleading uniform, but you had never put much stock in it; usually equating his wandering eyes on him just being an obnoxious teenage boy. "Is this your way of asking me out?"

He shrugs lightly at that and raises a hand to grip onto the shoulder of his tactical vest. "I just want to make sure you have someone to call in case anyone gives you a hard time, that's all."

Sure, bud. That might be one of the lamest excuses you've heard in a while. And that's saying a lot considering the last time a man tried to flirt with you he had unironically used one of the worst pickup lines you may have ever heard, something along the lines of; "kiss me if I'm wrong, but dinosaurs still exist, right?" And Gator's apparent inability to upfront about his intentions makes you want to mess with him a bit.

"Wait . . . don't I already have your number?"

He looks confused, face twisting up dumbly and the pinched, clueless furrow between his brows is almost adorable. You can see his fingers already twitching, reaching for the vape stashed in his pocket out of habit. Like the nicotine might help him think better and you can see the gears in his mind turning, but you can tell that he's coming up empty.

You tilt your head, propping your chin up in the cradle of your hand. "It's 911, right?"

The realization that you're playing with him finally clicks into place, and he glances away from you with a small scoff. His clear frustration just amuses you further and he takes notice of your obvious enjoyment if the way that his frown deepens is anything to go by.

"Besides, aren't I a little out of your jurisdiction?" You ask and start to fiddle around with the bottle of unattended Mtn Dew, rotating the carbonated drink around within the cradle of your palm with the push of your fingertips.

"Jurisdiction, " he echos the word with a sort of repulsion, before he fixes you with an oddly intense look that feels like its burrowing into you. "I am the law; I do whatever the fuck I want."

Like most things during this little conversation of yours, you aren't entirely sure how take that remark. The passion and utter belief that he said it with was more than a little concerning. The way that he truly seemed to think that he was above the laws that he was meant to enforce. It was a dangerous mindset to have. Especially in his profession, with all the power that he held as an officer, even while he was within the confines of such a small county. Well, not small in terms of size or milage, but it's not like he's a cop in some big city. But who knows, maybe that just makes him even more dangerous. Everything about him was the clear-cut definition of a walking red flag, so you don't even understand why you're sitting here entertaining his bullshit.

At least you're getting paid for it.

"What do you really want with my number, Gator?" You know why, of course, as odd and confusing as it all is, but you want to hear it from him.

And just as you expected, he falls silent. Having some sort of internal debate and struggle. And you wait for him to get annoyed and leave, throwing some sort of scathing remark over his shoulder as he goes, but he doesn't do that. Something in the way he holds himself relaxes, and it seems like some half-assed way to come off as unaffected. Probably a way for him to psyche himself out mentally and project self-assuredness. He steps closer to the counter until his hips are brushing against the edge and there's an impish kind of gleam in his eyes. Something about the dynamic seems to shift; you can feel it move and click into place and it makes you feel untethered. Like you're walking on rocky, unexplored terrain. And you aren't sure if you like it.

"Surely you know, " he says with the hint of playful but if not cocky smile on his lips. And now it's your turn to look up at him in confusion. "I'm a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I've always harbored a bit of a crush for ya."

Well, that's something that you wouldn't have guessed. You never would have successfully gathered that on your own, that's for certain. And it threw you off even more, considering that for the last leg of senior year, he was a part of an on-again-off-again relationship with Rebecca Mallory. Granted their relationship had always seemed to be in a constant state of a crisis with the way that they had always butted heads. Mostly because Rebecca was a rigid, set-in-her-ways Christian who was often displeased with Gator's penchant for violence and swearing. Not that she was necessarily wrong for her frustrations. Even with his own father being a preacher with an iron fist, Gator never been the most forgiving or restrained person and you figured that being around him for more than an hour would probably be quick to grate on your nerves, too.

"I, uh, no, I didn't know that." You manage, unsure how to navigate this newfound revelation. In all honesty, you had figured that his previous request for your number had just been an attempt to ease his boredom. A way to enjoy the excitement of meeting up with an old acquaintance - and knowing him - assuming that he might get lucky in the process.

"It always bugged me that I never grew the balls to make a move in the past." He confesses, and he leans over the counter again. And with the way that you're also propped up on your elbows it leaves only a few inches separating the two of you. You swear you could feel the heat radiating off of his body brushing against your own skin. The sudden proximity seems to vacuum all of the air out of the room, and your mind scrambles to catch up. He can see the way that you're floundering underneath his stare. You can see the amusement twinkling in the dark brown of his eyes from underneath the bright, pale splash of the long florescent bulbs. "And then you went and moved out after graduation. Up in a hurry to leave this little shithole - not that I blame ya, mind you; but it always left me wondering how you would have responded if I had asked you out on a date."

The quiet that follows is stifling. For a moment it's just the both of you alone, in a grimy busted up gas station in the middle of nowhere with an upbeat Beach Boys song playing over the sound system. It feels laughably too energetic for the still but charged atmosphere that surrounds you and stalls your lungs. That keeps your focus pinned to his with the pleasant musk of his cologne wafting over you; sweetened by the sugary notes of vape smoke.

"I think I would have said no, " you say truthfully. You can see the way his shoulders go slack. The movement is so minute that you probably wouldn't have noticed if you weren't so close to him. His head tilts back like he means to pull away and for some reason your stomach flips with disappointment at the thought, but you don't bother trying to unpack that feeling right now. "But . . . "

He pauses, attention zeroing in on you and you swear you might actually see something akin to hope somewhere in his expression. "But, what?" He asks when you don't immediately respond.

"Convince me."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

He stares at you like he doesn't know what to think. His mouth is hanging open just a bit and he laughs, though it comes out as more as a disbelieving puff of air. And you can see him going through the motions of it in his head, like he's trying to solve something. But he seems to come to some sort of conclusion. His shoulders square up like he's accepting it as a sort of challenge. " Alright, " he agrees, and settles back against the counter. "I'll treat ya real good; take you out the dinner. You ever been to Twister's?"

"No, " you answer, and the look he gives you is pitying, but one that's lively and not mean-spirited. It throws you for a loop to see him so carefree and relaxed. Typically, the jokes that come from him are underhanded barbs, meant to make someone uncomfortable or angry rather than a means to actually get a laugh. But you like it. It's as pleasant as it is unexpected and all of that initial unease and irritation that you had previously felt towards his presence begins to thaw.

"The best food in North Dakota." He praises and you hum in interest and nod, quietly ushering him to continue, even though the gesture is a little condescending it's also playful.

"One of the guys at the station said they got a new drive-thru theater over in Bismarck. They show old classics mostly- shitty B movies and low budget horror flicks, but I think they're plann' on playin' one of those old stop motion films; Nightmare Before Christmas, I think. For Halloween, probably."

Admittedly, it doesn't sound like a bad date. And as cliche as the idea of a theater may have been, it has your interest piqued. Especially the drive-thru part. It's been on your bucket list for a while now, and the prospect of going is more than a little enticing. Especially with how stagnant and stressful life has been as of late. It would be nice to go out again and get away from the monotony of life at home and work. And truthfully, a part of you is a little intrigued to get to know Gator again after all the time away. To see if maybe he has changed and matured a bit as a person. But you also don't want to give in too soon. Admittedly, you do like to string him along, as wrong as it may be.

"Then afterwards, we could maybe go ice skating, " he offers. "It's been a few years since I've worn a pair of skates, so I might be a little rusty. But I figure it's gotta be like riding a bike."

"Sounds tempting, " you say with a smile that you couldn't help. "And after that?"

It takes him a second, but he quickly seems to catch on to what you're implying. His gaze seems to darken, that honeyed brown turning russet and warm. He tips in closer to you; you nearly feel the bill of his cap brush against your forehead. "Well, that depends on you, princess. "

You don't say anything, letting him stew in the potential of rejection. And you reach over to your left, plucking a Sharpie from an old, chipped mug that's used to store miscellaneous pens and highlighters; there was even an old cherry flavored lollipop that's been in there since you've started working here, and you've got the feeling that it's probably been in there for more than a few years. He tracts the movement with open curiosity but raises his focus to you when you reach for his injured arm with your free hand, though he doesn't fight or question you when you pull it over across the counter towards your chest, careful not to accidentally put any strain on it.

And when you pop the cap off with your thumb and raise the point of the marker to his cast it suddenly feels like you're being put under a microscope again. You can feel his attention searing into with an intensity that should be uncomfortable. But you find that you don't completely mind it. Not even with that bobble headed plastic cat awkwardly bouncing in the corner while you write out your phone number on the inside of his wrist.

"I'm free on Saturday. " You say, capping the marker and plopping it back inside the mug.

He's outright smiling now. It's a little smug, pleased, but there's also something content about it. "Sounds like a plan, " he replies, and reaches for his jerky and drink, stepping away from the counter without turning away from you. Walking backwards towards the exit. "How's five o'clock sound?"

"Works for me." You return his smile, unable to fight it off. And there's a sappy, fuzzy feeling inside of your chest that's going to mean nothing but trouble for you in the future.

"I guess I'll see ya then." He's nudging the door open with his back and pauses almost like he's reluctant to leave but then he's slipping out the door with a quick, "g'night!" tossed over his shoulder. You barely get to return your own before the door swings shut behind him, blocking you from seeing him with the cardboard plastered over in place of glass. And now that he's left, the store feels all too quiet with only the old, tired speakers to keep you company and the ragged hum of the wall freezers in the back of the store.

You glance around the room boredly, stepping back from the counter while you mentally go down the to-do list. Finding that you've already done most of your tasks. The delivery truck wasn't due for a few more days, and you finished up all of the necessary stocking a few hours ago. And you've already squeegeed the remaining windows clean and organized the shelves. But you hadn't cleaned the restroom yet.

You suck in a ragged breath. You were less than enthused to clean the toilet on a regular day, but now that it had been the scene of a crime and a literal death you were more than unhappy with prospect. But unfortunately, it was a part of the job description. And it's an absentminded glance downward that you notice the change that Gator had left discarded on the counter. A crumpled dollar and some change. Just a measly dollar and thirty-two cents. He probably forgot about it, and even if he hadn't it was such a small amount that it wouldn't be missed. But you figured that there isn't any harm and giving it back to him. If you go now, he might still be parked outside.

And that was enough for you to scoop up the change in your palm and run around the length of the front desk, crossing the expanse of the floor quickly and shoving the door open to cross outside. The cold night air that rushes across your skin surprises you for a moment after spending the last few hours underneath the heat of the store, but it doesn't deter you. And a quick glance to the passenger side lets you know that the cab of police cruiser is empty, and you stare at it dumbly for a second before you notice Gator standing off to the left, near the rear end of the truck.

And you don't even notice the fact that his gun is drawn, that his body is pulled taut; clearly on edge while he stares down at the ground with wide eyes.

"Hey, Gator!" You call, stepping forward with a smile on your face. His head snaps up when he hears you, and there's a wild sort of glint in his eyes that jerks something deep in your chest, jostles free a heavy, chilling sort of concern and worry.

"No, no - don't come over here!" He shouts with a horrific sense of panic that you feel in your bones. But it's already too late. You've come too close, and when you walk past the rear end of the truck to step towards him you notice some strange lump lying on the ground from out of your peripheral vision. And in a kneejerk reaction it seizes your attention, pulls your focus to it like it's being tugged by a string. It's the blood you notice first. Pooled across the dirt and glittering a rich red from oily shine of lights on the ceiling of the gas pump canopy. It's pouring from a slice in the body's neck. But what's more is a piece of cardboard pinned to his chest, notched in place by a thick hunting knife. Your mind sort of just goes quiet. Unable to grapple with what it's actually seeing even while you can't look away.

You can smell the blood. It's a thick, nauseating scent, like sucking on pennies and rust and you want to gag. You want to vomit. Or scream. Or anything.

But you can't manage to make yourself move. You're stuck frozen; forced to stare. The change in your hand feels damp with sweat and you're clutching it so tightly that you can feel that coins burrowing painfully into the palm of your hand. Even from where you stand you can make out the messy writing written on the cardboard in an ominous, messy scrawl:

You owe me

And finally. Blessedly, you're able to tear your gaze away from the body. Stiffly turning your head from the carnage and over towards Gator who looks just as shaken as you. His gun is still drawn, clasped with both hands but his attention is on you. He just looks confused. Unsure and worried. For a while neither of you say a single word. You just sit still in the chilly night air, with the scent of blood choking you and fear in your eyes. And then Gator seems to be able to collect himself, holstering his gun and fixes you with a look that you can't discern. That you aren't able to. And then he utters one word with complete defeat and a little exhaustion too:

"Shit."

#Gator Tillman x reader #gator tillman x you #gator tillman #fargo season 5 #fargo s5 #joe keery x reader #joe keery fargo #gator tillman x y/n #gator tillman x fem!reader #gator x reader #gator fargo

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lavenderhhaze · 6 months

Text

DEAD BUTTERFLIES

pairing: Minho x fem!reader

wc: 5.9k

about: Minho wonders how he's supposed to go back after all this. Back to his shared apartment, to a stranger's mouth — a dead butterfly pinned under glass, watching as life unfolds before him.

warnings: toxic relationships, drug and alcohol abuse (sleeping pills and other pharmaceuticals), parental abuse and neglect, cheating, unrequited love, underage drinking and smoking, making out, unhealthy coping mechanisms, generally flawed characters

Aug'98

Minho has always smiled with silver teeth, bruised knuckles and bleeding lips staring back at him in the mirror until he couldn't recognise himself anymore.

And this time, he was grateful — barely half a drink in, not even tipsy. A head of silver hair and wild, crazy eyes. Fucking insane, is what his last girl had called him. There isn't much softness left within him. His eyes are sunken, his hair longer, curling at the nape of his neck.

If he tells the truth, he couldn't picture your face anymore. It's fuzzy and blurred, smudged like the edges of Hyunjin's favourite charcoal sketch.

He does, however, remember how you liked your coffee, your first kiss, throwing rocks at your window because he has always been too scared to say what he really feels, how you liked the snow, your texts and whatever the fuck it was that you made him feel — barefoot on your porch and it was ten in the morning.

He had thought little of '96 and '97, because he was young, with the world in his palm — he thinks little of time, as May soon melts into June. It's August and he has thought of little else but you.

And fuck, still, he smiles with the same silver teeth — all smart and casual, warm and tart, "Good evening, Sweetheart." As if something of you isn't stuck with him, like a splinter. But he'd lie to you. He doesn't love you anymore, he'd lie to you well, and get away with it.

Although his insides are churning, it's never his heart that's bleeding, not his hand in yours — it's a stranger's and he's glad. It has been six hundred and fifty six days since, his heart has only been growing and growing; until his ribs hurt. He hasn't really counted.

Minho is grateful he's the one you're staring at, doe eyes wide open; and he wonders if you're just as terrified as him. Grief catching up to him on a sunny street after running from it for years and he can only surrender.

"Hi Minho."

It's been two years since he last kissed you, two years since he has seen you smile one of those blinding and warm smiles. You're dead to me, Min. And it's been even longer since the last time Minho let his walls crumble.

"It's been so long," he says, but really he's just defeated. The day has been too long, and now even longer. His eyes wander in search of someone, looking anywhere but at you — as if he hasn't spent months dreaming of you.

The sun and your shoulders and his voice. It's all you, you, you. He feels the music in his chest — loud, too loud, and you smile. He's worried because it's a little too reminiscent. You could be cold, but he'd be colder.

"You've got your boyfriend on you," he comments, casually. But really, it's bitter and he hopes you catch on. Because decaying daydreams and throbbing hearts for eyes are too much to hold in his throat.

You clear your throat, eyes wandering back at that man you arrived here with. The red lights shine brighter over you, a stop sign asking him to cave. But has Minho ever cared?

"We're not really dating," you say, index and middle finger coming to fiddle with the pendant hanging off of a thin gold chain around your neck. It's a butterfly. And he has the same.

"You bullshit more than you did two years ago."

You scoff and he watches as the silver moonlight creeps into the cracks in the room. It holds on your shoulders as you sip your drink, "You never believe me."

"You never give me a reason to."

It's too quick, too sharp, too sardonic. And Minho curses at himself, sipping away at his whiskey on rocks to slow down his mind. He has always been like this — leaving doors open for people who will never knock again, hanging on to maybes and what-ifs. His heartbeat always too loud.

Your boyfriend invites himself, cutting into the brittle silence, hand around your waist and a kiss on your cheek. It doesn't hurt, not much and still Minho grips his drink tighter.

"Who's this?" He asks, a quick smile at Minho. All dark hair and sharp jaws and big arms. Minho couldn't take him down if he wanted to.

"A friend," you say, sharing a quick glance. He wonders if it would hurt more if you had said ex-boyfriend. But it never really went that far. But for a while it was love, wasn't it? For him it was love. "He's Minho. And Minho, this is Chris."

He raises his eyebrows in greeting, surely that was enough. And he wants to go back to being seventeen — being the half-grown grown up he's always been, with you. The glass in his hand is somehow colder, so he grips harder, his knuckles white.

The air is thick with tension and Minho walks a tightrope on a stretch of sea and sand. You only remind him of the ocean and he remembers smiling down at you and hoping he'd be your first and last everything.

Chris clears his throat, looking at you and then the bar. He glances back up at Minho, "Nice to see you, man." And he excuses himself.

He's leaving and everything is collapsing in Minho's chest because again, he's alone with you. He watches you loosen your grip on your drink after spending your life in tightened fists and your eyes are so bright tonight.

"I missed you," you say, your voice soft and your eyes sharp. Your fingertips stutter in their fiddling, eyes wet — the closest he's seen you to tears.

"You've learnt to lie, sweetheart. But not really better than me."

He hasn't ever tasted words more venomous and he can't look at you just yet. So he focuses on the crowd of hunched shoulders your boyfriend has dissapeared into. As if just two years ago, you both weren't just tragedy-stricken hearts with cherry-stained lips and sugared teeth.

"I'm not lying."

"Right," he says, all tart and humorous, but really he wishes what you say is true. His hand slips into his pocket and he brings a cigarette to his lips. He has never smoked as much as he does when he thinks of you.

Minho waits for you to protest, because you did when you cared. Because he wants to feel less like an abandoned porcelain cup with a chipped handle, drunk on your promises until they sting at the back of his throat. He can't look at you just yet, he tells himself. Not yet. He'd promise the world to you in a heartbeat if he did.

"Can you give me one?"

He blinks, watching you and then your boyfriend — to prim and proper to have ever held a cigarette. Minho has always been like this, tending to self destruct as if he's watching a trainwreck from a distance. He picked up smoking at twelve — stealing one and two from his mother's handbag until he was buying full packets himself.

"Your boyfriend will fucking beat me up."

"He's not my—"

"You don't have to do this."

You nod, arms folding and withdrawing within yourself at his sharp tone. He knows you can see it though — he's all open wounds with no intention of getting better.

He is a stop sign shining bright at your face: caution, step back, there is blood in places where there shouldn't be.

"How have you been?" you ask, cautious to overstep but you already have, and he hasn't ever cared.

There is a lump in my throat, the size of a cherry pit that I haven't managed to swallow since I was fifteen.

"Fine," he lies, trying his best for a smile though it wavers, "I mean, as much as it could be."

His ego has always held him in its first, fingers clawing around his throat keeping him from saying what he really means: I fucking miss you, come back to me. He watches you sigh, possibly exhausted from everytime you've tried to start up something only for him to shut it down.

"Really?"

Your eyes light up — an unadmired cityscape, at the possibility of him opening up. And fuck, he remembers with full force — your patience towards his unsolved heart, and nothing else tastes so bittersweet.

"Not really."

And then he sees it — maybe relief? He can't quite point it out. He doesn't know the intent, only the tilt of your jaw and the curve of your smile and he wishes you'd cling to his shirt and tell him you've been the same.

"It's been a trainwreck, you know?" you say, fingers tracing the rim of your drink because you can't quite look him in the eyes yet. "The last two years. But I feel like I'm getting somewhere."

"With your Chris?" He can't help how sour his tone is, but you take it lightly — with a laugh which reminds him of windchimes and seaside breeze.

"With Chris. With college. With everything, Minho."

He only nods, not pointing out the trainwreck you had left behind in the seaside town you never looked back at. Balmy nights, warm skin and cool cotton, damp earth and cheap beer left long forgotten.

"You want to get some air?"

"What about Chris?"

"Fuck Chris."

August stands before him, stretched thin — long, golden and reassuring. Almost permanent. The month he finally got to sane. His cigarette hangs between his lips, hands shoved in his pockets. He couldn't touch you. He couldn't touch you and return to his shared apartment, back to a stranger's mouth — unfazed and careless.

You say that you've been happy lately, wallowing a little selfishly in whatever of that is remaining, knowing it might not last very long. And he's proud, really. A part of him is the happiest because he's made the right choice. If he really squints, he can see himself in your eyes — staring back at him with hope. He hasn't seen that in years. He should be running the fuck away from you.

Minho wants to get better, hand on heart. But the chant of tart sleep and Tylenol pulls him back with fists knotting in his hair. And he wants to, for you. For you and whatever else is remaining of himself. He wants to sink his teeth into life until his heart stops beating and you'd smile and say that you're proud of him. He'll get it right next time, he says, sinking back into his bed. His hands fumble the nightstand for the remaining sleeping pills. And there is no you. There is no him.

"Minho?"

"Yeah?"

His heart is frantic — a dying moth hiding away in the corners of his cracked ribs.

"I missed you, really."

All tartness and sarcasm gone, he hasn't ever faced life so bare — asking to get hurt with no frankness to hide behind. Sincerity, both cold and sober. And he could only cave.

"Yeah?"

Oct'95

It's October and Minho lingers on your driveway, freshly seventeen with his face still young, breathing your name with his tongue touching the roof of his mouth.

Two summers ago, the weather had been perfect — the sea and the black glossy sky, the remaining suns heat heavy on your heads. And at the end of each day, walking home with a fever of happiness, as if he had someone to return to.

You unlock your door, peeking at him before rushing to lock it shut behind you. You shush him when he says your name a little too loud and then you're walking barefoot by his side, your shoes hanging from his crooked thumbs because you love the pebbled path at the turning.

Sometimes you'd sit on that flat stone ledge with your legs crossed, talking about Chris — top grades, Cheshire smile and this sort of charm he'd never figure out. And Minho liked to smoke a cigarette. He stole them from his mother's purse, she let him because she hardly cared. It started with the Calpol she slipped to him when he had a toothache, or when she wanted to sleep. Later it would be the cigarettes, and finally the pills.

You seemed to mind the cigarettes though, but you never complained.

Today, he hangs his legs off the ledge and turns his back to the breeze. It's an excuse to look at you, partly, but he'd never confess. He flints his plastic lighter, you had drawn hearts on it last week. And you cup your hands around his, watching the white end burn red.

"Close your eyes," you say and it's like warm wine going straight to his head. So he complies, waiting and patient.

You knot a white bracelet about his wrist, smiling so hard he wonders if your cheeks hurt. Drifting birdsongs and low flying dragonflies. Then you raise your wrist, showing a matching bracelet around your own. "So that you don't forget me, yeah? Happy fucking birthday, Minho."

You were so intense, so serious. He admits finally, it scared him a bit. You go back to talking about Chris and Minho only wonders how slowly the summer months drift by. Blush coloured clouds, coral skies and the world dusted in rose pink. A handful of months and you'll be far away.

He holds the smoke in his mouth, tapping the ash at his feet and leaning forward, watching the loose shape of your fingers as you fiddle with the bracelet on your wrist.

"Do you think my mom will really care? If I leave a few months early?"

Minho can only nod, so absent-minded. It is always cold, when he wanders back to the off-white tiles of his bathroom, with dirty porcelain fixtures and corners he could never quite get clean. He wonders if it's the smoke that sticks to the walls, casting that pale yellow gleam of paranoia. His mother doesn't care, not really. Only slipping a bill on the cold granite, asking for another pack.

He touches his thumb to the bare skin at the base of his throat, but he's looking at you. "Paint," he says, "You should get it clean."

"Shit," you squint at your shirt, at the smudge of blue paint rubbing off of wood.

Your mother's rules and his mother's absence seems so far away, miles from the secluded beach. His thumb burns when he touches the blue smudge — the shape of a crescent on your white shirt. It's teenage, he figures, spicing your blood and making you reckless and stupid.

"Let's get it clean," he says, reckless and fucking stupid. Taking your hand and the stolen key to the boathouse — all started wood and felted roof, like a garden shed. It bolts shut on the inside, and the only light is the moonlight slipping through the slats, smelling of wet-suits and fresh paint.

"Happy birthday, Min," you say again, and this time it's sweeter, sticking to him like nectar. He rubs at your stained collar with the little paint thinner left. You smell like oranges and fresh begonia — your perfume, he'd come to find out. Your clementine earrings dangle by his fingers, catching the little moonlight.

"Thankyou," he says, simply. But it's a slow rumble from the bottom of his throat. You're so close and he's ash-hands and honeyed-tongue, made of teeth and spidery orchids.

"Happy birthday," you repeat. And he sees flowers in your hair and stardust in your eyes — wild like a dream is wild and bright, so fucking bright. Your bracelet catches the low-light, glinting at him and demanding.

He shouldn't be doing this, ever. Last night, he dreamt of the rise and fall of your breath. But in this dream-like state, forgiveness comes easy. It's the want to be wanted that has always been so natural to him.

Red rimmed eyes and smoke, knuckles bruised this pale yellow — the shade of tulips, spidery fingers that remind you of orchids. And the cigarette is just an excuse to face you. He'll find you behind his eyelids when you're less than a feet away, the burning in his throat when you talk of Chris. So he'll sit beside you, all quiet and trembling, choking on his own smoke and despite it all, he'll love you anyway.

"Thankyou," he whispers again, quiet and shaky.

Nov'95

Winter is a pendant hanging off of your throat, and your silver necklaces look like they're pressing too hard against your throat. He likes the way you look against the starless night — a little scattered rather than the mostly assembled.

"Mom told me that all guys think about is sex."

"Yeah?" he chuckles, heaving a heavy exhale before looking back at you, "Does Chris think only about sex too?"

It's 3 a.m, far too late to return home by any means other than your open window. And Minho drives down the highway, stealing glances at you, pretending it's secretive. You're in the passanger seat and it's still summer inside, with the window drawn wide open, hand on your fist with your eyes weighed down by exhaustion.

"Not Chris," you decide, closing your eyes because the wind is too strong, "I don't think so."

You listen to Frank Ocean because he decided to choose the music for tonight and his ring-clad fingers drum along the beat on the stearing wheel. His hands are shaky, and you frown, eyes following when he runs it through his hair and it returns to the stearing wheel.

"You should stop smoking," you say, still frowning.

It's the pills. It's the fucking pills. He's screaming but he pretends he hasn't heard you. Pretending he doesn't stain everything he touches red on accident.

Your head tips up to look at him, not waiting for an answer because you know he never will. Cardinal moths with snow brushed wings nesle in a warm corner in his ribs. Minho feels whole. Complete.

Dec'95

Minho spends Christmas night with you again. You find him on the backstreets, leather jacket and boots and this wandering gaze. Your eyes are heavy when he links your arms, shivering when his skin meets yours. You look at him unsure, with this little bit of nostalgia and he's terrified.

Neon signs blare bright yellow, shining down at you with a halo surrounding your head. The baseline from the backstreet clubs makes the walls shake and he's only holding on tighter.

"It's your last Christmas here," he whispers, voice low, timid. Scared.

His heart is a blue lick of fire curling in his stomach. Don't go, it screams at you — steely and unoffering. His mother says he offers more that he can give, as if he's a dust cloud waiting to disappear. But his mother has never looked this close, never getting past the sight of teeth.

His mother had said there was an angel in the attic behind the stairs when he was seven. He had slipped on the carpet and landed on glass that year, splitting his foot open under the attic stairs and there was no angel swimming in the blood.

"I want to go away," you say, holding his hand tighter.

You trade confession for confession, only that his dies in his throat. He remembers summer like a splinter in his teeth — empty beer cans on porch steps, orange ladybugs curling on windowsills and strawberry stained lips.

This town was never a place for someone like you.

Jan'96

For Minho, things have always been okay eventually, not everything. You will never be. But he's learnt to be okay with that. It's one of the times he puts up a really good fight and still loses, he holds on really hard until there is no choice to let go. Then he lights himself a cigarette, sits across from you, and convinces himself that he's okay with it.

His mother always said he never had ambition but it's not quite true. His ambition has always been quiet — to exist, and to exist peacefully, drowned out by cans and cans of beer if that it what gets him to shut up.

But all that goes to hell when he's here, watching you, ringed fingers raising a cigarette to his mouth that hasn't shut up about you since you wished him a happy birthday.

"I think about it a lot."

Minho raises his brows, eyes of murky waters choking and chortling with dirty hands around his wrists. "About what?"

You frown and it's almost disbelief, if he hadn't noticed the corners of your lips curling upwards.

"You never listen to me."

"You're right," he shrugs, leaning further back in his pretend nonchalance. "You need to be more interesting."

You gasp, muttering an inaudible asshole under your breath before you return to what you were saying.

"I was thinking about you."

"Me?" His heart slows until it's at a halt, his nerves are aware. Very much aware of you. What do you think about? His scraped knees, the blood under his band-aids, split lips, split knuckles, spilt heart? It's just boyhood. It's just an excuse.

"Do you drink that often?"

"Sometimes," he says, waving around his cigarette hand for emphasis. Your face shines through the smoke and he can't bite back that smile. "When the world gets hard to live in."

"You should take me with you sometime," you say, a little bold, a little vulnerable. You tap your fingers on your knees and it's that sinking feeling as if he's being eaten alive.

"Does your world get hard to live in?"

"Sometimes," you shrug and he sees that smirk falter,"I've got my special little problems."

"Like what?"

"Like my mom, like boyfriends, like irregular periods, stuff."

Minho wrinkles his nose at the mention of boyfriends. It's an antic, but you laugh. You miss the faint blush spreading on his cheeks when he asks: you and Chris —?

"No," you roll your eyes, but there's a playful flick when you look again, "Not yet, at least."

It's his pretty boy antics, is what you call them. The way he looks at you now, all damp-eyed and nostalgic. But there's love rushing through his heart, there is always love rushing through his heart, ready to run in the rain with screaming confessions. When he says awestruck, he means you. When he thinks of you, he means terrified.

Feb '96

The moonlight reflects off the edge of the ocean like a sharpened blade, and the gleam catches Minho's eye, a little painstakingly. His imagination has been getting morbid. He sees scars on the sand, water spilling out and gathering at his feet until he's standing in a puddle of blood.

There is an attempted bonfire not too far away. He can see a middle aged man with thinning hair slotting driftwood and shoving crumpled up newspaper underneath. The driftwood seems too cold and wet to catch a fire, but again, Minho has always been a pessimist.

"You said you wanted to drink, right?"

And then there's you, wringing your hands in front of you — and Minho wonders if it's nervousness or excitement. It's too dark to see your face and still he can feel your eyes shining back at him. All diamonds and star-flecked and human, and he is almost jealous.

"So you were listening to me."

He grins, a little lopsided; before pulling out his thin metal flask from the pocket of his jacket. It's both his pride and the moonlight catching on the steel, gleaming off at you and you smile until your cheeks hurt.

A column of smoke rises from the pile of driftwood, white and clear — a smudge against the inky black sky, with no wind to disperse it.

"No I wasn't, this is for me."

You pay no attention, grabbing at the flask until he's letting go. It's the eagerness in you that makes him feel a lot older on the inside, he's still learning to appreciate his breathing.

He watches you twist off the cap. "It's whiskey," he says, when you look up at him with your eyebrows raised. You pour it in the cap, taking and apprehensive breath and following it up with a few small sips. You grimmace, but raise the flask again, chasing after that warm feeling that travels from your throat to your stomach.

"It's good," you say, eager and so bright. With you, the sky is still golden; the street lights come alive and the drizzle is still light. "It's got to be twenty one year old single malt. Aged in oak —"

Minho smiles, stealing back his flask for a sip before you go further. He's teasing and testing, when he raises a single brow, "Really?"

"I can hear the Scottish sea from this one."

His smile is wider and he takes another sip, "Because this is the cheapest fucking whiskey you can find around here."

Your smile drops, reflecting off the bonfire in slow, gradual stages. You snatch back the flask, his warmth still residual on the thin metal from when his fingertips touch yours.

"Oh, fuck you, you know that?"

It is the sound of distant church bells, and for a long time it's just you and him and the rush of salt air. For a while, Minho wonders what it would mean to die here — in the same town that had grown its roots in his stomach, boasting more than what it offered.

"What if you leave with me?"

He hasn't really thought that far, growing old and sipping cheap whiskey from the metal cup you hand him. If he left, he'd bring the town with him. He'd bring the train tracks and the rocks under which he hid his cigarettes right with him. He'd come back, fall into faith or fall out of love or fall into something else entirely.

For you, the town brought misfortune. But he could be young and flighty, smoke while listening to the city river, but he couldn't escape what part of it grew within him.

He scoffs as if it's a joke, as if everything has been, "Why? You want me with you?"

"Yes, Minho."

It's sincere and that is what scares him. It is fearless and bold to confess, but it's a joke. Everything has been.

He grins, throwing back the remaining alcohol and hissing at the burn in his throat. It's screaming at your sincerity — because he's weak and hollow, but that doesn't matter.

"If it's not me staying here, then who is it?"

You blink at him, confused and he sees the shade of a peach tree, lemongrass and clean kitchen tiles with his radio playing jazz music. He sees acceptance in a rented apartment somewhere in the city, facing a brick wall but he has always been too in love to care.

Your breath trembles and you swallow harshly, looking away. He wonders if the flush of your cheeks is really the whiskey.

"I'll never understand why you feel the need to bleed for other people, Minho. But I'll never stop being grateful that you did."

March'96

The storms have begun in a way that reminds Minho of summer — everything does, because summer reminds him that you could have been something. You were something — even if it was only a beginning, just a whisper in his screaming world.

It was something, but you're someone who likes to set fires and he can only wait out the storms, and he can't allow himself to make a home of this. Because this is all he has.

"Remind me why it had to be a fucking department store again."

"Because," you start, drawing it out with all intented dramatics. "I haven't had department store beer. And I'm the one leaving next week."

It sounds more permanent when you say it like that. You're the one leaving next week. Next week. Six days. And Minho is scared he'll spend the rest of his life chasing your shadow in grocery store isles. That's what he keeps doing — recycling promises like plastic bottles. There is just so long you can stay here, purging those promises with dime store whiskey and pawn shop cigarettes.

"You've never had department store lunch?"

You shake your head, holding on to his sleeve as you struggle to keep up, "I don't know why. Mom just never took me there."

Strange, he thinks. Because that's all his mother seemed to do. He had the aisles memorized — alcohol on the first right, packed lunches on the third aisle and the freezers further down.

"It's weird, I know."

He frowns. It's not much weird as it is strange. Nothing experiential about stale lunches and shitty beer. Would it taste much differently in the city? The tinted windows now frosted up and lined with finger prints. You wouldn't miss much. You wouldn't miss him.

"I think it's nice. It isn't anything special anyways."

"How so?"

Because you mean everything to me. Because you're the light that rests in his stars and the love that hides in his teeth, the light escaping his thick curtains. And you'd pretend to be harsh, and angry. But you'd tread so softly and touch so tenderly.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "It just is."

Minho picks up the cheapest beer cans and you treasure your microwaved rice. It's a part of the ‘authentic experience’ as you had declared. It's the terrace again, with its bare cemented walls that scratch against his t-shirt, red and orange chalk smeared on the walls in attempted graffiti. Six days, the heat is clawing on him, gathering like the overhead clouds as you gladly open your microwaved lunch.

"It's not bad—" you start, frowning when you take your first bite, already defending your decisions.

"Yeah well, it's not good either," he scoffs, staring at the gradually darkening sky. And something in it weighs down in his chest, stinging at the back of his eyes. He wonders if you'll stay if he asks you to.

"You're just a pessimist."

He is. So he indulges in his beer instead, scowling deeper at her first sip, "It tastes like piss."

"It's a part of the experience," you chastise.

All he does is stare at the grey hue draping over he sky, bleeding into the distant buildings. He can't tell where it ends. There are cement pieces lodging in his heart when he thinks about six days later. Orange chalk rubs on his forearm like a flame licking up his skin — it hurts to breathe so he swallows haggardly.

"Min?"

He hums, too scared to speak.

"Talk to me."

He focuses on the tinted windows and the heavy sky. It'd rain soon, washing away the remaining bits of chalk and cigarette dust littering the rooftop. Minho is scared that a year later there will be a different boy sitting cross-legged across from you, smelling of a different brand of cigarettes.

"What will you miss when you're gone ?"

He's not in love with you. He knows what it means to play with fire when he's made of paper. He feels every word like teeth to his skin. He feels his dreams rot underneath his fingernails. He's both too much and not enough.

"Your shitty beer, the sea and you."

"Your turn."

He's not in love with you. He's just a teenage boy, wallowing in his remaining boyhood. He has a scar on his stomach that runs an inch too deep. He's no less afraid of dying than he is of losing you, and that scares him too.

"What are you scared of?"

Minho frowns, glancing back at you and lingering for too long, "Nothing much."

Everything, he swallows, he could never give that much away.

Off to the distance, there is a café — nothing much, except for a small white house with a front porch and a faded sign with the distinct shape of a coffee cup hanging from the eaves. Minho frowns at the crowd of tourists, wondering what it would mean to be normal. The beer tastes bitter on his tongue.

"What are you thinking about?"

Your voice breaks his trance, his frown lightening when he meets your eyes. That canted smile and his promise to protect what's precious. It comes with the realisation that there will never be more of summer than there is now — there will never be more of you than what he has now.

He could complain, of course. How can you live in the city for so long? It is terrible in its winters and summers, and springs. The fall would last two weeks. But he'd known your taste for difficult men — smelling of Newport cigarettes and dried blood.

"Nothing."

"Chris asked me if he could drive me to the city yesterday."

The sky darkens from grey to black, inky and inviting — reminding him of October. The earthy scent of petrichor lingers in the air and he doesn't miss the way you're shoulder quivers, shaking off his jacket and slinging it on your shoulders.

"Yeah? What'd you say?"

Minho wonders if he'd get that dream again tonight, the one with ash-stained cheekbones and teeth of splintered glass, smiling through a mouthful of bloody teeth— following him through the worst of his days.

"I told him no."

"Why?"

"I want you to drive me."

The night is so still he forgets to breathe. It doesn't matter much, he's was choking on the feeling of being temporary. But he knows the your smoke would still linger, even with you gone.

His voice is gruff and shaky, he feels the shape of his words in his throat, "Really?"

"Really?" you say, a little angry but mostly disappointed. He's never seen your eyes this damp, beaded lace shimmering in the moonlight. "Why can't you figure me out, Min? Why do you have to make me say it all? I like you more than him, that's all. And I wish I had fallen in love with him. But I didn't. I fell in love with you."

He tries to speak, but it's only an exhale, taking forever to get over. You'd never know him. But you'll think you do. And that's enough for him.

Your frown only deepens, shrugging off his jacket and wrapping your arms around yourself. It is March unfolding itself with a mess of aching limbs and hearts stretched too far. "Will you get that look off your fucking face? You'll make me cry. At least talk to me, Min."

He holds his jacket over your head, hiding you from where the drizzle meets you. His hands strain to find your face, when he'd kiss you. Petrichor clings to your hair and his jacket, your skin warm under his palms. He feels dreamy and distant — unreal. It's his summer but dark, with begonia and unkept promises, shadowy and melancholic with you smiling into his mouth.

Your lips taste of orange chapstick and he grins when you hold on tighter, "Drop that fucking jacket and hold me with both hands."

"But we'll get wet."

"Can you stop thinking for once, Min?"

He drops his jacket and wraps his free arm around your waist, grinning all the way through. Your chapstick has smudged, leaving orange flecks surrounding your lips.

At seven, he had found a butterfly on his window with half a wing missing. And he'd cupped it in his hands, held it secure against his sweater — terrified of the wind. He had clampered up the telephone stand, knees scraping against the unpolished wood, still drowsy off of Tylenol and called the animal helpline he had memorized. He was instructed to clip off the other wing to match the first one.

It died in a glass jar on his desk three days later. Too much sun, they had said. Too much love, he understood.

He'd climb in the jar if you ask him, he'd tear off his other wing himself. He'd wonder if Icarus was more than his fall. He'd try to make it charming when it's not, he'd wonder why he's not falling in love.

"I love you," your voice is deep and sincere and you press your cheek against his neck. It his real blood gushing through his veins — terrible, insecure anburdened, but alive.

"I know," he sighs, smiling into your hair — but it's sad. He'd hold his breath, close his fists and wait. He'd try to let go, but he can't. He doesn't know how to let go. No one taught him to let go. "But, it'll pass."

Aug'98

"Yeah."

Minho is still tipsy off of that old whiskey, not like three years has done much to sober him up. He still tastes you in the air, like it's '96 all over again. But he'd do it much better this time, he swears. He let you fuck him at nineteen and he'd let you fuck him again at twenty-one.

It's an awful sense of deja-vu, with you and the air too cold on his cheeks. You and Chris's borrowed leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders. It's awful because he's already forgiven you, because he's already done the hard part — told you where it hurts and begged for you to fix it. Because Minho keeps doors open for those who will never knock again.

"I missed you too, really."

He feels small, standing there and making a gift of his confession. It is guilt raking his throat on the inside. It is perhaps fear, or his nerves, or this awful self fulfilling prophecy he is turning into.

And that was the last of Minho's mistakes — letting you in, again. His hands finding you and your hands his shoulders, heart heaving and his breath accelerated beyond measure when you kissed him again. It is the smell of oranges and begonia that meets him again, and the taste of Coca-Cola when your hand winds in his hair. That is how it felt — inappropriate but instinctive.

He smiles into your mouth, feeling your clementine earrings dangle by his cheek and you only hold him tighter and kiss him harder.

Minho admits, he's jealous of your restraint — of you not touching him until he touched you. He's so jealous of everyone who gets to say it out loud — of Chris who gets to hold your hand and kiss you knowing it is where he belongs.

He sighs heavily, leaning further away to get a look at your eyes. Do you remember the beach? Is it twisted to want it back? His forehead finds yours as his hands hold your face — your cheeks wet, when he kisses you again. Once. Twice. And then he wonders if he'd let himself say more this time. Or he'd just drink more whiskey and go somewhere other than home.

"Your boyfriend is waiting on you," he says, smug and smiling, but really his heart is swelling from the moment you chose him, again. Even if it's only temporary.

"Fuck Chris."

Let the tide not be stronger than us, he hears.

He feels young and clumsy and ridiculous, teeth clashing into yours and giggling when your fingers find his collar — almost angry. Angry like the last eight seasons of grey buildings and self pity and moving into the city hoping something would change.

Angry in the way he pushes the leather jacket off your shoulders because it reminds him of Chris and how he could never catch up.

"Min, are you crying?"

He blinks back, a little confused but mostly frustrated. He is crying, hot tears warming his cheeks and then the rose flush of embarrassment when you cradle his face.

He shakes you off, eyes ringed with red because he's losing his mind — the city screams your name and he's too scared to leave, too in love to cover his ears. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, two years is nothing at all.

"Min—?"

He kisses you again, harsher, stronger and angrier— teeth clashing and biting. It feels more like an excuse, knowing you're not on his side, gliding over the seam of your mouth. You're not on Chris's side either, you're not anyone's infact. And you ease his understanding, holding his face closer to you and kissing him back with the same fever through his salt tears. It's always been this easy.

Minho wonders if it's really raining beyond the parking area, turning the grey of the buildings into watercolour bloom — because that's how he feels, his hands sliding underneath your blouse to feel warm skin under his freezing palms. He's very aware — aware of your blouse snagging on his fingertips, the alcohol rushing through his blood-streams, so loud that he could feel it in his ears. Aware of the fact that he's doing something absolutely stupid, that he could never remove from himself.

He stops when the rain does, removing himself from you and pressing his lips to your forehead. There are no words to follow with, nothing he can really say. It's mostly sadness — sadness shared, enough to drown him out. Maybe love does go bad, rotting on the top shelf of his apartment, screaming and then cradling him to sleep.

He fixes your blouse, reaching to pick up the leather jacket and slinging it back on your shoulders, when all you do is stare back at him.

"I'll miss you again," you say, when he rakes his fingers through your hair, attempting to fix the mess he made. Th crow's feet deepen near his eyes — he looks older, much older.

But will you miss me like I'll miss you? Will you wonder how I've changed since you've been gone? Will you keep being my home if I leave my heart behind?

He smiles, but it's sad and sardonic, because he'll always be like this — staining things red on accident, things that do not belong to him, "You can't do this to me, you know that?"

Perhaps it is that he's gone crazy. Or he's far too drunk. But pity feels the same no matter where it punctures him.

You sigh, deeply.

"You're dead to me, Min."

Minho feels that deep rooted sadness again, setling somewhere between his ribs. The moonlight makes his shadow small, and he feels like a child again. Your smoke will linger, the way it has in the last two years. And he wonders how he's supposed to go back after this. Back to his shared apartment, to a strangers mouth — a dead butterfly pinned under glass, watching as his life unfolds before him.

A/N: Six whole months in the making but we're back. So many murakami references again. Thankyou to that one ask that started it all. Asks, comments and reblogs — any sort of feedback is greatly appreciated!

#skz angst #skz fluff #skz x reader #stray kids angst #stray kids x reader #lee know fanfic #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #skz fanfic #skz scenarios #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids fanfic #lee know angst #lee know fluff #bang chan x reader #stray kids fanfiction #skz x you

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ghouljams · 7 months

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what is fae!ghosts backstory? (going through older posts one from august 2nd mentioned price saving him)

Ooh I've been wanting to write his backstory out for a while, but never really had a good reason to. It's not a very nice backstory, I feel bad putting him through it, but who is Ghost if he hasn't been completely tattered by the wounds of his past?

tw: mentions of sexual assault, abuse, torture, familial abuse, references to Ghost's canon backstory

So let's go back to the very beginning of Ghost's story, back to his childhood. In this AU Ghost probably would've been born some time in the 14-1500s. When the fae were better known and traded with. Some time in the old days before people started explaining away magic. His family didn't exist in a city, they were up in the northern country, in a little village where people kept to themselves. Where people minded their business lest it be minded for them.

Simon's father was as awful and abusive as he is in the canon lore. His mother couldn't raise a hand to help, and his brother was too young to really understand what was happening. The only real difference was that his father owed some serious debts to a local creditor. Despite all of that Simon does his best to grow up, but by the time he's reached teenage status the debts his father have racked up aren't going to be paid off so easily. What does a good father do when he has nothing to pay off the fae? Sell his son of course.

Simon Riley is taken from his home by a fae named Manuel Roba, who really didn't have a need for a child so much as he had need for a dog. Simon is strong, a butcher's apprentice, but he's stubborn and he's smart. He knows the stories, he knows how to deal with the fae, knows the rules they follow. Or he thinks he does. The problem is that Roba has his own rules, ones that Simon is punished for when he doesn't follow them exactly. All in the hopes of breaking that stubborn spirit and shaping Simon into the dog he needs.

Roba is a summer fae, so he takes Simon out to Winter(the worst season he can think of) and works on him there. Breaks his bones, rapes him, buries him alive in the snow and forces him to claw his way out. For years. Breaking Simon down little by little, and threatening to do the same to Tommy or his mother if he doesn't learn. When he's in a good mood Simon can stay in the house, if he pays his way, works off some of the debts he's accrued with Roba since he's been taking care of him.

Despite everything Simon doesn't break, there's something in his blood, the tapping doesn't work, and ten years of torture just make him resent Roba. Just make him more violent towards the man, more animal than human, but also more uncontrollable.

It's the last torture Roba has to take him out of the Wild and back to the human world, where hundreds of years have passed without Simon. Everyone he ever knew or loved long dead and buried. And his skin doesn't fit right anymore. There's too much wild magic in him, he's remade himself too many times, been buried in the wild too often to be human anymore. It's the early 1800s when Roba drops him in the middle of the city. Everything too loud and bright and overstimulating. Nothing smells right. Except the blood.

Roba wanted a hunter, kept Ghost on a slim be diet of viscera, and he has one. The way Ghost's mouth waters at all the weak little humans that scurry past him. And he can see their tethers, see their hearts pumping blood through their veins, can smell how to lure them where he wants. It's intoxicating in a way he's never experienced before. Then it's ripped away from him, he's hung from his ribs at the edge of the forest and left there.

Except when Roba hears that a creditor he owes is coming for a visit. Now, the trick here is that Roba is breaking rules. Breaking Ghost is breaking rules. He has to hide him, has to bury him again. Easy enough, Ghost's half dead, mostly starved, he won't be climbing out any time soon. So Price comes to collect payment, and he's seen Ghost in the city, he knows what's been done to him. He can smell the last lingering shred of proof at what once was human.

Ghost doesn't know what happens above ground. He knows that he pulled a jaw from another corpse's skull, he knows that he didn't survive this burial, and he knows that he smells smoke. He knows that when he's pulled from the grave there's blood to gorge himself on, and that someone has started a fire. He knows that Price tells him he's sorry, and even though he doesn't really understand what that means it hooks something dark in his chest.

Price stabilizes him, fills in the cracks with smoke, makes a tidy banshee/wraith out of what was once human, and offers him a proper job. Offers him a name that could be his, if he wanted it. And it's easy work. All he has to do is follow Price around, and he gets three square meals, good meals; he gets someone to hold onto when everything is too much, Ghost gets stitched together, the holes patched with gentle hands. He doesn't have to think, doesn't have to be. Price is safe, Price teaches him to control his new magic, shows him how the rules should work(how they keep everyone safe, including Ghost), teaches him how to hunt.

Price pulls him from the mental grave Ghost dug for himself, helps him sort through his memories, doesn't mention the heavy tether between them. I don't think Simon survived that last burial, I think the wild finally broke into him, finally staked its full claim on him. I don't think Ghost talked for a long time, after Price took him in.

Then Gaz showed up, brought Soap along for the ride. Then it wasn't "I'm his dog" it was "we're a team" and that helped a lot. Gaz and Soap brought enough sunshine to bring a bit of the old Simon back, to get him making jokes and being charming in bars. With the hopes of hunting better, of course. And he finally go to live alongside the human world again, got to watch it grow and change, carved out a space for himself and started to feel whole again. Bounced between the 141's home bases before he was talked into getting his own.

A very successful period of being Ghost for a long time. He was well cared for, maybe even loved, but none of the 141 was his. So he indulged in his prey, trapping hearts in tidy little fantasies. Playing house until he thought they were sweet enough to eat. Tap, tap, tapping until he found you. Just for him, always for him. In every universe, in every iteration, in every soft whisper of his name.

Of course you're the one to pull Simon from the grave, to bring his humanity back and fit the last piece into his puzzle. So that when the 141 sees him smile at his drink they all can see the full picture of him.

#ghoul speaks #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #fae!ghost #1fae1 #I think that first time Ghost smiles in the bar Gaz and Soap both kiss him #just so excited to see it #Price is a little more restrained but just barely #happy october everyone

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yns-world · 8 months

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Never Fade Away

Pairing: Johnny Silverhand x Fem!Idol!Reader A/N: Y/S/N = Your Stage Name this is an extension of this, feel free to read :)

2022

nobody said showbiz was easy, but should it border hellish in order for something to change?

you loved johnny, and johnny loved you, that was a fact that you both knew so well— so when did things become so difficult?

in your and johnny’s case, opposites attract. but what you didn’t account for was that opposites also repel.

both of your lives were constantly in the spotlight, and this relationship even more so. with millions of eyes flicking over every move, every microtransaction, there is barely any room to just be.

you two were a match made for the stage, nobody could beat the stage presence you two shared when you performed, but this fame was taking a toll on you both.

in the short year you guys dated, it was like fire and ice. burning hot with passion and then freezing over with frostbite.

but as time went on, the cracks in the relationship began to show. the flaws in you both began to grow bigger and bigger but neither of you knew what to do, so you ignored it.

but ignoring was the absolute worst thing to do, and now you’re having screaming matches that last for hours, days, and then weeks of silence.

of course, the media is all over this.

“Johnny Silverhand’s New Victim”

“Y/S/N Seen Storming Out of Silverhand’s Apartment”

things could only go on for so long before you had to cut things off— something that nearly tore you to shreds.

johnny begged, he cried, he pleaded, he waited outside your apartment for hours on end. he damn-near kissed the ground you walked upon just so you would glance at him once more, because in his mind he cannot for the life of him make sense of why the perfect woman would just leave him.

but that’s exactly why you left. you left because he can’t fathom why the relationship was going to hell. you had to break it off because johnny was a sinking ship and you refuse to drown with him, no matter how much you might adore him.

that was johnny's breaking point and he hasn't been the same since.

while he dated you, he created his most iconic and best selling music that topped all the charts. you were his once-in-a-lifetime muse, and the world knew that.

but when you broke up, he lost that spark. his heart strings were torn apart and he couldn't pick up the guitar for months.

the only time he picked up the guitar was to play a solemn a-b-c tune while he recited the tragic poetry of his heart.

he'd release a few more singles that could all be chalked up to a last ditch effort of staring into the void and expelling the demons of his heart.

"Never Fade Away" was the last song johnny ever performed. that song was an homage to your memory and how you'd never fade from his own memories.

2023

it's been a year since you broke up with johnny and it hasn't been all sunshine and rainbows for you, despite what johnny likes to tell the media.

there were countless nights where he was holding you from behind, his steady breath a calm rhythm in your ear, but you'd wake up everytime in a gasp, frantically searching for him on his side of the bed.

it took you months to finally wash the sheets because you wanted his scent to linger for as long as possible. his cologne that mixed with his musk.

the first few months were wretched, but you grew to resent him. deep down you still ached for his touch, but you had to lie and say you wanted him dead, if not, then the aching pain of his memory would kill you first.

august 20th, 2023. a day that was supposed to blur into the past endless days, but the last thing you expected was to see the man of your dreams—and nightmares—wearing a bulletproof vest and riding in a militech helicopter.

similarly, the last thing johnny expected was to see the architect of his heartbreak walking out of the Arasaka building.

waves of emotions flashed across his face—awe, joy, hurt, and finally resentment.

johnny's scowl deepened and his resolve strengthened. Arasaka was not only the architect of his filthy world, but also stole the love of his life.

it wasn't rational to think that, but when has johnny ever been rational?

just moments before, johnny only planned to tear down the building. but now that he's seen you—walking out of that corrupt building with all of your lavish clothes and accessories—his aim shifted.

Arasaka stole everything from him. they ruined him. he has nothing left to lose.

in that moment, he made his peace with death.

he overtook the machine gun and let out a visceral warcry that he’s been choking down for years— everyone would pay for his pain and suffering.

august 21st, 2023, the very next day. over 4,000 dead, a crazy terrorist group, and you at the epicenter of it all.

some would brush you off as irrelevant, others would dub you as the “terrorist’s girlfriend”, blaming you for the demise of a beloved singer.

but despite the chaos of the outside world, you could feel your internal universe crumble. johnny’s body hasn’t been found yet but you are sure that he’s gone.

you’re so sure because you felt the deepest part of your soul chip off. the connection is severed. there’s a void inside of you, and you know all-too-well what johnny used to say about an abyss.

“If you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.”

a/n: i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging since it helps my account! :) DON'T BE A GHOST READER!!!! i would love to hear your thoughts and opinions, and comments are what keep writers going <3 i'm open to cyberpunk requests so feel free to send me one <3 also, lmk if y'all wanna see more idol!reader content and/or have any ideas since i'm kinda rocking with it :) as always, have a great day and i'll see y'all in the next one <3

#yns world #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk 2077 v #cyberpunk 2077 fanfic #cyberpunk 2077 x reader #cyberpunk 2077 x v #johnny silverhand #johnny silverhand x reader #johnny silverhand x v #cyberpunk 2077 johnny #cyberpunk 2077 johnny silverhand #cyberpunk johnny #requests open

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sflow-er · 1 month

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would kill to know more about august’s relationship with his mom like youre telling me your son gets caught for committing a crime and you still dont care enough to even come see him and see whats going on 😭 maybe im looking too much into it bc i wanna dissect him like a lab rat but really like she seems so neglectful

Hello anon! Thank you for the ask 💜

I've felt since first watching S1 that August's mother Louise really is neglectful. Let's look at the glimpses we get of her:

Erik says to Wille in S1E2 that she sent August to Hillerska shortly after his dad's suicide. Fair enough, I'm sure August wanted to go and probably lashed out at her for "not making life easier" for Carl Johan. But she seems to have essentially just left him there without any proper followup on how he was dealing with everything. His grief, their financial situation, his sudden responsibility having to take over from his father... As his mother, she should have made sure he got some help - counselling with Boris for example, but that clearly didn't happen. Based on all the issues August developed in the time leading up to canon, he has dealt with precisely none of his trauma, which also left him so very open to Erik's abuse and influence at Hillerska (as we now know).

She let August believe she would get the boarding money for him up until S1E3, only to turn up at Parents' Day and tell him to get it himself. By selling some of his father's belongings that she must have known meant everything to him. Yeah, that was probably the best and only solution, but the way she handled it was abysmal. And then she seemed surprised that August was angry and disappointed... Whereas August's reaction seemed to hint that this wasn't the first time she let him down (at least in my interpretation).

She was nowhere to be found in the aftermath of the video. August returned to Hillerska early from Christmas break, and it was plain to see he wasn't doing well at all. But we didn't get a single hint of her trying to reach out, nor did she seem all that worried when he suddenly called her weeks later and told her to buy a random horse (despite saying before that he would rather die than tap into his inheritance). She did ask why, but when he said "because I want to", she just dropped the subject.

And as you pointed out, we also didn't see her after he was caught. I'm sure we're meant to infer that August has been in touch with both her and Rickard since Rickard is representing him, but her absence from our screens or even the dialogue leaves a very specific taste. He may be 18, but he's still her son, and she should be there when he fucks up to the point of committing an actual crime. Asking what the hell he was thinking and demanding that he talk to someone about all his problems. This could've been brought up when he had to start seeing Boris after his fight with Wille, for example.

(Not to mention the missed opportunity of having her ask how he feels about having to sell Årnäs for the settlement! I will forever be bitter that this happened off camera and we didn't see August's reaction at all. It would've benefited the story on several levels to actually show his pain.)

So yeah. We could well see Louise again in the finale, but considering August still considers Sara the only person he's ever really been able to talk to... His mother definitely hasn't been there for him enough. I do not blame her for wanting to live her own life at all, especially as her marriage to Carl Johan was probably hell towards the end, but it sure seems like August is yet another example of how the adults in YR have let their children down.

#young royals #august horn of årnäs #august horn #louise horn #young royals analysis #young royals season 3 #young royals s3 #young royals s3 spoilers #young royals spoilers #yrs3 #yr s3 spoilers #yrs3 spoilers #yr s3 #yr spoilers #yr season 3 #yr season 3 spoilers #anon ask

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intoloopin · 6 months

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LOOPIN, THE GROUP.

First announced as 'Boy Of The Week Project' in late 2016, promised to eventually become an extension of Blockberry Creative's LOONA mostly housed under New Wave Music, BBC's novice partner company, LOOPiN was for a long time a myth: with no official records of the reported 24 trainees set to compete under 'Boy Of The Week', a mix of korean and international young men and teenagers, it's impossible to know how and when exactly LOOPiN came to be. Off the pre-pre-debut official recruiting, only seven met debut – them being Beomseok, Taesong, Minwoo, Seungsoo, Haruki, Dylan (with a one year delay compared to all others) and Haegon. Remaining members O.z, Hanjae and J.J joined the final lineup under undisclosed circumstances.

Once officially formed, LOOPiN had an almost siamese start as their sister group: debuting two to three members, one in every week of the month starting from mid 2018, then conjoining them under a unit until all 10 members had been formerly introduced to the public, officially becoming LOOPiN on August 2019.

As LOONA had The Loonaverse, LOOPiN's cosmic horror, highly nonlinear concept, named as The Looploore, stayed heavily with them up until New Wave Music's split with Blockberry Creative and complete buyout of their exclusive contracts in October 2022. Beomseok was the only original member that refused to renew and left the group, as well as celebrity life, on March 2023, quickly being replaced by Gyujin.

Known for being a highly self produced act with all members deeply involved in the creation of the group's visual, musical and storytelling aspects, as well as for having the most unlucky and polemic starts to almost every year, LOOPiN keeps on kicking high and ranking as one of the most prolific and eye catching groups in K-Pop now – a merit that seems to be far from being taken away from them anytime soon.

LOOPiN, THE MEMBERS.

PARK TAESONG.

With a history of being mocked for his kindness and taunted for his need to please, Park Taesong has been from day one the weakling in the eyes of every single one of his teammates, and he's been fighting a never ending war to not let them mold him into something he's not – into one of them. Even when his high tendency to anxiously spiral and his chronic fear of his own frail health get temporarily in the way, Taesong is always choosing to try to stay calm, stay sane, stay by his own side – but he still might prefer to give up on himself before he gives up on LOOPiN.

He's gentle, cowardly, optimistic, controling.

GIVEN NAME: Park Taesong. OTHER ALIASES: Taeng (nickname). BIRTHDATE: 02.15.97. PROFESSION: Idol. GROUP POSITIONS: main vocalist, leader (2019 - early 2022). ETHNICITY: Korean. NATIONALITY: South Korean. FACE CLAIM: Seo Dongsung.

BANG MINWOO.

Bang Minwoo believes he's known hunger more intimately than anyone else around him, and for that, he is brutal. With a relationship with music that borders on obsession, he's given up body and soul for his art and will spare nothing to keep LOOPiN going – or so he wants the world to believe. Truth is, there is a caring, deeply empathic nature in Minwoo that he's been trying to ignore for years, and it's dormant now, but not gone. Ever since he began being confronted by past actions and his own secret history, Minwoo hasn't been able to sit with himself at peace and sleep.

He's dedicated, irritable, reliable, obsessive.

GIVEN NAME: Bang Minwoo. OTHER ALIASES: Noah Bang (english name). BIRTHDATE: 07.08.97. PROFESSION: Idol-songwriter, music producer. GROUP POSITIONS: leader (early 2022-), main rapper, vocalist, dancer, group producer. ETHNICITY: Korean. NATIONALITY: South Korean (Guryong natural). FACE CLAIM: Lee Changyoon.

NA SEUNGSOO.

Na Seungsoo has always marched to the beat of his own drum, in a rhythm that hardly makes sense to anyone else. The never serious, untalented with academics youngest child of a lineage of successful doctors, Seungsoo took a gamble with the entertainment industry and believes himself to have won big. But where his stage act is a success, his interpersonal relationships suffer – quick to love and even quicker to hate, practically a stranger to forgiveness of even the smallest off offences, Seungsoo can't help but hurt everyone he tries to guide to what he considers to be safety.

He's romantic, intrusive, enthusiastic, impulsive.

GIVEN NAME: Na Seungsoo. OTHER ALIASES: Sonny Na (english name). BIRTHDATE: 10.19.97. PROFESSION: Idol, music producer, choreographer. GROUP POSITIONS: lead vocalist, lead dancer, group producer. ETHNICITY: Korean. NATIONALITY: South Korean (Busan natural). FACE CLAIM: Kang Hyunggu.

FUKUNAGA HARUKI.

Coming from one of Japan's longest artistic driven families, a direct descendant of a long line of dancers, painters and classic musicians, Fukunaga Haruki was always expected to conquer the world. Now standing as a KArts drop out with an addition to highs and lows first, successful Idol second, Haruki can't see himself as anything but a projectile that failed on the launch path. He might be LOOPiN's most well known face, but that hasn't come without a price – as the keeper of secrets that can bring his entire company to ruin, he has to be compensated. But after years of pretending, his luck seems to have run out and the silent act has grown tired.

He's passionate, evasive, resourceful, mercurial.

GIVEN NAME: Fukunaga Haruki. BIRTHDATE: 09.22.98. PROFESSION: Idol, dancer, model. GROUP POSITIONS: main dancer, vocalist, visual, face of the group. ETHNICITY: Japanese. NATIONALITY: Japanese. FACE CLAIM: Takahashi Fumiya.

DYLAN HWANG / HWANG CHIHOON.

An only child born from a dreamy teenage affair in South Korea, Dylan Hwang was raised by his single mother and his grandparents in Santa Monica, California, unknowing of the identity of his father, unknowing of what to do with himself. Picking up his mom's long lost dream of living trought music, Chihoon started auditioning to entertainment companies in hopes to find some sort of enlightenment in fame, got a break of spirit instead – it seems that as long as he's got an eye open, he'll keep on being a quiet witness and attender of the worst the world has to offer.

He's selfless, repressed, attentive, paranoid.

GIVEN NAME: Hwang Chihoon. OTHER ALIASES: Dylan Hwang (english name). BIRTHDATE: 03.17.99. PROFESSION: Idol, singer-songwriter. GROUP POSITIONS: lead vocalist, songwriter, concept co-director (2023-). ETHNICITY: Korean. NATIONALITY: Korean-American. FACE CLAIM: Lee Changmin.

WU ZHIMING / OH JIMIN.

Born chinese, raised with an iron fist in Seoul, O.z has felt essentially split from a young age. Absorbing a stoicism from his executive father he still can't let go off, Zhiming can only be unapologetically himself trough his genre defying, highly unpopular music. He became an Idol out of spite, set to hate it, but found a new side of himself trought his stage persona and the A list world he's set in – one that the black and white sense of morality he's cultivated trought life makes O.z an odd man out on. It seems Zhiming doesn't ever get the comfort of being able to pick the good side of fame.

He's truthful, blunt, confident, contrarian.

GIVEN NAME: Wu Zhiming. OTHER ALIASES: O.z (stage name); Oh Jimin (korean name). BIRTHDATE: 03.08.99. PROFESSIONS: Idol, DJ, music producer. GROUP POSITIONS: main rapper, group producer. ETHNICITY: Chinese. NATIONALITY: South Korean. FACE CLAIM: Zhang Linghe.

WOO GYUJIN.

A once commercial kid on the rise, Woo Gyujin vanished from the spotlight in his tween years and came back with a brand new face, brand new body and a fully developed voice, an adult with a solid base built over the buried skeletons that were once in his closet. His inherited need for a long, quiet life of stability keeps crashing with his want to be famous and seen. Now integrated into a group filled with chaos addicts and missing pieces, mess might crawl its way into his new life and doom Gyujin once again if he doesn't do something to help close the open wounds of his bandmates.

He's adaptable, incitive, assertive, unstable.

GIVEN NAME: Woo Gyujin. BIRTHDATE: 01.11.99. PROFESSION: Idol, actor (formerly). GROUP POSITIONS: main vocalist, songwriter. ETHNICITY: Korean. NATIONALITY: South Korean. FACE CLAIM: Bae Jooyoung.

LEE HANJAE.

An extremely quiet child and an even more dismissible teenager, Lee Hanjae wouldn't dare to dream of the spotlight until it came offered to him in a once in a life opportunity. With an ease to art in it's many shapes budded for years while being the target of ill driven mismanagement, Hanjae is the new face being pushed, and to his own bewilderment, the public embraces him as an actor in a way that's foreign. Thriving on a new career path while his members seen close to reaching rock bottom, Hanjae can't make a single move – he's too afraid of what he might do if he ever let's himself reach for what he wants.

He's thoughtful, insecure, reserved, selfish.

GIVEN NAME: Lee Hanjae. BIRTHDATE: 04.02.00. PROFESSION: Idol, choreographer, actor. GROUP POSITIONS: main dancer, lead rapper. ETHNICITY: Korean. NATIONALITY: South Korean (Incheon natural). FACE CLAIM: Oh Seongmin.

XU JIAHANG.

The youngest son of a blockbuster movie director and Miss Chinese International 1989, J.J had fame promised to him as a birthright. Spoiled rotten in his early years, the world took no time beating him off his pedestal while making him look cruelty deep in the eyes once he became a teenager, making Jiahang develop a need to hide every inch of himself, turn into a doll to keep – no more. Fully aware of his worth once again, he wants in back into spotlight and the fun of adoration, and there's something not quite right about his ambition – it's a factor of deep change. But each step up the ladder only enhances the promise of a nasty fall.

He's loyal, cunning, understanding, overachiever.

GIVEN NAME: Xu Jiahang. OTHER ALIASES: J.J (stage name); Jason Xu (english name); Jay (nickname). BIRTHDATE: 12.10.00. PROFESSION: Idol, model. GROUP POSITIONS: sub rapper, sub vocalist, visual. ETHNICITY: Chinese. NATIONALITY: Chinese (Beijing natural, Hong Kong and Manila adapt). FACE CLAIM: Xue Bayi.

KIM HAEGON.

Kim Haegon is a time bomb shaped kid trapped inside the body of not quite enough famous, just turned legal adult. Terrified of abandonment even if it's a feeling too well known, Haegon attracts and keeps cruel company, all to avoid being alone with himself. Recently and forcedly divorced off all the relationships that kept him grounded to his childlike ways, Haegon wants maturity, and he wants it now – to be good in someone's eye, he's ready to beg and kill. The road to emotional recovery is a long one, and Haegon doesn't yet know how far his feet alone can take him.

He's intuitive, dependent, devoted, desperate.

GIVEN NAME: Kim Haegon. BIRTHDATE: 03.22.01. PROFESSION: Idol. POSITIONS: lead vocalist, lead dancer. ETHNICITY: Korean. NATIONALITY: South Korean (Seoul natural.) FACE CLAIM: Park Jihoon.

#&& ⠀ [ . . . ] hound on a hunt ⠀⸻ profiles .#fake kpop group #fictional idol community #kpop au #kpop fanfic #kpop oc #typos will be corrected tomorrow! ignore them for now!

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snowdropluck204 · 10 months

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Sweetness - Sweet Pea x Fem! Reader

Hello my lovelies! I'm not sure if this fandom is even alive anymore... at least not the Sweet Pea love, but I hope the people who find this story might like it? Just to make sure, Trigger Warning! For anyone who is triggered by the following; Death, illness, gang related activity, injury, guns or knives - Please read this book with caution, there will most likely be mentions of at least one of these in each chapter, but I will give a proper warning for any scenes that detail these events!

Thank you my lovelies (Also, I'm not sure when exactly the series takes place, so be gentle with my dates please!), and enjoy the chapter! Xxx __________________________

July 1999,

Dear diary,

I used to think that Riverdale was the safest place for me, Ricky always had my back, someone I could always trust, someone who loved me and that I adored. And now he's gone.

Ricky was a badass! He was an angel of death and was a big deal in the Serpents, he died protecting his friend! He was so young... He was in the hospital for days, I still think they could have saved him, they chose not to! They saw the snake on his shoulder and chose to give him the bare minimum help!!

Screw this town. Screw the Ghoulies. Screw the Northside. The Southside.

I can't help but feel selfish now. Thinking about myself and what I'm going to do with Peanut. Sure they were a surprise, but they were a welcome one. Ricky was so excited about you, little one. He would have spoiled you rotten.

I know that the Serpents would have taken care of us, F.P is definitely going to be named Godfather now, but they aren't Ricky. And everything in this damn town reminds me of him, of what he was. So I'm leaving. My parents are moving with us out of town, as far away as we can.

I love you so so much Peanut, and I'm hoping one day you'll be a nosy little shit like your dad and find these entries one day, it will be much less painful than telling you his story myself.

Until I meet you, Kathryn (aka mama)

________________________________

February 2000

Dear Ricky,

She's here. She's beautiful. Ten fingers and ten toes, I named her (y/n), the name you wanted, it just seemed perfect for her. I'm going to love her and protect her the way you would have. I've written to F.P, letting him know that he has a happy, healthy god-daughter. I wasn't convinced about him being her godfather, but it's a bit difficult to argue with you now, huh?

Don't think I'm going to let her forget how painful it was getting her out of me though! If this kid ever gives me sass, I'm going to tell her they nearly had to cut her out of me so she can zip it!

I wish you could see her, I was so worried when she first arrived, she didn't make a sound. She hasn't cried since. She just sort of scrunches up her face when she wants something, sort of the way you did when I refused your kisses.

I hope she winds up keeping your eye colour, the gorgeous (e/c). Most people who lose someone say they can't bear to look at others that look like their loved ones. But your eyes, were my everything. My slice of heaven. My oasis. She has my nose, I want her to have your eyes.

I love you Ricky,

Kathryn

________________________________

December 2015

Dear Diary,

It's been a while huh? Being a parent is a bit of a full time job I guess! But (y/n) is beginning to suspect that I'm hiding something from her, she sees me getting weaker, she can tell I'm going places without her. How am I supposed to tell her that I'm running off to the Oncology department a few times a week...?

I want to tell her, desperately. I hate hiding this from her, she's seen me getting weaker for years, she's been taking care of me, ditching school to make sure I'm okay for fuck's sake! She's my angel, she means everything to me.

I can't hide it from her any longer, I'm going to tell her tonight over dinner.

Wish me luck,

Kathryn

________________________________

August 2017

Dear Peanut,

I'm sorry it has to go this way, believe me, if I could have stayed longer I would have, but you wouldn't have wanted that. You need to live your life without having to worry about me, follow your dreams without me holding you back.

I love you so so much (y/n), but I think we both know its time for me. This is the hardest thing I have ever written, and I hope you can forgive me.

With this letter, I have left you a folder, it's just dumb legal bullshit really, but I think there are some things in there that you'll like. I know you found your dad's old recipe books, you and him were so alike my darling.

Hopefully, the stuff in the folder will help you, please don't mourn too long, live your life for me, for your dad.

I love you more than words can say.

Be a good girl (y/n).

Love mama

________________________________

Patient Name: Rick (l/n) Age: 24 Status: Deceased Reason for Admittance: Stab wound Cause of Injury: Gang Fight

Treatment: Patient was admitted with a stab between the second and third ribs (left) at approximately two AM. Patient was given steroids and antibiotics to avoid infection. The wound was more severe than originally believed, the left lung had been punctured. Patient was lost in surgery.

________________________________

Seeing all the memories that I spent the last month avoiding was harder than I had expected. If I thought it was difficult holding my mother's hand as she fought through the cancer and eventually as she passed away, I wasn't prepared for the feeling of resurfacing memories. Mama's lawyer had handed me a large brown folder, a solemn look on his face, struggling to think of something to say to the girl who was now an orphan.

I left the folder in a draw of my dresser after I'd got home, the house felt so empty without her around. Even when she was weak, my mama lit up the room she was in. She was happy and, as cliche and now untrue as it was to say, full of life. Now the house felt cold and dead. My mama was my best friend, my closest confidante, she hasn't been gone an hour and I was already so lost. The worst part was, when I felt this lost, I spoke to my mother.

I went to my mama's room, followed by our dog. I had found him in the park when I was younger, he was just a puppy, I begged and pleaded with mama to keep him, after a pretty big temper tantrum, she finally gave in. Sonic wasn't a puppy anymore, he was nine years old and huge! Mama liked him eventually, when he began exhibiting guarding behaviour, feeling more comfortable with him as a guard dog, a big Rottweiler cross that looked like her came straight from guarding Hades.

Sitting on her bed as carefully as I could, I thought about how strange it was, that everything still was the same, the day was a beautiful, blue sky, the house still looked the same. I contemplated opening the folder now, but it was too hard to think about. Instead, I curled up in the bed sheets, humming a lullaby my mama used to sing, until I fell asleep.

But now I was reading the files. It was a lot of suppressed pain that had suddenly bubbled its way to the surface. My heart felt like someone had taken a hammer to it, there was a photo album full of pictures of me and mama, even some of her and my dad, when they were in high school. I never knew my dad, now I knew why.

Mama had told me he had died, she had just never told me how. Now I knew, someone in a gang had murdered my father. But the diary entries mama had written, my dad was in a gang as well. He died, for another gang member. F.P Jones.

I'd seen the name in the folder too, he was listed as my legal guardian, my godfather, on my birth certificate. I'm not sure just how much I was interested in hunting this guy down, yes he was the person that my parents trusted enough to be my legal guardian, but he was also the person my father took a knife for...

Anyway, I began enjoying myself, looking through all of the pictures of my parents, I even smiled a few times at the pictures of mama and I. The smile faded into confusion when a few certificates and documents were mixed into the nostalgia. Leafing through the documents, I was shocked to find deeds. Specifically to my inheritance and to the house my parents had bought, before dad died. Mama did say she wanted to move away when he'd passed.

Away from Riverdale... ________________________________

The house was bigger than I had expected, a two story suburban dream house, sure it was a bit worse for wear, the wood panelling had chipped paint, some of the windows were so filthy I couldn't see through them and the porch was most definitely a health hazard, but that just meant I had something to distract myself with.

Unfortunately for the house, it would have to wait for some TLC, I was already on my way a few streets down, Sonic trailing behind me, to a separate building, one that my parents had left me money to be able to purchase. It was small, but I knew as soon as I'd seen it, I loved it. It had been my dream since I was a little girl to run my own bakery. I loved cooking and food as much as my father had seemingly.

Mama was right in her diary, I had found dad's old recipe books when I was five, I used a lot of the recipes to learn how to cook, and even more of them because they were claimed as healthy, I was a kid, I thought that because an adult deemed it good, it would make her better. It didn't, but I remember mama's face when I eventually fessed up about snooping through dad's stuff.

Dad had a lot of baked goods in his books, I even managed to tweak a few of them, but he never got to have a place of his own, I was looking forward to this. I would be dedicating my life to something I wanted to do, but also to my parents, forming a legacy I hoped they would be proud of.

My future bakery looked a lot worse than the house did, that was putting it lightly, the windows were smashed, glass was everywhere, the door was practically falling off its hinges and the bricks looked like they had been whacked with a battering ram! Although, the most confusing part about the building, was the old woman sitting on the bench outside, staring at the 'Sold' sign in the window of the door.

I walked up to the woman, cautiously, clearing my throat to avoid startling her, "Excuse me?" I asked, seeing her turn her head to face me, a small smile on her face.

"Oh, sorry dear," She began, struggling to get to her feet, I hurried to offer her a hand, Sonic herding around her knees. "Thank you, such a lovely girl! Oh, and dog!" I smiled at her, curious as to the people my age around here, she seemed surprised I offered to help her, what were the other teenagers like here?

"What were you doing sitting in the cold, all on your own?" I asked, trying not to sound too suspicious, the old woman sighed, staring up at the dilapidated building once more.

The woman smiled, wistful, "This used to be my husband's business." She told me, "He passed on quite long ago now, but he loved this place." She placed a hand lightly against the bricks, I smiled at the woman.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I replied, seeing her nodding in response, "Actually, I own this building now, I'm about to start working on it," I told her, hoping she wouldn't be upset with me.

To my surprise, she grinned widely, clapping her hands in excitement, "Oh, that's wonderful news! I'll be delighted to see the old place back to its former glory!" She cheered. "I'm Ruthie, but such a sweet soul like you can call me Granny, if you'd like, all the other kids in town do!"

I took her hand for a shake, shocked at how strong her grip was, for an old woman, she sure had some muscles! And that was the start of a very odd relationship between the two of us.

Granny was lovely, for the first few days, she would pop by to give me lunch and some hot chocolate, saying that I needed the sugar and some 'pep in my step', but then one day, she picked up a saw, beginning to saw planks for me to use. She helped a lot with the renovation of the bakery, we even kept the name that her husband had used for it, Ray's. We did modify it slightly, now it was Rays, as in 'Ray of Sunshine', but still remembering her husband, Raymond. ________________________________

With the place up and running, I had to force Granny to take a break, in return, we had to make a deal, she could have as many free bakery goodies she wanted, and she would cover the shifts I couldn't make because of school. I was so excited for this, today was the grand opening! Unlike in movies and TV shows, I didn't make a huge deal out of it, even if I was positively buzzing! I didn't deck the place out with banners and balloons, instead, I just flipped the sign on the door and went back to baking, I was gonna let the open windows bring people in.

I was kind of worried about the area, especially considering I'd left my scary teddy bear at home, Sonic would have just gotten stressed each time the door opened. But apparently the Southside of town had a pretty bad reputation, most of the place was pretty run down compared to the preppy, expensive Northside, and was riddled with gang activity...

It had been a couple of hours and I was getting bored! I let my eyes wander around the walls of Rays, the glossy, white brick walls reflecting the florescent lights. All the industrial ovens, mixers and fridges were pretty high-grade, but they weren't the things I loved the most.

Next to the coffee machine, were two framed pictures, one of my parents, happy in their high school days, the other, a black and white photo of Granny and Ray, happy in their own. I was brought out of my reverie by the timer on the oven, pushing off of the counter to the kitchen, pulling the cupcakes out of the oven, relishing in the sweet smell of freshly baked cake.

I felt my heart swell with excitement when I heard the bell above the door ringing, we finally had customers! Quickly, but carefully, cause it was blisteringly hot, I set down the tray of cupcakes on the metal decorating tables, wiping my hands on my apron.

Walking back around to the main shop, I saw three teenagers, probably around my age, two guys and a girl. The guys were staring at the display case, their eyes practically sparkling, it was rather strange to see. One of the boys was quite tall, leaning on the display case, the other was significantly shorter, pressing his hands to the front of the glass. The girl on the other hand was gazing around the room, smiling, her most outstanding feature was her bright pink hair, all three of them were decked out in leather jackets and flannel.

A relaxed smile made its way onto my face, "Hey you guys, what can I get ya?" I asked cheerfully, a bounce in my step. The guys hardly looked up from the display case, the girl shaking her head at them disapprovingly.

"Hey, never seen this place before," The girl said, nodding at the door. I smiled and nodded understandingly.

"Yeah, we only just opened today! We've spent the last few weeks renovating this place!" I told her, offering her a hand to shake. "I'm (y/n), sort of new to town," I told her.

She took my hand, strong grip, something that most of the people here seemed to have. "Toni, congrats on opening! Sorry about those two, usually they're not this rude... Shorty is Fangs, the giant is Sweet Pea." She said, causing me to giggle.

"It's cool, I remember going to places like this when I was a kid and being starstruck by all the pretty cakes, not to mention the fact that there were way to many options!" I joked, happy when Toni laughed with me.

Seeming to wake up from the glutton induced trance they were in, Sweet Pea and Fangs looked up, only now realising there was a second party in the room.

The shorter guy, Fangs, looked at me in awe, "Did you make all these?" He asked, pointing at the goodies, I nodded in response, proud that they seemed to like the look of them, I only hoped that they liked the taste.

"Sure did! Would you guys like to try something, no charge! I need some guinea pigs!" I said, giving a cheeky smirk. The boys shared an excited look, fully prepared to say yes, when Toni interrupted them.

"You only just opened, we can't just take from your stock, at least let us pay for them!" She protested, I smiled kindly at her, it was very sweet of her to consider the business aspect, it was pretty important, but it wasn't why I started this! I wanted people to enjoy my food!

"No worries! You guys are the first people to come in today, well, ever! It would be good to have some feedback about some stuff, if it really bothers you, then feel free to come back another time and buy something? For now! I'll set up a sample plate!" I told her, not giving her time to argue.

I put together a large plate of lots of different things, cupcakes, cookies, pies, tarts, cakes, pastries and some drinks, bringing them over to one of the tables on the shop floor. I'll be honest, it was rather funny seeing these edgy teens sitting in my pastel bakery, I offered them seats before taking one myself.

Sweet Pea and Fangs were practically giddy, getting their hands smacked by Toni as they tried to grab some of the sugary treats. "Hey! If (y/n) wants feedback, you can't just shovel it into your faces! Have some manners, damn who raised you two?" She muttered.

I chuckled, "It's fine, go ahead, maybe start with the cookies? They should still be warm from the oven!" I told them, pointing at the chocolate chip cookies, a simple classic.

They each took a bit, their eyes widening as they bit into the warm, gooey chocolate. "Oh my god." Fangs muttered, his mouth full.

"These are amazing," Sweet Pea added, taking another bite.

I clapped my hands slightly, "Yay! I'm so happy you guys like them," Toni nodding along, giving me some info that was actually really useful. We let the boys keep trying the goodies as we settled into conversation.

"So why did you and your family move to Riverdale, we're not exactly a tourist destination," Toni joked, gazing out of the window at the run down streets of the Southside, "Your bakery is probably the nicest thing to be in this side of town for decades..."

My face soured into a sad smile, "Um, it's just me actually, my parents have both passed away, but they used to live in Riverdale before I was born, they left me a house in the Southside." I told her quietly, looking down as tears began too well in my eyes, already beginning to flood my face. I let out a choked laugh, "I'm so sorry, I never cry, this is so strange..."

I wiped my face, feeling my cheeks burn, I can't believe one of the rare times I cry and it's in public. Hearing the chairs scrape against the floor, I thought Toni, Sweet Pea and Fangs were saving me the humiliation and leaving me to my tears. Instead, I felt a gentle hand cup my own and sudden large hands resting on my shoulders and knee.

Looking up confused, I saw a soft smile on Toni's lips, as well as Sweet Pea, kneeling beside my chair, his hand on my knee, leading me to believe that it was Fangs' hands on my shoulders.

Sweet Pea, though he wasn't smiling, had a soft look in his eyes, "All of us have lost someone, we get it. You don't have to be strong all the time, we got your back now." He told me, keeping his voice quiet. I looked into his deep brown eyes, wiping my cheeks and smiling at him.

"Thanks, you guys are being so kind to me, you don't even know me," I chuckled.

They laughed with me, "I mean, you gave us free sweets and you don't know us," Toni joked. We once again, fell into relaxed conversation, the guys joining in this time, whilst still snacking on pastries.

Fangs looked over at me, "So, if I can ask... Who were your parents? If they lived here, maybe someone knew them?" He asked, cautiously, probably trying not to set me off again.

"Rick and Kathryn (l/n)." I told them, playing with the straw in my drink, noting how quiet the three had gotten.

Looking up, I saw them all looking at me like they'd seen a ghost, "What?" I asked.

Sharing glances, they seemed to be mentally arguing about who was going to tell me.

"Spit it out, you guys, I thought we were friends now?" I muttered, trying to guilt them into just telling me.

Sweet Pea sighed, "We know your parents, or really, we know of them..." I looked at him confused, gesturing for him to continue.

"Your dad is a Serpent legend! He died saving F.P, he's kind of the boss now. His picture's been in pretty much every Serpent hangout since we before we all joined." He finished.

I smiled at them, clearly not the reaction they were expecting.

"Thank you, for keeping his memory alive, I'd love to meet some of the Serpents that knew him, I only found out what happened to him about a month ago, mama didn't really like talking about it."

Once again, the conversation started up, but, once again, was interrupted. This time, by Sonic, barking outside the bakery, freaking out the Serpents into standing up, "It's okay, he's my dog! Something must have happened, I left him in the house..." I told them, grabbing the keys to the bakery and rushing out to follow Sonic back to the house, Toni, Sweet Pea and Fangs following close behind.

________________________________

So I'm going to end the chapter there! I hope you guys enjoyed it! I based a few characters off of my family... My mum and dog for example... Anyway! I love you guys, see you soon, hopefully! Xxx

#riverdale #sweet pea x reader #riverdale x reader #x reader #cute #love #romance #fanfiction #gangs #injury #death #toni topaz #fangs fogarty #sweet pea

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keerysfreckles · 1 year

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when it snows, i think of you - calum ross

sypnosis: you were away for your junior year of college, missing your boyfriend calum. your winter break was soon approaching and buying a plane ticket back to your home town was the best idea you've had in a long time.

warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n, kissing, small amount of cursing, small make out scene.

lower case intended.

winter was always y/n's favorite part of the year. seeing the fresh white snow on the ground, hearing christmas music playing softly almost everywhere she went.

however this years winter has been her least favorite for only one reason; she hasn't seen her boyfriend since august 8th. she was given a two week break from college due to a pipe leakage in the dorm rooms.

it's now december 23rd, and y/n was currently on a bus to the local airport. she was getting to spend christmas with her boyfriend.

she missed her boyfriend. she missed his scottish accent, his hazel eyes and brown hair, the way his arms would wrap around her waist when they hugged, the birthmark under his left eye, and the way he would always peck her lips after they already shared a kiss. she missed everything about him.

oblivious to his girlfriends oncoming arrival, he was at his parents house, helping them set up last minute christmas decorations and bake sugar cookies with his younger brother.

surprisingly calum's parents are fond of y/n, they absolutely adore her. they haven't seen their son this happy in a while.

calum's mother was standing in the corner of the kitchen, on her phone receiving texts from y/n. they consisted of two texts asking the woman the whereabouts of her boyfriend.

once y/n made her way off the plane she immediately texted calum's mother, not wanting to spoil the surprise to her boyfriend. now she was on her way to calum's parents' house.

y/n had rented a car for the time she would be in her home town, and for the fact calum's mother couldn't pick her up (again, would ruin the surprise.)

y/n left her small carry on bag in the car, and had excitedly made her way to the front porch or the ross household. she always loved how cozy every aspect of their house looked.

letting out a small breath, she knocked on the door three times. everyone inside the house shared confused looks, except calum's mom, who hurridly went and opened the front door.

"oh calum! it's for you!" his mother says brightly, letting y/n step in and take off her winter jacket.

"i didn't order anything did i?" calum walks into the entry way of the house, but his question was answered when he saw his girlfriend standing in front of him.

"y/n!" he jogs to give her the hug she's been dying to have, "what are you doing here?" he questions.

"i really wanted to come see you for the holidays," y/n smiles, "my parents said i can even spend christmas day with you."

calum's smile widens, before leaning in and kissing his girlfriend passionately on the lips. he was about to peck her lips once more but the couple was interupted by calum's little brother wanting to show y/n the cookies they had made for santa.

christmas morning had come quicker than anyone in the house anticipated. before they knew it, calum's little brother was going into everyone's room and waking them up to open presents.

calum and y/n woke up confused, at the loud sound of calum's door being knocked on at the early hour of 6:30 am.

"merry christmas my love," calum whispers, before kissing y/n softly on the lips.

"merry christmas to you too," y/n replies, holding her boyfriends face in her hands.

"do we have to go downstairs?" calum jokes, "i'd rather just lay here all day with you."

y/n laughs, before getting up out of the bed, holding her hand out for calum, "yes we have to get up," she replies, "your brother won't like it if we stay up here hiding in your room."

calum gets up from his bed, then kisses y/n one more time before grabbing her hand and mentally preparing himself for the holiday festivites that awaits.

one and a half hours, two pots of coffee, 37 presents and a batch of cinnamon rolls later, christmas morning has come to an end. calum's brother was busy taking all his new toys out of their packaging, while y/n and calum were sitting together on the love seat in the living room.

"oh, i have one more gift for you," calum states, while setting his coffee cup down. he stands from his seat, and grabs y/n's hand to lead her back up to his bedroom.

"i made it while you were away," calum starts, grabbing a vhs tape from his desk, "it's not much but i hope you like it."

y/n laughs, "of course i'm going to like it calum, you made it," she smiles, while sitting on her boyfriends' bed.

calum puts the vhs tape into the box under his tv, and presses play. he sits next to y/n on his bed and grabs her right hand, their fingers immediately intertwining with one another.

"hi my love," calum's voice can be heard from his tv. he's sitting in front of a blank wall, the camera in front of him with his hair a little messed up. almost looking as if he just woke up.

"i know you're away at college at the moment, but i don't think i've ever missed you this much. i don't know if it's because i saw you in august, or because it's winter time which is your favorite time of the year," he pauses. "whatever it may be, i miss you."

he takes another small pause, "i don't know if it's snown for you up at college but i hope it has been, because you love the snow."

"i remember you getting so happy last year when it snowed here. you practically begged me to go outside with you to build a snowman," he laughs. "after being together for almost three years i've never expected you to be so excited over snow," he lets out another laugh.

"a lot of different things reminded me of you while you were away. like when my brother and i made the christmas cookies yesterday it reminded me of you, because you love sugar cookies. or when my mom and i went by a flower shop once, i saw your favorite flowers."

calum looks beside him to see small tears brimming y/n's eyes. "i hope those are happy tears," he whispers.

y/n nods and laughs quietly before wiping her eyes, "they definitely are."

calum's tape continues, "it started snowing here, i think last week. i remember looking outside my bedroom window and seeing everything covered in snow. subconsciously you came to my mind."

he takes a deep breath before going on, "so when it snows, i think of you."

y/n wipes under her eyes again, barely containing her tears that are spilling.

"oh, love," calum comforts her by pulling her into his chest and kissing the top of her head. "you're alright."

the couple look back at the tv, seeing calum smiling slightly, "merry christmas love, or just whenever you see this tape i hope you enjoy it. i love you."

the tape pauses, meaning it's over. y/n's still in her boyfriends' chest, hugging him tightly.

calum laughs, "i made you speechless didn't i?"

y/n nods before picking her head up, locking eyes with calum, "yeah, yeah you did," she laughs with him.

calum wipes y/n's tears with his thumbs on each side of her face, before pulling her in and kissing her lips. y/n's hands go to his waist, deepening the kiss.

y/n pulls away, only to be kissed once again.

"you're going to make it harder for me to go back to college next week babe," y/n laughs again, holding calum's hands.

"why don't you just stay here? i mean you only have one and half years left, you could always transfer," calum suggests, earning small laughs from the two of them.

"i wish i could, i really do," y/n starts, "but i don't think my parents would like idea of you holding me hostage instead of finishing school."

calum sighs quietly before pulling y/n into his arms again, making the girl laugh once more. he kisses her head again, while the two sit there in a comfortable silence.

calum looked out his window from his spot on his bed, immediately seeing the white fluffy substance his girlfriend has loved so much. again, subconsciously he begins thinking of the girl in his arms.

#calum ross #wednesday #rowan laslow #calum x reader #calum x y/n #xavier thorpe #ajax petropolus #tyler gaplin #wednesday addams #wednesday boys

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wildbornsiren · 7 months

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Hi Hello.

It's been a minute hasn't it? I originally wanted to take a short break, and that's just spiraled into an extended hiatus. Thank you to everyone who has checked in, welcome to the new people who have stumbled upon my corner of the internets, and a massive thank you and hug to everyone who has reblogged anything I've written. I've been in a massive funk, and under some immense stress. Couple updates: I got a big girl job!! Which is a huge weight off of my shoulders, and I'm really excited and terrified and nervous all at once. I'm no longer formally doing kinktober. I had started in August pre-writing, but things just kept piling on, and I didn't have any time to write--that also carried over into September. I'll still write the prompts, but I'm not doing it in any order at all. I'm not putting pressure on myself. I had to cancel going to Rose City Comicon because of said job, and I'm still feeling like an ass about it. Had a couple of health issues, but they're on the mend. Nothing serious. I'm traveling cross-country for the first time (I'm a West Coast girlie) to attend the wedding of a friend I've had for 20 years. And in the process, getting to meet said friend, and two others in person for the first time since we started role playing together waaaay back in the days of livejournal. I'm excited, and so fucking nervous. TL/DR: I've been gone, I'm trying to around more. I miss you all, I love you all and HI. xo Shells.

#shit shelly says #shelly in the wild #update

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sophieswundergarten · 6 months

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MBS Secret Garden AU!!!

Very excited about this one. It's been spinning in my brain for a very long time. (Like. Seriously, guys. It's been since before August)

Constance Contraire is dropped off at a train station, where she is presently picked up by a house keeper who dresses predominantly in yellow and introduces herself as "Number Two". Constance asks why that's her name, and Number Two refuses to answer, instead explaining to her about what her stay with her uncle will be like.

Mr. Curtain is a very well-respected man, but he is also very busy and makes it a point to stay out of the public eye. She herself has never seen the man. And Constance will not be entering his wing of the house for any reason. Any. Reason. At all.

Constance scoffs at this, but acknowledges her uncle's wishes. ("acknowledges")

Once they get to the house, she sees a melancholy man standing outside, watching as she and Number Two enter. Number Two explains that this is Milligan, the gardener. There are a few staff members around the manor, but she should meet them in due time. For now, all she needs to know is that Number Two herself is head of all internal affairs of the household, and Milligan is in charge of everything outside and on the grounds.

Constance goes to sleep that night very irritated, and wakes up the next day to find a strange person in her room.

She glares at this woman and demands to know what she's doing there. The young woman introduces herself as Rhonda, and says she helps out with cleaning and such. She explains that she just came in to ensure that everything was set up alright for Constance, as a new hire is going to take over helping her after today.

Constance imperiously glares at Rhonda the whole time she's moving around the room, saying nothing, but Rhonda just laughs and says she knows someone who would like her. Then Rhonda leaves and in bounces the newly hired staff member, who was actually given a position just because of Constance's arrival.

She introduces herself straight off as Kate "The Great Weather Machine" and sticks out a hand for Constance to shake. Constance refuses the hand, scrutinizing Kate. She demands Kate help her get dressed, and Kate balks at the command, asking why on earth a girl as old as Constance can't dress herself.

Constance rather defensively explains that she never had to before. When Kate asks why, the prim response is that she was raised by wolves in the Yukon, and they had no use for buttons.

Kate takes this about as well as you'd expect, and tells Constance that while she'll help this time, the younger girl really needs to get used to doing this herself.

Once Constance is dressed, Kate drags her to go eat breakfast. Constance snarkily asks why her uncle hasn't come to see her yet, and Kate dismissively claims he's probably busy. Constance complains about her breakfast, and Kate is incredulous at how picky she's being. She tells Constance that not everyone has people who will just take them in and give them whatever they want. This gives Constance pause, but then Kate's off again, saying that Constance should go get some fresh air.

Unsurprisingly, the small girl is disgusted by this suggestion. Kate pulls her along anyway, and starts doing flips and cartwheels along the grass. Constance decides to go exploring on her own, leaving Kate behind as she wanders through the maze of walls and smaller garden plots blocked off from the outside.

As she gets further into things, she finds a skinny boy in a large gardener's hat. Sticky explains that he's sort of apprenticing? With the head gardener, in that he just showed up one day and was examining plants with a very accurate eye and so they offered him a job.

Constance makes a comment about her uncle apparently taking in a lot of strays, and Sticky winces at this, but Kate comes running up at this moment, having noticed Constance had disappeared.

At some point Kate lets slip about a walled up garden, and Constance immediately demands to know about it. Sticky shrugs and says if it isn't something anyone talked about it probably should be left alone. Of course, Constance can't stand this, and stomps her foot and says that if she's living there then she should have the right to know.

Kate and Sticky exchange a concerned glance and quickly attempt to redirect her. Sticky mentions that they'd have to go ask the Head Gardener, and the fear in his voice about disturbing the man is enough to distract the girls.

So it goes for a while, with Constance being dragged around by Kate and begrudgingly learning new things from Sticky, until one day Number Two asks for Kate to help her go get some things from town.

As they are leaving, Number Two tells Constance her uncle wants to speak with her, and directs her to his office. Curtain is sitting in shadows, having not turned the lights on (Because he's dramatic and weird) and awkwardly asks Constance how she's doing. Constance immediately launches into a list of things she find distasteful about the manor, from the decor to the fact that there is a seemingly ridiculous lack of books.

This startles Curtain, and he asks if she would like books. She thinks it over before agreeing, and stating her desire for several books of poetry, of varying complexity. Curtain seems put off by this, and dismisses her.

Later, Constance is wandering outside on her own, and sees a blue jay digging around for beetles. She's seen this particular blue jay before, hanging around the gardens and even seeming to peer into some of the manor's windows sometimes. In fact, it had woken her up this morning tapping at the glass.

As she looks closer, she finds that the bird has unearthed a key

Constance pockets the key right as Sticky shows up, commenting that he has also seen the bird quite a lot. Constance follows him around for the rest of the afternoon, asking questions about every plant she can think of in an attempt to annoy him, but the boy has an apparently inexhaustible wealth of knowledge on the subject.

When she's run out of questions, Sticky tells her he has to go check in with the other staff to see if he's done for the day, and Constance hurries inside and tucks the key away in the back of one of her drawers to hide it. Kate comes back and convinces Sticky to come eat dinner in the house with them, and he hesitantly agrees.

The three children are talking and discussing new things to try tomorrow when an eerie, whistling call echoes through the halls. Constance immediately stills to listen, while Sticky and Kate begin to get on edge. Kate loudly begins talking about the possibility of adding a hen house to the property, but Constance shushes her, whispering a few seconds later to ask what the noise was. Kate fumbles for an explanation until Sticky blurts out that it's the wind pushing against the gaps in the outer walls, and also would you look at the time? They had better be going now so Constance could sleep.

The two older kids skedaddle off, and Constance stays up for a while, listening to the ghostly sounds. She notices that they happen frequently, but she can never quite pinpoint where it's coming from, as every time she even considers sneaking around Number Two is somehow there, and tells her to go back to bed.

A little while later, Constance is outside again (Although she's slightly less resistant to it now) when another boy comes walking up to the manner grounds. Kate immediately flips off of her handstand and tackle hugs him.

She then pulls the boy along, introducing him to Constance as Reynie. Apparently, Reynie, Sticky, and Kate know each other because they live together in a house not too far from the manner, and Reynie came to visit them at work. He brought along a basket, and Constance assumes it has food, but no! It's got a cat :)

Reynie lets Seymour out of the basket and sits with him in the grass, listening to Kate and Sticky talk. Constance eventually begins to let her guard down and goes to sit by Reynie, who turns out to be very nice.

That evening, as Kate is getting ready to leave, Constance asks how it works with her and the other kids, since they aren't really family. Whose parents are there? Do they just have to look after themselves?

Kate looks surprised, and explains that they are family. Just because they aren't genetically related doesn't mean they don't love each other. Actually, the adults they live with aren't biologically related either. They are a family because they choose to love each other.

Kate has a sad little aside to herself where she grumbles that being related to someone doesn't necessarily mean that they'll love you, anyways. Constance thinks this over, and is considering asking her what she means, but then the strange sounds start again and Kate loudly wishes Constance goodnight and practically sprints toward the door.

On this night, though, Constance can't sleep.

She eventually decides to go looking for the source of the noise so she can make it stop once and for all. She wanders the halls, and eventually stumbles upon a secret hallway hidden behind a (fake) bookcase.

The sounds are getting louder, and eventually she comes upon a bedroom. Inside, a teenage boy is sitting on his bed, quietly cooing and humming to himself. He starts as she enters, immediately grabbing a pillow as if to defend himself.

Constance scoffs, asking why he was making so much noise. The boy looks sheepish, squeezing the pillow to his chest and ducking his head. He explains that he was trying to mimic the birds he heard outside, and he thought he was out of the way enough that by doing it at night it wouldn't bother anyone.

Constance tells him that it has been bothering her, and asks why he doesn't just go do this outside. The boy gets uncomfortable, saying his dad won't let him.

With a sense of everything coming together, Constance asks if his dad couldn't be Mr. Curtain, could he? SQ is surprised that she knew that, and introduces himself as Shepard Quaid Curtain.

Constance nods with a severe finality, explaining that they are cousins.

She tells SQ how she was technically the ward of Curtain's sister, though she never really took the time to spend with the girl she was legally responsible for.

Constance shrugs it off, says that as she didn't really know the woman it didn't matter to her when she disappeared. SQ looks sad, though, and asks if she doesn't sometimes wish that there was someone to look out for her.

The little girl scoffs at this, and asks him if he doesn't wish he could leave his room sometimes. SQ mutters that he can leave his room, just not necessarily his father's wing. Constance takes this as a challenge, and tells him they are going to go exploring.

She drags SQ out into the hallway, and the two of them spend a couple hours creeping around and being silly kids in the empty rooms. Eventually, they both begin to get tired, so Constance says goodnight and heads back to her room.

The next day she can't wait to tell the other kids about the hidden boy she found, but she swears them all to secrecy first. Reynie, Sticky, and Kate share a wary glance while this is going on, but Constance is adamant that she wants to talk to this boy. Eventually, Kate comes around to the idea, saying she knew they weren't supposed to go in that part of the house but not that there was another kid there. She and Constance start plotting how to get him out of the manor.

The boys try to warn them against this, but Kate and Constance are very determined. Anyway, as they're discussing things, Kate starts doing her regular thinking handstands and then suddenly tumbles out of it, crashing into a wall. As the others rush to check on her, they discover a secret door behind the vines and leaves Kate's fall pushed aside.

Constance produces the key and together the four of them enter. It turns out to be a wild little garden, overgrown and very messy. There are all kinds of strange and unusual plants there, and they have all grown together in a messy thicket.

As Sticky begins examining and identifying the plants, Reynie notices that the blue jay has a nest in the singular tree standing in the middle of the garden. Kate climbs the try and announces that there are eggs in the nest.

Constance declares that they need to take over caring for the garden, as obviously no one else is doing it. The other three readily agree, and they begin working on helping the garden as best as they can.

Most nights Constance still visits SQ and they explore inside the house, as she goads him into going further and further from his room. Eventually, she begins introducing him to the others, and while those three had heard various different things about why they weren't allowed into that wing of the house, they all get along really well.

One night, Constance has almost convinced SQ to come look at the garden with her. She's been telling him about it for weeks and Sticky has been helping her look up pictures of the plants in some of the books SQ has.

As she excitedly tells him about it once again, she realises that it's gotten very late. SQ assures her that no one comes to check on him until late in the morning, and she falls asleep leaning against him on the bed.

However, this time Curtain has just gotten back from a trip and he decides to go check on SQ first thing in the morning. He is furious when he learns that Constance has not listened to him, and though SQ tries to defend her Curtain shuts him down.

Constance gets into a huge argument with Curtain, and it ends with her storming out. She runs into Kate and explains the whole thing, near tears. Kate decides she's taking the little girl back to her house, so everything can cool down a bit. She tells Rhonda (Who approves) and the two start walking.

Kate keeps up light, distracting chatter the whole time, and though Constance still feels angry at Curtain and hurt on behalf of SQ, she calms down a bit. When they arrive at the crooked, ramshackle little house, the door is opened by none other than Mr. Benedict.

Constance is upset for a moment, and the other kids can't figure out why, but she enters anyway, and, after seeing him interact with the other kids, deduces that this is definitely not the same man as Curtain. She keeps these thoughts to herself and has some tea with Mr. Benedict and the other kids (As well as Miss Perumal and Moocho) and they talk over the whole story.

Mr. Benedict listens sympathetically and offers his advice, even asking if they would like him to come and talk to Curtain, as he himself is a well-respected researcher and maybe he can get Curtain to give the matter some thought.

So, all of the kids and Mr. Benedict head back to the manor. Number Two and Rhonda are waiting for them, as they were worried about Constance, and after checking on her they give Mr. B and the kids hugs. It's explained that before they got jobs at the manor the two young women lived with Mr. Benedict too.

They attempt to warn him off trying to speak to Mr. Curtain, but right at that moment SQ comes barreling down the stairs, followed quickly by his dad.

SQ stops when he sees Constance, and then does a double take upon seeing Mr. Benedict.

Mr. Benedict does not care, however, because he, of course, is looking at Curtain. His brother.

The two immediately get into a very emotional argument, and SQ quietly explains to the others that this is his dad, and the two of them had gotten into an argument because SQ was scared that Curtain had chased Constance off.

Eventually, the two brothers are able to figure themselves out, and Nicholas gives Curtain a huge hug. They break apart to explain the entire story to the children, and reveal that Curtain had been friends with SQ's parents, but when they died he blamed himself and hid away from everything. (This also has to do with him being "abandoned" as a small child and wanting to protect his kid)

Nicholas makes a point that SQ can't be kept safe forever, and apologises again to his brother. Constance takes this moment to pipe up and ask about the garden. Curtain is surprised that they know about it, but agrees that they should look at it.

AND THEN MILLIGAN

Milligan sees Kate and it turns out he has amnesia from something completely unrelated to Curtain because I am so tired and I don't even know anymore I'm sorry

And they enter the Secret Garden!!! And it's beautiful!!! And SQ gets to see the birds!!! And it's great :)

#Guys this has taken ages #I really wanted to do it justice #But I also don't want it to live in my Drafts forever #SO HERE #I hope it's....#Something

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