#the wallpapers are photographs taken by me lately !!!

[jeonstellate]

timestamp: photograph

it’s 12:51 pm when jeonghan finally sees the scrapbook you made for him.

๑彡 yoon jeonghan x gender neutral!reader

๑彡 slice of life!au — character death — angst

๑彡 paragraph format — 0.6K words

masterlist

[gif’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

๑彡 this was supposed to be a quick “wtv” nonsense and yet this still took me ages for some reason [*insert clown emoji*]. i hope y’all enjoy, anw <3

"Take a picture, it’ll last longer."

Yoon Jeonghan would always tell you that whenever he caught you staring for a second too long. You never meant to linger your eyes on him, but he somehow always caught you nevertheless.

Instead of constantly defending yourself, you opted to comply to his suggestion — by purchasing a polaroid camera and ensuring that you always had it with you whenever you spent time with him. Thus, as a result, you had collected a scrapbook full of his photographs — some with his knowledge, the rest candidly taken.

Jeonghan knew you had an album filled with polaroids of him, since you had nonchalantly told him so one day when he asked what you had done with all the photos you had taken. Unfortunately, he had not had the chance to see the photo album in question for himself — mostly because you had claimed that you were not done decorating it just yet.

He figured he would see the scrapbook eventually, since you were bound to finish sooner or later and ergo would boast about your artwork then.

He just never expected that particular day to arrive like this: Gloomy. Rainy. Incessant.

And, worst of all, without you.

"[First name] wanted you to have this," the man that introduced himself as your brother handed him a thick book with a blank cover.

Proceeding as though his choice of words did not have an impact on him, Jeonghan changed the orientation of his hold to be more comfortable — just for a neatly folded letter to slip out.

Yoon Jeonghan, it read.

If you’re reading this, it means one of two things: either I survived the surgery or I didn’t. While I sincerely hope the situation is the former, if my brother was the one that handed this to you . . . I’m sorry.

I’m sorry you had to find out this way.

He could not find the strength to read on after that.

You were not his best friend, although you were a close one. Nevertheless, even if you were both at the point of your lives where the people you grew up alongside with follow drastically diverge life paths, at drastically different speeds, he never thought yours would just . . . end.

Yes, you were not his best friend, but there was still pain with the shock brought by the news.

It was a miracle Jeonghan found the strength to move, much less have the courage to finally flip through the scrapbook you left of him.

His emotions were in disarray, as though he was in a rollercoaster that he did not want to ride. His emotions were building up to an unknown with each flip, until he eventually reached a certain page that made his heart drop.

Like some of the previous pages, there was only one polaroid. Unlike all of the previous pages, however, the caption that accompanied that particular picture of him read: the moment I realized I love you.

Jeonghan suddenly felt everything. The emotions that hid themselves within the depths of his being, then ignored to preserve what is— was. The emotions that built up after your brother delivered the news. The regret of being too late.

And then came the realization.

He should have listened to his own words and took pictures of you more, maybe then he would not have been left to solely rely on his homescreen wallpaper to remind him what you looked like in the years to come.

Had he done that, maybe then Jeonghan would not have a blurry candid photo of you as his only memorabilia of how you looked like.

#yoon jeonghan x reader #jeonghan x reader #seventeen x reader #yoon jeonghan imagines #jeonghan imagines #seventeen imagines #yoon jeonghan scenarios #jeonghan scenarios #seventeen scenarios #yoon jeonghan oneshots #jeonghan oneshots #seventeen oneshots #yoon jeonghan #jeonghan #seventeen

[pink-tonic]

Who Needed You Anyway?🔪

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Warnings: None

Text message labels:

Bold = Ayato

Blue text = Taro

I wake up to the sun's bright light on my face. I turn away from my window to avoid the light. I look around my room until my eyes land on my clock. It's early in the morning, and I need to get ready.

It's already Thursday.

I actually need to go to school this time. I skipped out twice already, and I can't do it again. Plus, I have plans with Aso after school.

I go to grab my phone, and when I turn it on, I'm met with my wallpaper of Taeko. I frown at the wallpaper.

When I look at her I feel so...dissatisfied. I don't feel happiness, I don't feel love, I don't feel anything positive. Just a few days ago, I was so attracted to her. She was everything to me. But now I don't even want to see her.

It's not hatred. No, it's not that at all. I just don't care for her anymore.

I would turn off my phone, but a text message from Taro catches my attention.

We need to talk.

This isn't one of his usual text messages, this one seems more serious. And I can't help but feel a bit of fear. I've never felt this way before. I'm actually scared for once...

I don't like this feeling.

'What?' Is what I respond with, hoping that it's nothing too serious.

I don't think we should be friends anymore.

I'm a bit surprised by how fast he responds, given that he sent it late last night.

Why?

It's because I feel that you're not making an effort to keep this friendship going.

Okay.

I hope you understand.

I leave the messaging app and close my phone. I let out a sigh in frustration.

I really did mess up.

But who really needs him? It's not like Taro did anything good for me. I only had him around because (Y/n) drifted away from me. (Y/n) was a better friend anyway. Taro was so boring. Always having his head buried in a book, not even caring to start a conversation with me.

He was useless anyway.

I take my blankets off of me, and I get out of bed. My feet met the cold, hard wood flooring, but I get up and make my way over to my corkboard. The corkboard is filled with pictures of Taeko. Clear shots, blurry shots, upclose, and far away pictures. It's filled with every picture I've taken of her. Red strings are scattered around the board, and a few of them even take the shape of hearts.

After work would end, I would come home and look at this and admire it. Taking in her features and all my hard work, but now I only see it as a waste of energy.

With anger, I snatch one of the pictures off the corkboard. It ends up ripping, and the pin holding it in place falls to the ground.

I continue to rip the pictures off the corkboard and the red strings, too. When I'm done, my bedroom floor is covered with pieces from the photographs, pins, and red string.

I walk away from the corkboard and leave the room.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

For the rest of the day, I avoid both of the Yamada siblings. I don't want to see either of them. I try my best to make it through the day, so I can go to the club.

Luckily, Taro made it easy for me and switched his seat in the classes I have with him. He would usually sit next to me, but he switched his seat, so he sits somewhere else now.

At least he did something right for once.

Finally, the last bell rings and I can now go to my club.

I make my way outside and head straight to the changing room. I go inside and head to my locker. I change into my gym uniform, but as I'm taking off my shirt, I hear someone.

"Hey, Ayato!" Aso greets me. He walks over to his locker and starts to change, too.

"Hey," I greet him back. I put my uniform in my locker and close it.

"You still remember our plans, right?" He asks me as he takes off his clothes and reaches into his locker to get out his gym uniform.

"Yes, I do."

"Cool! I'll see you after we're done."

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"Alright, Ayato!" Aso yells out, running over to me and wrapping an arm over my shoulders. The force almost trips me over, but I'm able to balance myself.

"Where should we go? I didn't actually think I would make it this far," he admits to me with a nervous laugh, "I thought you would turn my invitation down right away."

I ignore his statement and question further where we are going.

"Oh! Right, right. Let me think...," Aso starts to think, but it looks like he has no idea where to go, "Hmmm... honestly it beats me. Let's see where our legs take us." He shrugs after his statement and takes the lead.

We walk out of the school, and we start to make our way into the town. I'm hoping he isn't planning on going into a store since there isn't anything new.

I keep following Aso, and we go over to the railing that's overlooking the sea. It's starting to get dark, and the stars and moon are starting to take their place in the sky.  He leans over the railing and looks over it.

"Woah, I forgot how close we are to the sea. I kind of want to swim," he comments as he watches the different boats moving along the blue ocean.

I notice Aso looks over to a pair of binoculars that are placed facing out towards the ocean. I can see an idea go through his head as he approaches it.

"Look at this, Ayato!" He exclames as he points at the binoculars, "Do you want to look into it?"

I give him a nod, and he starts to smile.

"It only costs 300 yen," he states. I then see him rummage through his uniform pockets, and he pulls out a few coins. "I'll go first."

He slides the coins into the slot of the machine, and he is now able to use it. Aso is too tall, so he has to lower himself down a little.

This isn't very interesting, but Aso seems to be really interested by what he sees. He lets out a few 'Wow's and 'Woah's.

His time eventually runs out, and he backs away and stands up straight.

"You should try it, Ayato!" He encourages me.

I give in and rummage through pockets for any coins. I eventually do find some, and I walk over to the machine. I insert the coins in, and I lower myself to see through it.

At first, it's not very interesting since I get a zoomed in version of what I regularly see, so I'm just seeing a lot of the ocean and fewer boats. I move the binoculars around, and I eventually do find something that piques my interest.

It's to the far right, and I see a boat. The boat isn't anything out of the ordinary, but there is a person standing on the deck of the ship. They are holding a pair of binoculars and looking over towards the direction of the town.

It seems to be a boy around my age. It looks like he has silver hair, pale skin, and is wearing a fancy blue and black suit. While I'm looking, I see him put down the binoculars, and I can see his eyes for a brief moment, but he is quick to look through the binoculars again.

Eventually, my time runs out, so I back away from the binoculars and make my way over to Aso, who is once again admiring the ocean.

Aso notices me and looks over to me. "Did you find anything interesting?" He asks me.

"Not really," I lie to him. I'm currently not in the mood to explain what I saw.

He lets out a light hum and backs away from the railing. "What do you want to do now?" He asks me.

"I'm not sure," I want to call off the hangout and go home, but I know I can't do that. Aso is all I have now when it comes to friends, so I can't ditch him. Even if I really do want to.

"Can we go down by the beach?" He asks, and when he is asking, I can see hope and joy in his eyes. Hoping that I would agree.

I nod my head, and I start to take the lead. Aso follows me eagerly like a puppy.

It doesn't take long for us to make it to the beach. I see Aso starts to sprint to the water, as he runs, he discards his bag. But he doesn't even take his shoes or his clothes off. He goes in without a second thought.

He dives into the water, and he yells out how cold it is. I ignore him and look around the beach.

It's empty.

No one is here, which isn't surprising since it's nighttime. Who in their right mind would go to the beach at night?

Oh, wait…

I look back at Aso, and I see him splashing around in the water. He eventually walks out of the water and approaches me.

"It's so cold!" He whines out while taking off his shoes and throwing them on the sand.

Aso looks at me and asks, "You don't want to join?"

I shake my head and respond, "I'm not a  good swimmer."

I've only swam a few times when I was younger, but I wasn't very good at it. I would usually stay in shallow water, and I wouldn't dare to go deeper.

"Really? That gives me another idea!" He exclames as he takes off his shirt and pants, "How about we hang out tomorrow after school and swim together in the pool?"

I guess that wouldn't be too bad, but I have work tomorrow. Maybe I can call in and make an excuse? I've done extra shifts this week, so I don't think I would get in trouble.

I decide to agree with Aso's plans. He smiles at me, and then turns away to rummage through his bag, and he ends up pulling out a pair of swimming trunks.

He rashes to put them on, and he rushes back into the cold water.

I decide to take a seat on the sand and look out towards the ocean.

Maybe...this is the change I need. Right?

#fanfic #yandere #yandere simulator #yansim #male reader #reader insert #x reader

[robsheridan]

Amateur captures of cosmic rifts briefly cracking open amidst turbulent storms in a reported “Soft Place” south of the Bering Sea, circa late 1980s; recovered from damaged film rolls, photographer unknown.

Also, this is what it looks like inside my brain right now: Dark, turbulent, stormy, fuzzy and dusty and faded, but with the cosmic electricity of something else still determined to break through.

But also, these are some of my early experiments using synthography to expand the concepts of photographs. For my recent piece Warning at the Edge of Oblivion, I incorporated some macro photographs I took a year ago of prism light reflecting off of snow, which provided the cosmic texture and colors that really brought the piece together. I ended up continuing to do some new types of experiments with those macro photographs, using AI to expand them further into the lore in my head.

This is a new way of working with photographs, still in its infancy but it's taken some big leaps lately that I'm just starting to explore in terms of what they could mean for artistic expression. I love the idea that the photographs we take could be starting points, seeds, entryways into new worlds. Photos were always that to me anyway, little rectangular gateways that transport you into a scene, a mood, a memory. When you get lost in a good or meaningful photograph, it almost seems to move, like that perfect little "did I just see that?" cut in Blade Runner when Rachel is looking at old memories that aren't actually hers. Perhaps I find this experimental medium fascinating because I love seeing what a replicant sees in my memories.

But also, I made these to give my screens a refresh to match my January mood. They’re available now (plus a lot more) in my new pack of 4k desktop and hi-res mobile wallpapers.

#rob sheridan #synthography #synthographer #sci-fi #alternate history #photography #ai art #ai artist #midjourney #wallpaper

[wehadariverboatinourlivingroom]

You may be wondering what a recent flood in my basement could possibly have to do with my childhood, but read on!

During a recent debacle, my basement flooded and many boxes and storage bins were saturated. My daughter helped me to haul the sodden boxes off the floor and we took out countless books, photos, clothes etc. For most of the soaked items all we could do was spread them out on towels and turn fans on them to dry. But I simply tossed the clothing into the washer. I wasn't sure if all of it was washable or not, but by this point it was too late to worry about these items were going to react with water.

To my surprise, almost everything emerged, a little wrinkled, but unharmed. When I pulled this bed jacket out of the dryer, I could hardly believe my eyes.

I believe that it is the bed jacket that Mother was wearing in this photograph that was taken of her as she held me, on my second day home from the hospital in September of 1946.

During the Second World War, while all of their husbands were deployed, Mother, one of my aunts and one of their friends had shared a house. While he had been in the service, the husband of the friend had been trained in photography and he decided to set up a studio when he returned to civilian life. When I was born, he schlepped some of his equipment upstairs in the house my family had recently bought to take pictures of Mother and her new baby. It’s a good thing that I can identify the wallpaper because my older brother and I looked so much alike as babies that in some baby pictures even Mother incorrectly identified us!

Over the years, the picture may have faded, but this pink satin bed jacket is the very bed jacket that the flood just unearthed in my basement!

#1950s #vintage #family stories #bed jacket #satin

[gaymasonjar]

Will You Meet Me In The Middle?

Preview of Chapter 7: Sanctuary

 It was late in the morning when they crossed the border to their home state. Bags packed into the back of the truck and a small cooler up front with snacks for the road. It had taken them two days between stopping at gas stations and switching up who drove. Monday morning light was shining on them as they crossed through New Mexico. They were less than an hour out from the city limits of Roswell.

 The radio was blasting music that Alex was humming along to. His eyes were focused on the passing landscape, the wind blowing his hair around since the windows were rolled down. Michael had his left hand wrapped around Alex’s thigh as he drove.

 Alex’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, noticing the new notification. It was an email from the photographer. He opened it excitedly. There were nearly 100 good photos that were edited. They looked      amazing    , perfect even.

 “Oh, my god.”

 Michael glanced at him, “What’s up?”

 “I got the photos back from Dawn- they’re amazing Michael.”

 He scooted over on the bench seat to get closer to his husband. Michael glanced down at the phone periodically as Alex swiped through the pictures. He tightened his grip on Alex’s leg; neither noticing the soft glow from his hand.

 “Incredible…who knew we both cleaned up so well?”

 Alex laughed lightly, “I’m printing these out to put up around the house.”

 “All of them? Might as well turn them into a collage and past it like wallpaper.”

 “Some of them I’ll print for hanging, the rest is going in our first album.”

 Michael raised his eyebrows, “Alex Guerin, are you telling me that we’re starting our first photo album?”

 “I think so.”

 “God, I love you so much.”

 “I can tell”, Alex pressed his hand over the spot on his chest where Michael had left the first handprint. “I can      feel     it. It’s intense.”

 “Cosmic”, Michael corrected cheekily.

 “Cosmic”, Alex agreed before resting his head on Michael’s shoulder. “We should stop at the Wild Pony before we go to the house, and get some lunch.”

 “Sounds like a pretty good idea to me.”

 Alex looked down at his phone, flipping through the pictures again and again. The smile never left his face. He never thought it possible to be so in love and so happy. After choosing his favorite picture- the one of him and Michael laughing as they sat on the back of the car and the cathedral was behind them- he set it as his new lock screen.

 “I think my new IDs should be arriving in the mail soon”, Alex stated as he adjusted the radio volume. “I left the paperwork with Maria before we left so hopefully she remembered to mail it off for me.”

 “Eager to drop the Manes name?”

 “You know it. It’s the last thing my father gave me and I’m ready to part with it.”

 Michael squeezed his thigh, “Now Kyle can just look at us collectively when he’s mad and call us both Guerin.”

 A smirk crossed his face as he imagined it. “‘Guerin! You guys need to wait a minute to actually think this through!’”

 He laughed at his husband’s impression of the doctor. “Exactly.”

 “Husband privileges.”

 “Oh is that what we’re calling it?”

 “Well, it’s certainly not a disadvantage.”

 Michael chuckled.

 The ‘Welcome to Roswell’ sign had come and gone. The Wild Pony was up ahead. Michael parked the truck in the busy parking lot. After placing his cowboy hat securely on his head, he led Alex by the hand into the establishment. Most of the tables were crowded with the lunch rush traffic.

 Maria Deluca was working behind the bar. Hoop earrings, pink tank top, curls, and all. She was pouring beers for her customers, not paying attention to her newest ones. Michael and Alex grabbed the two stools at the end of the bar and waited patiently. Maria swept down toward them with menus in hand. She placed them down in front of them before she even lifted her gaze.

 “Welcome in, what can I start you wi-” Maria’s eyes widened in surprise before she squealed. She ran around the bar to hug both of them at once. “You’re back!”

 “Honeymoons don’t last forever, unfortunately”, Michael joked.

 “Tell me EVERYTHING”, Maria paused. “Okay, maybe not everything but I want details! How was it? Where did you go?”

 “San Diego”, Alex supplied. “Beautiful beaches. It was so relaxing.”

 Maria rounded back behind the bar as she wiggled her eyebrows, “I’m sure not THAT relaxing.”

 “I’m not giving you details on our sexcapades.”

 Michael snorted and rubbed a hand down his face.

 Maria fake pouted before she leaned forward. “I saw the video, very cute.”

 “We also took pictures while we were out there.”

 “I HAVE to see those.”

 “After we get a drink”, Michael interrupted. “Long drive.”

 “Oh, of course, one second.”

 Maria went to fill two glasses of beer for her friends, knowing what they regularly drank while in her establishment. Alex pulled the pictures up on his phone while she was busy with that. Once the beers were set down, she leaned across the bar eagerly. Her jaw dropped as she scrolled through the pictures.

 “You guys are sooooo hot- I love these!”

 “We had a really good photographer”, Alex supplied.

 “Wait- oh my god, those are the sweatshirts that Isobel made you while Alex was in the hospital. How cute!”

 Michael sipped his beer, “Honestly as dorky as they are, they’re very comfortable. And I like that everyone can just read it and know. No questions. This man belongs to me.”

 Alex grabbed his free hand and kissed the back of it. “We belong to each other.”

 “Ugh, stop. You guys are adorable”, Maria stated as she waved her hand at her face.

 Michael chuckled at her antics, “So did we miss anything while we were gone for nearly three weeks?”

 “Well. Max and Dallas are still gone. No word about that. Isobel and Kyle finally stopped dancing around each other. Oh, and Liz has kinda just thrown herself back into her work.”

 Alex frowned, “Really?”

 Maria nodded as she fidgeted with her necklace pendant, “Yea. She’s still trying to get her brain back to the speed it was before the whole alien mist fiasco. And I don’t think she wants to process that her fiance is on the other side of the universe. Bit much for her.”

 “I know how hard that can feel”, the brunette glanced at his husband. “It was bad enough being trapped in another dimension.”

 “They’ll come back”, Michael said. “The control panel still functions, it just needs fuel. I’m sure it’s easier to get it on Oasis than it is on Earth.”

 Alex hummed in agreement as he pulled out a pill bottle from his jacket. He poured a few into his hand before taking them. Maria glanced at him as he did. Alex was still prescribed to take Prussian Blue to fight off any remaining radiation left from his time spent in the other dimension. He was due for another checkup with Valenti now that they were back in New Mexico.

 “So, how have you been feeling?”

 “Honestly, really good”, Alex promised as he sipped his drink. “Haven’t noticed any side effects.”

 “Good- Kyle will be happy to hear that, he’s been worried about you.”

 “I would’ve let him know if anything was wrong.”

 “You know how he is.” Maria flipped her curls back over her shoulder, “He carries more stress than anyone should.”

 “If he knows what’s good for him, he should think about working for Deep Sky”, Michael interrupted.

 “He’s a doctor Michael, he wants to help people”, Maria scolded.

 “Yea but he’s also the only alien doctor we’ve got. Deep Sky can provide equipment and materials that he doesn’t need to steal from the hospital.”

 “I can talk to him about it. I know his uncle wouldn’t be against it”, Alex agreed. “I have to see him this week anyway.”

 “Deep Sky creeps me out”, Maria muttered.

 “Why?”

 ��It’s a secret organization. Can you really trust that it’s completely good?”

 “No”, Alex tapped his glass with his finger. “But you can’t really trust anything- military, government, local or federal. The world isn’t as black and white as people wish it was.”

 Michael snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

 “I just worry too, 'cause ya know, I’m like that”, Maria stated. “Anyway! Lunch is on me, what are we thinking, boys?”

Read more on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45325099/chapters/114787342

#will you meet me in the mid #roswell #roswell new mexico #roswell tv show #roswell fic #michael guerin #alex manes #alex guerin #michael x alex #malex #malex fic #malex forever

[sigynpenniman]

hey this is a little bit silly cause i don’t even know if you’re a photographer or if it’s a hobby of yours etc, but i just wanted to say that one of the pictures you took, “Sunset over the Grocery Box”, really moved me. i didn’t see anything in your blog ab photography but i wanted to say you’re really talented. that picture was so deep to me, it’s so beautiful and a bit melancholic and it really touched me. thank you for sharing that yk. and sorry that i’m being weird lol. hope u have a nice day 💕a

Oh my god hello hello hello!!!! You’re not being weird at ALL this makes me so fucking happy oh my god

So I am a hobby photographer!! I had a major photography phase when I was a teenager, which is when that photo was taken (I was 17.) I haven’t done as much photography lately so I don’t have a lot to show that’s recent, but it is something I was into. I have been BLOWN AWAY by the response to that photo. I always liked it, but the people I’ve shown it to before were always meh about it. I added it to that chain bc i always liked it anyway and holy shit, people love it. And it blows my mind.

“A little bit melancholy” is how I always felt about it as well. My father has his own issues (shocker) and there were often weird dramas while I was staying with him. Nothing terrible, but there was definitely a slightly weird feeling hanging over the place which I am sure contributed to the emotion of that photo. It’s also in a not-great patch of Daytona Beach, which imparts it’s own energy to the photo.

I’m just. I’m so happy it meant something to you. This is my permission to do whatever with it you like. Wallpapers, stickers, hang it on the wall, whatever. I might upload it to Redbubble if people want prints? I’ve gotten just enough comments on it that I can see that maybe being a thing?

Anyways I’m going to use your lovely message as an excuse to post some of my other favorite photos from my teenage photography years and into more recent years. I still really like some of these.

[lowlascl]

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[a-tired-leftie-carnation]

☆tag game☆

i was tagged by @pearloftheorient thank u lots!

Rules: screenshot and post your home/lockscreen, last photo in your camera roll, and last song you listened to.

Tagging: @guaranteedtoblowyourmind-anytime and @pastel-butnotreally-angel and @svt-district

#the wallpapers are photographs taken by me lately !!! #i somehow really love them #and like idk whether i want those piercings or dat hair color more

[violetsoju]

snapshot

miya atsumu · fluff · 1.9k

muse: highlight - not the end

a/n: my ultimate boys are finally back after three and a half years, and my inner fangirl that has been asleep for way too long has been unleashed for the past few days. hence, this impulsive piece. do let me know if you enjoyed it ❤️

It’s time.

After a year or so, there’s finally light at the end of the tunnel. Cherry blossoms are in full bloom again, gracing the pathways with shades of light pink and white.

It’s the beginning of a new year, of new beginnings, of new hopes and dreams. A time of renewal and rebirth. When cherry blossoms are in full bloom, the future is bursting with possibilities.

What better way to start off the new year with something that makes your heart blossom with love and joy?

You’ve been deep in slumber for the past year, so it’s about time to be awaken and open the curtains for the sunlight shine in.

Your planner is inked with colourful notes and doodles, laptop reformatted with an empty recycle bin, camera equipment cleaned and dusted, phone storage deep-cleaned.

It’s hard to not notice the bright smile tugging your lips even without the mandatory cup of morning coffee, greeting everyone in the office like a ray of sunshine. Even your supervisor notices it and is surprised with the increased efficiency of work from your end. Perhaps he’s more surprised with your razor sharp accuracy in clocking out every day, disappearing in a flash once the clock strikes 6.

Your colleagues can’t seem put a finger to the recent change in your behaviour. What’s an afterwork get-together without you and ridiculous tipsy antics? Not even your favourite yakult soju or the summoning of your supervisor could drag your feet to the dinner place.

“Do you have a boyfriend? That’s why you’re so busy recently?” They would ask. Or they would try and wiggle their way by asking “Is there someone waiting at home for you?”

No matter how tactfully they twist and turn their words, they were all futile attempts. Because all they would get was a sickly sweet innocent smile that never met your crescent-shaped eyes, and an automatic response. “Thank you for the invite, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass tonight. Have fun!”

They had their bets that you were wrapped up with your secret little love life, spending nights over at your lover’s place, whispering sweet nothings into the night. “Ah, young love.” They would sigh. “Remember to stay protected!”

Your tight lipped smile fuelled them further instead. Why don’t you say anything, they wonder.

To you, why waste your energy explaining something that is incomprehensible to them and risk having yourself being the centre of gossip? Not that you are already the recent centre of gossip.

Because they won’t understand the surge of excitement flowing through your veins at the ping of notifications popping up on your phone screen during work. They won’t understand the of anticipation for the timer on a video screen to turn zero, whether on the way home or while having dinner. They won’t understand the happiness of late night chats with likeminded people online, sleep washed away while gushing and typing in full caps with each other. They won’t understand the buzz of giddiness with just one post, one picture or one sentence. They won’t understand the little squeal behind a picture or a minute-long video unexpectedly appearing on screen. They won’t understand having the same song or same album on loop for days, weeks, or months. They don’t understand the dilemma of choosing a wallpaper or lockscreen for your phone. They don't understand how by remembering a person or something they have said before drives unimaginable motivation and makes the toughest circumstances bearable and possible to overcome. They won't understand how a person who doesn't know your existence personally can be a source of comfort and happiness.

They won’t understand the real reason why you’re smiling like a fool at your phone.

Maybe if they peered carefully at your phone screen, they would know why.

And it’s not what they had in bet.

Well, they were partly right if you were to be completely honest.

But if you were to place your bets, you’re sure most of them would still be scratching their heads in confusion at the black, gold and white logo.

It may be foreign to them, but you swear that you can see those colours even if you’re blind.

MSBY. The 8 member boy group. Worldwide superstars. The whole damn package. Boys made for the dazzling stage. Boys that deserve the whole world. Boys whose talent knows no limits. Boys that you hold dear to your heart.

Ever since Hinata Shouyou, the youngest of the group had injured his lower back and knee during choreography practice (in which was revealed with a slip of a tongue in a livestream that Bokuto and him were so engrossed with a certain acrobatic move which involved a backflip from a higher ground, they begged their choreographer to add it into their new choreography. Instead of showing a clip of the move, they decided to give it a shot and perform it live spontaneously for everyone, where too much adrenaline and a small slip had him lying in the hospital bed for weeks), the group had collectively come to a conclusion to halt their activities until he was fully recovered and ready to roll. There were no solo activities, solo promotions or unit activities despite the attractive proposals or invitations. Such a waste of talent and time, many said. What is their company thinking? Letting their cash cow go to waste like that. But they tuned out all the crap, and firmly held to their resolve of being together as a group; all for one, and one for all.

“We’ll be back. And we know you all have our backs.” Meian Shuugo, the leader of the pack assured, eyes filled with resolute and confidence.

So after a draught of 456 days to be exact, an oasis finally appeared in the burning desert sands. When the notification titled ‘MSBY is back’ appeared on phone and laptop screens alike, it took a few seconds for everyone to blink and make sure it wasn’t a mirage. But the small tick was unmistakable. Then the whole fandom lost their shit.

This isn’t a drill. MSBY is back. In full swing.

The black jackals are ready to hunt. Their hunger has been supressed long enough. They’ve been starved for too long. They’re out for blood. They’re ready to pounce at any moment. They’re back in the game.

(If you were to be real honest, everyone should have saw this coming after that particular livestream where Bokuto, the renowned king of spoilers, animatedly announced that “We’ll be seeing you guys soon. Like real soon!” with his wide toothy smile, to which Inunaki Shion ferociously slapped him in the back with a cramped broad smile plastered on his face. “In the next livestream, of course! Can’t wait to see you guys soon!” The mom of the group added through gritted teeth. Adriah Tomas choked on his water and sheepishly grinned, while Sakusa Kiyoomi stared ahead unfazed, like this was a daily occurrence.)

Which means it’s time for you to get back to work. Which is also no surprise why you’ve been so occupied these days, having two schedules to work with: your personal schedule and MSBY’s comeback schedule. Which also means, your weekends are MSBY’s weekends.

Fangirling is a job to be taken very, seriously.

Change of word choice for the better. Supporting your idols is a job to be taken very, seriously.

So on a pleasantly warm Saturday afternoon with cherry blossoms petals dancing in the wind, as you try your best to stable yourself on the ground with the huge ass DSLR in your hands, you scan for a specific person among the sea of people ahead. A specific blond, to be exact. But lucky you, because even if you don’t scan for him, he finds his way to your camera lens. Which is why your pictures are one of the most sought after and anticipated of the idol Miya Atsumu, lead dancer of MSBY.

It’s like he has antennas on the top of his head. Despite the flurry of cameras flashing at him, confessions and screams drowning out his surroundings, rapid camera shutters going off like woodpeckers drumming relentlessly on a tree, he somehow, always manages to locate you, to look right into your camera lens, giving you his million dollar smile or infamous grin with small fangs peeking from the sides. The cherry on top? His top-notch fanservice. He never, never fails to give a reaction to you. Be it a small wave, a heart shape with his arms bent over his head, or a flirtatious wink that would combust hearts right on the spot.

You’re beyond grateful for his attentiveness and recognition towards you. It’s not like you’re on his heels. Hitting the shutter button is just a pastime of yours when your schedule allows. In better words, you’re just a random potato popping up occasionally with a camera. Plus, it’s no easy feat to pick a specific person out among a sea of people, especially with tens or hundreds of faces flashing before his eyes in one go.

Truth to be told, you’re thankful for the special attention too, because you get to share the fun and playful side of him with everyone, to light up everyone’s day with pictures of their favourite golden boy. Sharing is caring, and in this big close-knitted family, everyone deserves to be well fed.

However, the good things in life are never free.

Jealousy is a bitch, and bitches need to get well soon. Rumours are born out of wicked tongues, and wicked tongues are born out of the evil fire of envy.

Baseless ridiculous tales circulate among the community. How you’re the daughter of some big-shot of the company or political figure, using, or abusing your privilege connections to gain his favour. How you’re an obsessive fan who has intruded your way into his life, holding his career by the reins out of corrupted love by stalking and threatening him to pose for the camera, your camera specifically if he wants to keep himself and his group safe. How it’s a business relationship between the both of you: you as his private photographer, him paying you to get perfect shots of him to boost his popularity, to outshine his members, to feed his monstrous ego.

But do you care? Of course you don’t.

Because between this jam-packed schedule, this is the only time you get to see your boyfriend in real life, and you want to keep a record of his amazing journey through your lenses. It’s a diary of his growth, the beautiful moments in his life. A diary for him, you and his fans. To also show him that you’re here with him, here for him, no matter what.

And does Miya Atsumu care? Of course he doesn’t.

Because what more can he ask by having the opportunity to see you in flesh, even if it’s just a few seconds amidst his hectic back-to-back schedules. You’re his serotonin, the one that he misses holding in his arms after a long tiring day, the one that keeps him going, the one that he can count on for being there.

Knowing that you’re there at every step of the way makes him take each step with more confidence and pride.

So as Miya Atsumu exits the broadcasting building, he searches for a familiar camera lens among the sea of similar looking cameras shoved in his face. He sweeps his gaze from left to right, and grins when he spots the one he’s looking for.

A face sculpted by the gods with a boyish grin that could lit up the world graces the cameras of many, but only one captures his eyes gleaming with delight head on.

There was a really cute fanart of idol! Atsumu but the artist has closed her twitter account so I can't link it here T_T but if you do have any idol! Atsumu fanarts do send them in hehe

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #haikyū!! #miya atsumu x you #miya atsumu x y/n #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu #atsumu x y/n #atsumu x you #atsumu x reader #atsumu fluff #miya atsumu fluff #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu oneshot #hq imagines #haikyuu headcanons #msby #haikyuu msby #msby fluff #msby bj

[cheri-translates]

Headcanon - When your phone has a mind of its own

This work, 我的手机有自己的想法, was originally written by Twhalf on Lofter, and she has given me permission to translate it 💙

[ THE VICTOR-PHONE ] 

The wallpaper features major finance-related magazines. When you change it to an adorable and feminine wallpaper, one word would appear on the screen the next day - “CHILDISH”.

There are strict power on and off timings. Staying up late is strictly prohibited - the alarm would ring incessantly. The only merit is that when you’re complaining about not being able to finish your work, the Victor-Phone would quietly pause time. 

It will recommend you all sorts of recipes for delicious food. When you complain that the recipes are too difficult to make, simpler homemade dishes would be recommended to you. In the end, it’d recommend "Silly Kitchen! Dishes that even foolish people can make!”

When you accidentally enter a bad website, the Victor-Phone would immediately clear its content and allow your phone to return to its pure and untainted state. The moment you try entering the website again, the phone would automatically direct you to a mysterious page with only one sentence - “Are you done with your proposal”?

The Victor-Phone doesn’t like overly girlish phone covers. However, he wouldn’t do anything to destroy the cover. Usually, it would just hint that you should switch to a more stylish cover. However, the moment he interacts with other devices such as the Goldman-Phone, he would immediately pause time until you change the cover to a less eye-catching one. 

[ THE GAVIN-PHONE ]

For some inexplicable reason, the wallpaper of the Gavin-Phone will always switch to your photograph. Sometimes, you don’t even know where such photographs come from. After sensing your persistence in having your wallpaper changed, the Gavin-Phone eventually changes it to a picture of a ginkgo.

The phone comes with a fan function, and doesn’t heat up unless you attempt to kiss it. At this point, the Gavin-Phone would release wind in an attempt to stop you. However, the wind is very gentle, and doesn’t help much. The moment you successfully kiss your phone, it would immediately fling itself far from you, sticking itself to the wall before sliding down slowly.

It will recommend you information pertaining to self-defence, and content related to how you should react in times of danger. However, when you’re truly in danger, such knowledge isn’t of much assistance because the Gavin-Phone would lift you into the air.

When you accidentally enter a bad website, the Gavin-Phone would overheat and release gusts of wind to lower the temperature, causing condensation to block the screen.

The Gavin-Phone doesn’t mind wearing a feminine phone cover. Its guiding principle is - as long as you like it, it’s fine. The prerequisite is that he can’t meet the Minor-Phone while wearing it.

[ THE LUCIEN-PHONE ]

The wallpaper features pictures of all sorts of butterflies, the commonality between them being how they are all colourful and extremely beautiful. Since you find it pretty, you don’t change it. As a reward for not changing them, the wallpaper will occasionally turn into cute illustrations of animals. 

It seems to aid with sleep. As long as you place the Lucien-Phone next to you, your sleep will be very peaceful. 

It’s incredibly accurate in guessing your preferences. Each time you feel like doing something or if you need anything, the Lucien-Phone will recommend you related information. It has never been wrong, and you have no idea how the phone does it. 

When you accidentally click on a bad website, the Lucien-Phone will display the word "Downloading", which frightens you enough to immediately leave the site. Although you do this, the download continues anyway. When you click it open while trembling, you’ll discover that it’s simply a document with a sentence: “Be good. Good children shouldn’t read such things ^_^” 

You find that the Lucien-Phone dislikes feminine phone cases. After getting bombarded constantly with advertisements from shopping websites for feminine phone cases, even you can’t stand them. For the sake of your mental health, you decide not to change your phone case.

[ THE KIRO-PHONE ]

The wallpaper, which automatically switches at set intervals, features a variety of delicacies which never seem to be repeated. Sometimes, they are replaced with dazzling sunflowers.

It seems to be a very likeable phone. There will always be someone staring at your phone and reminding you to treasure it. Thieves have stolen your phone before, but even before you have time to lodge a police report, the thief would have already taken the initiative to return the phone, reflecting on his actions. 

Many delicious snacks will be recommended to you. As a result, you often can’t find space in your stomach to have proper meals because of the snacks you purchased. When this happens, the Kiro-Phone will play a song - "Fault, fault, fault, this is all my fault."

When you accidentally click on a bad website, the Kiro-Phone will simply delete the bad website completely, so you can only see “404 Not Found”.

Although it doesn’t dislike feminine phone cases, the Kiro-Phone prefers sparkling and glittering cases, and even sends you a case with a small light bulb on it. When you tell it frankly that the phone itself is already bright enough, the Kiro-Phone heats up and plays the song - "I Like You".

[ THE SHAW-PHONE ]

For some strange reason, the wallpaper will always change into pictures of skateboards, bass guitars or cola cans.

It can’t be charged with a charger. The Shaw-Phone has its own unique charging method. Once the power dips below 90%, it will automatically display "Charging", but the automatic charging function only works during the day and the power will be consumed normally at night. But don't stay up late to use your phone, because when Shaw-Phone realises that you have spent the night using your phone and draining the battery, it will release a small amount of electricity that isn’t harmful but deters you from picking it up.

It takes a long time for its anger to dissipate. But once you start neglecting the phone and turn to other entertainment products, the phone will automatically turn its volume to the maximum and play songs from the band, Isolated. It won’t stop until you pick it up.

This phone also has a magical function. Its weather forecast can be edited freely, but there are only two options available - "Rain" and "Thunder". If you choose “Rain”, the sky will immediately start to pour. If you choose “Thunder”, the sky will explode with purple lightning. Interesting, isn’t it?

It will recommend punk rock music to you. When you click the cross and express that you can’t appreciate such music, the Shaw-Phone will vibrate and release a “Tch” sound.

When you accidentally click on a bad website, a gigantic question mark will appear in the middle of the page. Then, it will recommend annoying articles to you in quick succession, such as "Ten Hazards of Browsing Bad Websites" and "Shocked! After browsing bad websites, the mobile phone unexpectedly..."

The Shaw-Phone rejects any phone cases that are too girlish. Once you put such phone cases on it, it will split the case into half.

More translated and original works: here

-

[ Permission to translate ]

Twhalf: Can can, thank you for liking it

#mlqc #cheri shortcake

[dottiechan]

Tempest (Pt. 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Read on AO3

Pairing: Ava Du Mortain x f!Detective

Wordcount: 4048

Warnings: mourning, mentions of death and torture, smoking

Summary: The private detective must work through the sudden and unexpected disappearance of Ava - quite literally, as she embarks on solving her greatest mystery yet. But she is not the only one who's been busy...

A/N: This chapter is a rather long one as there's much to unpack at this point of the story, and there is much to explain. Sorry for the long wait, and thanks for being so patient and supportive of me!

The Private Detective’s Office, London, 1898

5 months after Ava’s disappearance

The key turns in the lock with ease. The door creaks as it gives way to the dark office. The lights flicker in the corridor outside, and the entrance gapes like a mouth ready to swallow her whole.

She steps inside, unaware of her fingers skittering across the glass pane that has the name of her detective agency painted on it. Some have great bloodlines to look back on, and nobles and kings to proudly call their ancestors. Her legacy is this stuffy little office, her sigil is a hand painted business logo. But her ancestor - her father - was a warrior too, noble of heart, even if not of blood.

She hangs her coat and hat, and proceeds to smooth down her hair before locking the door and switching on the lights. The old pieces of furniture that would have been regarded fashionable 20 years ago are dimly illuminated, and the sight of them makes her heart ache. They belonged to her late father, and in a way he lives on through them. The dent in the cushion of his chair where he always used to sit, the scuff marks on his desk he carelessly carved into the polished surface with books and folders, the medical and law tomes he hoarded lining the bookshelves that hug the dark green walls... As a child, she was afraid of coming here in the evenings - something they often did after her mother passed away and her father tried his best to raise her alone. The heavy nailhead leather armchairs looked like hunched monsters in the dark, the looming mahogany desk with its long curving legs resembled a giant spider, and the serious wallpaper enveloped this macabre scene like some sinister forest. “The real monsters are in here, my darling,” her father would ruffle her hair affectionately, pointing at the files he came to pick up.

It is late, but the office no longer feels scary. Her rational mind knows she should have gone home to her empty bed and her unread books and the cold supper awaiting her. And yet she’s here because hardly anything matters anymore. Because no place ever really feels like home ever since her father left. Well, her small house felt like home for a while when she was still here. But she left as well, and with her she took the last tattered shreds of joy the detective had somehow managed to cling to. She is submerged in saturnine reticence now, and ironically it helps her stay focused, even though it makes her more and more like the person she tried to thaw out. More and more like Ava.

One should only embrace the iciness of a statue if they’re willing to risk turning into marble themselves.

The Commissioner would be lucky to have a detective such as myself, she thinks bitterly as she glances down at the neatly kept files piled on her desk. Most are petty cases, even she has to admit - cheating husbands, unanswered invitations and letters, and the likes. But she takes all the work she can, and she prides herself on her ability to solve them with the proficiency of a man. Ava used to praise her for that. Now she whispers praises to herself even if the words turn sour in her mouth, because she will not let anyone ruin her. She will not. (Even though Ava has, because the world feels different without her in it.)

Her sudden disappearance left her on the precipice of panic at first. Ava, along with her partner Nate, simply vanished into thin air as if they never even existed at all, as if they were a pleasant reverie she used to lull herself to sleep at night. No trace, no item that belonged to them was left behind. If not for the spare key to her house being gone - the one she gave to Ava - she wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between reality and her mad suspicions. But oh, she was here. She was. Missing her is a malady burrowed in her heart, but it is also the testament of her existence.

She opens the file on top, and hums in bitter satisfaction. Right. The aching of her heart isn’t the only testament anymore. It took her months, but she’s finally one step closer to the solution, planting her foot firmly and holding her crumbling sanity together with a determination she didn’t know she had. Ava was probably never meant to be in the background of a photograph taken during the opening night of the National Gallery of British Art.

But she was. And it really only takes one mistake.

The private detective picks up the photograph gingerly, giving herself one second to lose herself in the whirlwind of emotions Ava’s angular silhouette awakens in her.

One step closer.

She leans back in her chair, her gaze gliding over the photograph and landing on her personal little project. The blackboard is filled with dates, locations and places with a map pinned to the middle of it - by now, it is practically a blueprint of Ava’s and Nate’s every activity over the past two years. The deeper she digs, the more unknowns she unearths about the people she once thought she knew.

But there’s still time to get to know them - first impressions are overrated anyway.

Train station, Wayhaven, 1899

7 months after Ava’s disappearance

January quickly set to work and changed the countryside. It swooped down from the heavens and gently buried the forests and the hills under a heavy blanket of snow, concealing the detective’s childhood home from her as she exits the train, the handle of her heavy bag already digging into her gloved fingers. The shapes are still visible though underneath all the snow and ice - she sees the old station with the crumbling roof, the road leading into town, the bell tower of the small church peeking out just above the treeline. She recognises them all, though she sorely wishes she didn’t.

Because with the recognition comes the inevitable sting of her memories. Faces emerge in her conscious she hasn’t seen in years. The kindness of her mother’s eyes and the curve of his father’s lips, both lost forever now, never to be seen again, cutting deeper than a knife ever could.

An old woman is prating about her insufferable nephew, a business man is constantly checking his pocket watch with a disdainful look from across the station, three young women gossip, a man is rubbing his hands together in an effort to stimulate his circulation in the cold weather. The detective tunes out the comfortable commotion of the small town station, imagining she is still in London and not here. Anywhere but here. People brush past her, the train whistles and whirs to motion, and before she knows it, she is alone, paralysed in one spot, snowflakes catching softly on her fetching ensemble of a royal blue travelling dress and matching hat.

She takes a shaky breath, almost already on the verge of tears.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

No.

“Of course,” she turns with a slight smile. “Just admiring the view. I used to live here.”

“Ah, then the gossip about you was true,” the man nods, his eyes glinting intelligently under his bushy brows. There’s an apologetic smile sitting on his lips, and a twinge of regret spoiling the beauty of his otherwise handsome square jaw and bold features. “I apologise, I couldn’t help but overhear some women on the train talking about your father. About you.”

“I didn’t know our name carried such weight,” the detective admits cautiously, one hand reaching up to fix her hat self-consciously. The man seems to notice the way her fingers linger over the hat pin, and he almost cracks a grin. It would be a highly inappropriate moment to joke, and besides, he’d rather befriend this interesting person than anger her to a point where he’d end up being skewered by the hat pin in question. After all, her friendship and assistance is why he’s here.

“Your father served in India with Sir Edward Bardford, the current Police Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police,” he adds gently. “You were betrothed to Montagu Edward Bradford.”

“How do you know about that?” the woman asks, her eyes widened by shock as she takes a step closer to him.

“Who didn’t Montagu tell?”

The strained grin the stranger allows himself seems to put her momentarily at ease. Montagu did tell everyone, God rest his soul. In a way, she could never really begrudge him for the betrothal - it was their fathers’ scheming, even if Montagu really didn’t seem to mind. She always wanted a way out, but she never wished for his death. He was in India when it had happened, and she was in London. In a way, even 9 years after, it feels surreal. She never saw the body. For years afterwards, she sincerely thought he would turn up one day unexpectedly as if nothing had happened.

He never did.

“How awfully rude of me to not even introduce myself!” he exclaims suddenly, sheepishly sticking out his hand. “Dr Van Helsing. Abraham Van Helsing.”

“I believe Mont had spoken about you,” she nods as she shakes his hand, deliberately squeezing his fingers with more force than a mere handshake would warrant. Yet another trick she learned from Ava.

“I hope so. We were... we were quite close. I know it’s been a while since he...” Van Helsing pauses as he withdraws his hand and waves it in the air before drawing it up to his ginger curls. “Please accept deepest my condolences.”

“Thank you, Dr Van Helsing.”

Her tone signals the end of the conversation, and she nods her head stiffly before turning. She knew coming back here would unearth the loss of her parents, but she is not ready to speak of Montagu yet. She bared her soul once regarding the matter, and only to one person, but she will not repeat the experience again. As liberating as it had been to tell Ava everything, she wishes to leave this heartache and guilt where it belongs - in the past.

“Please wait. We got off on the wrong foot! I didn’t come here to ask you personal questions - in fact, it is a disappearance that I was hoping to discuss with you.”

“You are a physician, not an inspector, correct?” she asks over her shoulder, not bothering to slow down her steps as she strides towards an unclaimed hansom.

“Yes, but-”

“Are you here to hire me?”

“No-”

“Then we have nothing to talk about, Dr Van Helsing. Good day.”

The driver, smelling a wealthy client who’s just arrived from London, clambers down from his seat quickly to open the door for her to get in. Just before she could disappear inside, the physician speaks again.

“I’m trying to find Miss Ava Du Mortain and Mr Nathaniel Sewell. I was hoping we could help each other out, but more importantly, I was hoping to warn you.”

“Warn me?” the detective pauses, looking back at Van Helsing with genuine shock on her prepossessing features.

“They’re not who you think they are - what you think they are.”

There’s a stretch of silence between them as her eyes assess the tall, lanky man as he stands just before the hansom, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, his breath fogging in the chill air as he looks back at her expectantly. The nerve on this man alone is making the private detective want to leave him high and dry in the snow, but her insides twist and her pulse quickens at the mention of Ava’s name. She’s all but given up hope - for months now, she could find nothing regarding the woman and her partner, or the Agency they claimed to work for. She knows virtually nothing about this man, but her need to find Ava outweighs her better judgement.

“Are you hungry, Dr Van Helsing?” she asks, scooting further down the seat to make room for the man.

“Is eating and working on disappearance cases simultaneously a habit of yours, Miss?” the physician asks as he climbs in next to her.

“And here I was trying to be nice. I suppose I will not offer to pay for your lunch then.”

“I take it all back! I am positively famished.”

Meanwhile, across the train station

Lucille Licht twirls her cane, lips pressed into a disdainful frown. Cities at least have crowds upon crowds of people to distract her, but small towns such as Wayhaven hold no entertainment value whatsoever. She isn’t here on pleasant business anyway, she thinks to herself as she sighs, pulling her fur coat tighter around the expensive suit she’s wearing. No, she is here on ghastly business indeed, even by demon standards. But the prophecy was clear - though irritatingly vague too, no doubt to account for the rather large margin of error witches have these days in their prophecies. They’re more lawyers than soothsayers by now, their profession diluted by those who hunger for nothing but profit and security, and who are willing to sacrifice quality for those two aforementioned gains. Lucille finds sordid business such as this distasteful, even in her line of work. Falling from grace is one thing, but living in the Agency’s ever growing shadow is no excuse not to have honour among thieves. Or rogues. Or both, when it comes to the social circles she frequents.

A small voice in the back of her head whispers sadly, poisoning the faux assuredness she’s lulled herself into on the train. She’s just like I was, in a strange way. Before it all happened. And now I’m about to do the same horrible things to her that were done to me.

But the private detective is the one she’s been waiting for. She has to be. It all fits - the dead father, the career, the place where she was born. Lucille can’t smell anything strange about her blood yet, but she is sure she can bring about the power that was promised to reside in her veins. She has her ways, and her old magic, and her knife. And most importantly, her determination.

It was centuries ago, when she was stripped and bound and the curse was carved into her flesh. Strange, how vividly one can remember a single terrible moment, even centuries later. Even though the ancient magic rendered her undead, she can still feel the searing pain all over her body, red lines raging like fire in the form of symbols and Echolian text. It made her immortal, but it also bound her to her creator. He is the reason why she’s on the hunt. Why she is desperate to gain power beyond what she could achieve alone. Even as a human, as a meagre farmer’s child, she was roaming the fields of her father as she pleased. She was free. It was so long ago that she can’t even remember the name her parents gave her, but her freedom she remembers.

And nobody enslaves Lucille Licht and gets away with it.

Her slow burn vendetta must be coming to an end soon. There’s only so much of the supernatural underworld she can bring under her control - what she has will have to suffice. She already runs a widespread rogue organisation, with its key leadership positions held by her loyal Daughters, as she eloquently calls the women she’s bound to her service over the centuries the same way she was bound once. A necessary evil. Pawns in the game she plays with the Ancient One. There is nothing she wouldn’t do to ensure her victory in the coming battle. I will not be outwitted again by that Echolian bastard, she thinks, whacking away at a nearby bush with her cane. Specks of snow and ice glitter where her hits land. And yet she always finds herself hesitating before turning another human.

The abhorred feeling of helplessness always comes creeping back. As well as the pain, and the panic of thinking your life is about to end. She has to push it all down. Grit her teeth and get it over with. Months of preparation leading up to the final act that barely lasts ten minutes. And then you wait, and 3 days later their pain and mortality will be but a distant memory.

But she’s slipping. She no longer only hesitates before, now the intrusive self-doubt catches up to her after the rituals too. The Ancient One is still the centre of her nightmares, but the dream has changed. She is no longer the helpless little lamb brought to the slaughter. She is one with the Ancient One, his hand is hers too as it raises the knife, their voices merging together as they chant the same curse together.

She knew this victory would cost her everything. But she never imagined the real price to pay would be stepping up to fill the void the Ancient One’s death will create.

Lucille never wanted to be like him. She only ever wanted to kill him. But it seems those two things are one and the same.

She awakens from her thoughts when the man joins the private detective in the hansom. An annoying little man, that Dr Van Helsing is, though harmless in the grand scheme of things. It doesn’t matter that he’s taken care of a Transylvanian rogue vampire with his entourage, it would take far more to stop her plans now. Lucille focuses on the woman instead, letting her will force itself into her mind. All too easy, she raises her eyebrows in an unimpressed fashion as she flicks through her thoughts as if she were reading the latest issue of The Times. She thought she would be more difficult to read. To control. But alas, she is just like everyone else, aside from the love that seems to seep out of her every thought for none other than Agent Du Mortain.

She grins, remembering her failed attempt at getting to the private detective earlier. She’s learned several invaluable lessons in those two years. One, you can’t trust dark elf mercenaries, no matter how much you pay them. Two, it’s better to divert the attention of the Agency first before you try to kidnap someone who has important connections in the London Metropolitan Police. Three, love makes people do really, really stupid things.

Thankfully, Lucille Licht is a smart woman, and an even better strategist - not to mention a quite powerful demon with telepathic abilities and her boot firmly planted on the supernatural underground’s neck - and this time, she has learned from all three of her mistakes. This time, there will be no Agent Du Mortain rushing to the rescue. (But that doesn’t mean she can’t use her name as bait, yes?)

Cemetery, Wayhaven, 1900

1 year and 8 months after Ava’s disappearance

He doesn’t appreciate being jerked around the way he has been lately, but he isn’t a man to grumble too much either. He was closest to the backwater little town, he gets to check out the possible supernatural case. Everyone draws the short straw sometimes, and he’s learned to cope with it. He has certainly lived long enough to do so.

The wind shifts, and suddenly Agent Fuller’s nostrils are invaded by the stench of magic. Things finally start looking up for him, and that thought alone is enough to make him pick up his pace, excitement coursing through his body. He lights a cigarette to conceal the smirk threatening to overtake his lips when he sees the pallid looks of the constables as they pass him by. One stops him to ask what his business is out here, but the Agency has already notified the meagre Wayhaven police force, and he is soon on his way again to the centre of the commotion. Cemetery of the commotion would be a more accurate description though - the little town was as dead in the mid-February frost as a place could get, and aside from the bored stationmaster who gave him directions, these men are the first living beings he’s encountered since his arrival.

“Name’s Agent Fuller. What can you tell me about the crime scene, constable?” Fuller asks as he exhales a lungful of smoke, turning to the least disturbed looking man surveying the scene.

“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, sir. Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

A handshake and a suppressed grin later Fuller follows the young man down a row of tombs. They take a sharp turn to the left, and immediately it is clear why he was called here. The sight is confirmation enough, but the smell of potent and ancient magic is the real giveaway.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a walker,” Fuller snorts as he crouches down, picking up a piece of the crumbled marble.

“The poor woman was buried only 3 days ago,” the constable mutters, rubbing his hands together before bringing them to his lips and blowing hot air onto them, desperately attempting to revitalise his frozen fingers. “Who could do such a monstrous thing?”

“Indeed, who could...” the agent mutters, too focused to really pay attention to the human on his right. The tomb was torn open, the coffin deserted, the body missing. It coincides with many reports made over the centuries - it’s unfortunately not rare for the dead to be taken and repurposed again for magic, but this particular pattern is characteristic of demonic rogues having too much time on their necromantic little hands. He will need to consult a few colleagues to confirm it, but the 3 days and the apparent magic hanging in the air is all the evidence he needs right now.

He stands, the lapels of his dark coat flapping in the chilly wind ominously. There’s a page typed up about the busy life of his missing body in his pocket, crumpled around the edges from being handled carelessly, but he takes it out to skim over it again. That’s when he spots the little detail about the private detective’s history with the Agency that he seemed to have missed the first time around.

‘1896-1898: under Agency protection

Threat: classified

Agents on the case: A. Du Mortain, N. Sewell’

The Agency gossips like there’s no tomorrow, and ever since Lady Ashbury’s return to the main facility, the gossip about the ‘Ice Queen’ and her pet detective have been the most fashionable thing to blabber on about. And since Fuller has been to the scene, it will be him who will have to provide all the answers when Du Mortain comes with her demanding questions, no doubt breaking down doors in the process as it is in her nature. Fuller is by no means a man who shies away from conflict or hard work, but he’s never been particularly good with emotions. Explaining to a lovesick elder vampire that her alleged lover is now very dead, and also quite probably the plaything of a very bored and elusive demon who likes to play with necromancy is not a task he would gladly carry out.

“Well, shit.”

Fuller shoves the page back into his pocket and sighs. He should retire and buy a house in the wilderness. Get a cat. Maybe try some cocaine - he once saw Heinrich Quincke use it for spinal anaesthesia before one of his surgeries, and have been meaning to try it out ever since. But he does none of those things - he never does.

He walks back the way he came, trying to prepare himself for the most awkward conversation of the century.

Needless to say, he couldn’t prepare himself for what was to come. But for once, he couldn’t feel mad about a messy situations. He just felt a little more hollow afterwards. And then he got another case as this one was closed and the woman was declared dead once more. And he moved on.

But, like with all his cases ending in death, he never forgot.

#dottiechan writes #ava du mortain x detective #a du mortain x detective #the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc detective #ava du mortain #a du mortain #a lot to unpack here #i know a lot might still appear strange but i promise it will all make sense soon haha

[firefly-in-darkness]

Kiss Goodnight

Kiss Goodnight

Characters → Y/N & Bucky Barnes

Summary → Y/N lets Bucky in.

Word Count → 2.6k

Warnings → Angst, Self-harm, blood, injury. Lots of fluff in the end.

Beta → the superstar that is @princessmisery666​ // all mistakes are my own.

Dividers → @firefly-graphics​.

A/N → This for @distractedgemini​ challenge - the prompt was Just A Kiss by Lady A. Hope you enjoy! 

Three am. A time for those in hope of finding a slither of peace when sleep prevails, emotions overrule, and thoughts run wild.

Bucky Barnes silently followed the strict lines of the corridors that lined the various quarters of the compound. His thoughts were erratic in comparison to his steady pace. He hoped that each carefully calculated step would subdue his fears, to allow him to sleep without the nightmares creeping in. It didn’t work half of the time, and the other half would usually involve him staring through the eyes of the Winter Soldier, carrying out the horrors he’d been trying to atone for.

Y/N was in the gym, punching the bag with all her strength; nightmares had plagued her sleep and guilt wreaked havoc on her mind. Her sloppy form paired with her overwhelming emotions had her hissing as the skin around her knuckles cracked apart. Regardless of the pain, she continued to pummel the leather as the wrappings turned red with her blood.

Whilst Bucky wandered his way through the main hallway leading to the gym, he heard the slapping of leather, and groans of frustrations. He watched her punch the bag. Y/N. He knew her sloppy form anywhere. But tonight, these punches were full of emotions. He’d offered on many occasions to help but she had continuously declined. 

Sam had joked that it was because she was intimidated by him and his brooding glare. Bucky was certain it wasn’t the reason, he couldn’t put his finger on it, but he thought she liked him, or at least tolerated his presence. Over the last few months, he’d noticed her smile shining a little brighter when it was directed at him or her eyes glimmering with happiness as he joined her for coffee in the morning.

The whoosh of the automatic doors opening didn’t pull her attention completely but slowed down her assault. She peered to the right, using her peripheral vision to see who had entered the room. With no further movements heard she turned to come almost nose to nose with Sergeant Barnes. She gulped at the Super Soldier as she realised what a mess, she looked in front of the beautiful specimen before her.

“Sergeant Buc-Barnes. Sir, erm.” She stuttered around her words, breathless from her fight with the bag and the shock of seeing him. She stood to attention, internally scolding herself for her lack of togetherness.

Bucky hadn’t realised he had crowded her space until Y/N turned and looked straight at him. He almost faltered as he took in her appearance; puffy eyes, wild hair and her knuckles blood raw. His mind whirled with uncertainty; he’d invaded her personal space without considering that she might be battling her own demons.

“Bucky. At ease, are you okay?” He internally scolded himself; of course, she’s not! He watched her thoughts cross her features; confusion and, possibly, fear.

Y/N felt herself freezing at his question, she was nowhere near okay and she hadn’t expected the kindness at such a late hour. She didn’t want to talk about it, she knew Bucky had his own problems to deal with and she would be nothing but a burden. Her worries were nothing compared to what he had dealt with in his lifetime.

“S’okay doll, we don’t have to talk about it. But I’d recommend we fix your hands before you cause some serious damage.” Bucky nodded towards the bench and grabbed the first aid kit attached to the wall.

Y/N’s body shivered at his touch while he gently applied the ointment to the exposed flesh of her knuckles. She hissed at the sting and her own stupidity for taking out her emotions on herself, for not dealing with her pain and self-torment properly.

Bucky’s soft hum shocked her, and the way his thumb delicately stroked over her fingers had her relaxing into his touch, softening into his hands. “No bare-knuckle boxing for you, not for a week or two at least.” 

Bucky gave Y/N a lopsided smile, but she couldn’t return it, tears formed in her eyes. The emotions couldn’t be held back anymore, and she just let them pour out. 

Without hesitation, Bucky wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her towards him. He surprised himself and stiffened at his actions, but the moment he felt her head burrow into the crook of his neck, he knew he would never let go until she wanted too. 

Y/N’s hands clutched his shirt, her knuckles probably splitting open further under the harsh grip, but she didn’t care. Her body shook as the sobs escaped her, her hot tears falling onto the exposed skin of Bucky’s neck. Her hand snaked up his chest and gripped his t-shirt like it was a lifeline, 

“I’m-mm s-sorry.” “I’m-mm s-sorry.” Her quiet shaky voice shocked her, but his touch soothed her, his warm hand brushing up and down her back was more comfort than she had ever expected from the soldier.

Bucky’s skin was electrified as his palm glided against the bare skin at her back, “S’okay, no need to apologise. Do you want to go somewhere more private?”

Y/N pulled herself away from Bucky’s embrace, embarrassment heating up her face as she stood up and tried to mask it by stretching out her arms.

His heart sank from the loss of her body heat. His thoughts focused on how he had reacted to Y/N’s movements, and he felt the tingle of a blush forming on his cheeks. He knew now that he didn’t want her to be physically away from him ever again. 

Without a second thought, Y/N grabbed Bucky’s hand and pulled him out of the gym. He was full of surprises tonight, he let her guide him without questioning. She expected him to question her, put up a fight or something but he just followed her, his fingers intertwined between her own like they were meant to be.

Bucky followed blindly, a first for the assassin, being directed somewhere was very different from being dragged down empty corridors with no knowledge of the destination in mind. His heart hammered in his chest as they arrived in the residential quarter and she pulled him into her apartment. He’d never been inside her apartment before, always standing at the threshold as he called in before or after a mission.

Once inside, even in the dim light of the lamp leading them to the lounge, Bucky could see the personal touches Y/N had made. From the coloured wallpaper on one of the walls, to the bookcase stacked full of titles he’d never heard of and displaying photographs of the team, her family and friends. Nothing in the room screamed “Avenger!” or “Spy!”

Y/N guided Bucky to the corner sofa before dropping his hand to take a seat. She crossed her legs and pulled a cushion into her lap, holding it tightly to her chest. At his hesitation, she patted the seat beside her with an attempted smile. He saw the anguish through the fake smile and perched on the edge of the couch, turned towards her.

“I don’t really open up to people. Well, anyone.” Y/N started, her eyes down casted and she fiddled with the trim of the cushion, “I can’t stop thinking about what happened on my last mission.”

Bucky nodded, he’d had an inkling; she’d shut herself away for over a week and normally it only took a few days for Y/N to bounce back and prance around the compound in her bubbly way. He sank back into the couch, showing that he wouldn’t leave until she wanted him too.

“I could have saved them Buck.” She looked at him, tears in her eyes once more. “I know I could have, but I chose myself. I was selfish.”

His heart wrenched at the sight, she shouldn’t feel guilty for this, he leant forward, cupping her face with his hands, “Listen to me, Y/N. You have saved more people in your lifetime than anyone could have asked. You will feel guilty for those you haven’t but please try to look at all the good you have done. And think about what would have happened if you had gone back into that building, you could have jeopardised other people or gotten yourself killed. You made the right decision, even if you feel shitty about it.”

Y/N was taken aback by Bucky’s frankness, she had seen it when he spoke to the other Avengers, but she had never been on the receiving end. She looked deep into his blue eyes, only seeing his determination to make her see the sincerity of his words. She sniffled, and he loosened his hold on her face, his hands dropping to hers and holding tightly.

“You will feel guilty, you will hate yourself, you will feel the pain deep in your bones and feel that your soul is tarnished.” Bucky all but whispered, “But you have to keep going, you have to make sure you continue to protect, save and avenge those that cannot do it themselves.”

She squeezed his hands, and then threw herself into him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, “Thank you Bucky.”

Bucky leaned his cheek against her head, burying his nose into her hair, feeling content in her embrace, “Anytime doll. Have you got any hot chocolate?”

Y/N nodded, eyes sparkling with adoration rather than the pain that Bucky had seen since he walked into the gym. It made a warmth grow inside; he was able to bring a little bit of joy during her pain. He navigated towards the kitchen, giving Y/N one last check before he left her alone and was greeted with a smile that had his heart thumping against his chest.

With a belly full of hot chocolate, and marshmallows, Y/N sunk back into the cushions, relishing in the quiet that Bucky had brought to her thoughts with merely his presence and his authoritative tone as he put everything into perspective for her.

Bucky preened at the way Y/N’s body relaxed and her features softened from the frown and distress of her thoughts. He felt pride bubbling within, and he had to squash the grin that he wanted to beam in her direction. Even more so when Y/N rested her head on his shoulder and her fingers traced his Vibranium arm while the other wound around and held his hand.

Sleep was falling heavy against Y/N’s eyes, she wormed her way into Bucky’s arms, not that he put up a fight, and she knew that she would soon fall asleep if she wasn’t careful. Y/N hadn’t been this affectionate or open with anyone in such a long time, let alone this close to Bucky in the years she had known him.

Y/N lifted her head off of his chest to look up at him, his eyes closed yet she could tell he wasn’t sleeping from the way his eyes danced behind their lids, “Buck, I’m going to end up falling asleep here if we don’t move.”

Bucky hummed, and with a swift move, Y/N was pulled up into his arms and was being carried into her bedroom. The lamp flicked off and they were cloaked in darkness, only just making out each other’s silhouettes once he softly placed her down on the mattress, above the covers. 

He curled up beside her, his body framing hers, his torso tight against her back as his arms wrapped around her waist. She felt the heat rising in her body, her heart hammering in her chest at the thought of him being so close to her. It felt so right to be there, and she knew that she couldn’t fight her feelings for Bucky any longer with him lying so close to her. 

Y/N had always had a soft spot for Bucky, and it wasn’t just because of everything that happened with Hydra. She was not giving him a pity party, she genuinely enjoyed his company, as limited as it was. This was the longest and most intimate they had ever been, and she wanted to make the most of it.

A contented sigh escaped her lips and, in his half, asleep daze, Bucky pulled Y/N closer. His thoughts wandered to what this could all mean. He didn’t want to take advantage of her vulnerability. It might be a shot in the dark that she just might feel the same way, yet, deep down he’d always known that she was very important to him. More than a teammate, more than a friend.

She had always made his day a little brighter; the delicate smiles, the refill of the coffee pot with a wink in his direction, and the way she’d reduce the sound she’d make as she pottered around the lounge as he read the newspaper or a book. Bucky sucked in a breath; realisation dawned on him that this was something he didn’t want to mess up.

As if on cue, a mind reader to his thoughts, Y/N turned around to face him, her hand resting against his chest and his Vibranium arm remained wrapped around her. Doe eyes, wide with a tinge of fear and a small smile on her lips. He knew she was thinking about how to approach this and he nodded gently.

“I don’t want to push you.” Y/N’s voice was small in the silence. “I like you; I really like you, Bucky Barnes.”

“I really like you too sweetheart,” Bucky pressed his lips to her forehead, momentarily pausing to take in her words.

Y/N felt the weight of her secret lift off her shoulders, her body humming with excitement that he felt the same way. She relished in his kiss and gripped his shirt a little more. “We don’t need to rush this. Let’s just take it slow.”

Bucky backed away to look at her, a lopsided smile on his lips, “That’s okay with me doll.”

Y/N was enraptured by the glow of the moonlight cascading through the window and over Bucky. His soft gaze on her, she’d seen it a few times before, but she’d always thought it was one shared with the rest of the team, and his friends. At that moment, Y/N knew it was just for her, she brought her face level to his, their lips almost touching, she glanced up at him for his permission. 

Bucky wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, and with his eyes closed, he dipped his head to the side. As soon as he pressed his lips to Y/N’s, he felt a rush of electricity jolt through his body. It left a smouldering burn in its wake as their limbs tangled together and their hands caressed one another over their clothes.

Breathlessly, they pulled away from one another. Y/N grinned up at him, a beam that he would never stop his heart from skipping a beat. Bucky cupped her face and pressed a light peck to her lips, her cheeks and then rested his forehead against hers.

“I don’t want you to leave.” Y/N whispered, her warmth breath against his lips.

“You need to sleep. I’m alright with just a kiss goodnight.” Bucky kissed her once more.

They untangled themselves from one another, and Bucky pulled a blanket over Y/N as her eyes began to droop against the pillow.

“Sweet dreams Y/N.” Bucky tucked the blanket around her and leant back against the pillow, letting the soft snores calm his racing heart.

He knew she’d be in his dreams tonight, and he couldn’t wait to see what morning would bring.

the end.

Everything Tag List: @reann-loves-sebstan​ / @aroyaldarknessblr​ / @thefridgeismybestie​ 

Marvel Tag List: @natasha-danvers​ / @musesforart​

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #Bucky Barnes fanfic

[catherinetcjd]

I've been making a LOT of wallpapers lately  *sigh* ...and I came across one that just wouldn't tile! It's a whimsical "Swampy" print, that I just had to have in my game (after all, I live in a swamp!) So, I made it into a 3-tile mural. Then I got to thinkin' - one single wallpaper design really isn't much of an upload. I should add moar! And so, I opened my "To Make Murals" folder (that I haven't touched in many years) and got inspired to finally make murals. Like I said, the images in my To Make Murals folder have been in there a long time - like maybe 10 years? They are all free images taken from the web - but I have no idea where I got them? Or who took them? All I know is I got them planning to make murals of them, and to that end, I know they were available for free use. If you are the owner of one of these images, and wish me to remove the image, please contact me Without further ado, I hope your Simmies will enjoy a few of these murals. All six murals are 3-Tile, non-squishy, clearly named, numbered, and Mac friendly. The swampy wallpaper mural is found in with wallpapers for $4. Pond Pattern wallpaper from Milton & King. 

About the design: "Pond Pattern Wallpaper is a fun wallpaper illustrated by Jacqueline Colley. It is a celebration of nature and waterways featuring some wild characters like alligators, swans, flamingos and butterflies. This dark green animal wallpaper would be perfect for a kids bedroom. Bring your interior to life with this organic and dynamic design."

The other five photographic murals are found in the Misc/Other category for $12. PuraBatuBolong 

Durdle Door, England 

Isle of Harris, Scotland

Melisani, Greece

Lone Cypress, Monterey

Download at MTS

Please visit my MTS Profile for more TS2 downloads.

#Sims 2 wallpaper #TS2 Wallpaper #Sims 2 murals #TS2 mural #Mac friendly #photorealistic #landscapes #scenery #paradise #sims 2 cc #CatherineTCJD

[clarketomylexa]

any given tuesday

a day late for clexa week day 3 ‘cause uni is kicking my butt...

They're a perfect cliche: the time traveller and the immortal. 

Kissing Clarke feels like the ending to a Nicholas Sparks novel and with the pressure of her lips, the entire word slips away.

read on ao3

The coffee shop sits empty between the lunch and breakfast rush.

The hours that Sunday sees filled with eggs benedict and post-yoga chatter is silent on weekday mornings—a ten forty twilight zone in which writers, procrastinators and a single, hassled English Lit major thrive—and Lexa watches from across the street in the rain, fingers wound around the stem of a green umbrella.

It looks undeniably normal from here; the pin-striped awning, the gold letters on the window, the green bulb of the 14th Street station glowing outside it the February gloom. Having given up on customers, the hostess stands behind the counter, sipping an unwanted coffee from a paper cup while the barista is on break.

It could be any given Tuesday if it weren’t for the time traveller sitting in the corner most booth.

She appears to Lexa in fragments as she crosses the street, the reflection of the walk signal lurid and white in the puddles beneath her feet. Each facet of her—the chipped blue nail polish, the slope of her smile, the shine of a gold hoop earring nestled beneath light hair—finds Lexa in isolation, like a broken Picasso or a dream.

If it weren’t for the waitress stooped down to clear an empty plate from the table in front of her, Lexa would be tempted to believe she is just that.

A dream.  

It’s been seventy years since Lexa last saw her and she looks exactly the same.

Everything from the way she sits to the way she holds her mug to her lips reminds Lexa of the night they met—of silk and lace and cigarette smoke. The memories are so vivid they set her teeth on edge.  

The café is bigger than she thought it would be when she steps inside—bigger than she’d imagined it to be all of the years she’s stood outside on the pavement, waiting for the right time to go in. The pin-striped booths wrap themselves away around the corner of the counter one side of the restaurant and the wallpaper is light and airy. Lexa drapes the thick wool of her coat over one arm and lifts her hair from the collar of her turtleneck, scanning the restaurant for the figure she saw from outside.  

“Would you like a table?”

When she looks back the waitress is watching her politely.

“No thank you. I’m meeting someone.”

It’s strange to hear herself say the words out loud. She can’t count how many times she’s played out this exact scenario in her head—how many times she’d imagined what she would say or how it would go when she could finally step inside. Now that she’s really here, it doesn’t seem real.

The waitress disappears and Lexa ventures further into the restaurant, unwrapping her scarf from around her neck.

She can see her there by the window: elbow resting on the table, a coffee shop pamphlet spread out on its surface, fingers pressed to her temple as she reads. She doesn’t look up when Lexa approaches.

“Clarke.”

Lexa sees the exact moment Clarke registers her: the twitch of the fingers on her left hand where they rest on her fork, the flutter of lashes as she lifts her eyes from her reading and the reddening of her cheeks. When she looks up, the smile on her face is familiar and open. She looks almost relieved.

“You came,” she says, gesturing for Lexa to sit down as casually as if she’d invited Lexa out on a coffee date the night before and it occurs to Lexa quite suddenly that, for her at least, she did.

The thought ignites fears in her belly she hadn’t even considered until now.

She’s been in love with Clarke Griffin since the moment she met her—this blond paradox of a girl with her strange clothes and foreign words. A single night together was all she needed to know that she would tear down the decades to find her again but it’s been so long since then—she’s been so many things to so many people—it’s impossible she’s the same person as the one Clarke left.

Looking at Clarke now, she sees the same girl as she had that night—the same girl who left her alone in an empty bed the morning after with a name, date and address and the words ‘come find me’ on a slip of white paper. She sees a modern sweater over the silky dress she’d worn and her own kisses drying on Clarke’s stained lips and it makes her keenly aware of just how much time has passed.

Is it possible she’s spent the better half of a century clawing her way back to a girl who might not love her back?

The thought seems too awful to bear.

The waitress returns before Lexa can find an answer, placing a stack of pancakes and a milk jug of syrup on the table and Clarke thanks her happily, rearranging the food that’s already there to accommodate it.

There’s a feast laid out in front of her — eggs, bacon, toast and home fries. When one of the plates doesn’t fit, she shifts a stack of empty ones to the nearby table.

“Sorry,” she gestures to the spread with her fork once she’s finished—eggs, bacon, toast and home fries—and covers her mouth as she chews. “It helps with the nausea.” From travelling, Lexa thinks. She remembers Clarke telling her. “You must get that too?”

Lexa shakes her head. She doesn’t—not nausea at least. There’ll be pain sometimes, deep, ingrained pain in her calves and the backs of her knees as the years sweep past like the outgoing tide—growing pains, Anya calls them, and maybe she’s right—but she can’t blame Clarke for assuming wrong. Time travelling and immortality do seem to inhabit two ends of the same spectrum of existence.

The smile on Clarke’s face falters at Lexa’s answer but doesn’t disappear completely. Instead, it morphs into something deeper. A cavern opens behind her eyes, full of understanding and it dismantles Lexa entirely.

“How long has it been?”

Clarke doesn’t have to explain for Lexa to know what she’s asking. She must know—she must have done the math—but hearing it out loud is what makes it real so Lexa swallows and looks around the empty café before answering.  

“Seventy-four years.”

Clarke looks like she might cry.

“I’m sorry I left so quickly,” she says.

Lexa shakes her head.

“I’m sorry it took so long to find you.”

It’s an insensitive joke—the smile Clarke returns to her is one part fondness and two parts disbelief—but it’s been so long now that Lexa feels she’s earned the right to make fun of such things if only to stop her heart from caving under the pressure.    

It had taken two months for her to conclude Clarke Griffin as she appeared to Lexa that night wouldn’t exist for quite some time and another nine before she found any Griffin’s whatsoever within the Continental United States to base her search off of when the time came.

Once she did, it was a waiting game.

Clarke appeared to her everywhere then: in newspapers and history books, framed black and white photographs on mantels and restaurant walls. It seemed that, despite all of her charms, she hadn’t quite picked up on the subtleties of her trade as much as she probably ought to have.

Either that or nobody knew to look.

Lexa did though. By 1954, sightings of her had become so frequent Lexa had a collection dedicated to them: magazine clippings stuck with paste to the pages of leather Moleskine and mentions of her name circled in smudged, ballpoint ink in an effort to pinpoint where she would appear next.

One particularly odd hardback found tucked behind a shelf in a shop claiming to sell ‘Old, Used & Rare Books’ told the story of a blond-haired, blue-eyed bastard niece of a Tudor King who appeared at court for a week before promptly disappearing, leaving the mystery of her identity in her wake. Another — a glossy book of 19th-century photography with a blue fabric cover — printed a portrait taken of her in 1867, colourised in pink, red and baby blue.

It was a comfort if nothing else—collecting that is.  

A lifetime sat between her and the date Clarke had given her that night—an infinite combination of people and places to pass through—and the fear of not making it to the one that mattered was an ever-present companion, the thought of meeting her in the middle the only thing that could soothe it.

The more she collected, the more solid her plan became, sealing itself like hard clay into her subconscious. She didn’t have to wait. She didn’t have to play this game. She could subvert the universe—intercept her before their time—and it would be OK.  

Looking at Clarke now, Lexa knows how wrong she’d been.

Aside from the obvious flaws—them being that one: Clarke didn’t have a pattern, and two: any time she encountered Clarke other than the one prescribed was almost certain to end in disaster according to every novel, film and television show that she’s come into contact with since—the knowledge that there was never any path for them other than this one is glaringly obvious in the light of their reunion in the way it never was back then.  

It was fate that led her here—fate, destiny or some wide-eyed combination of the two—just like it was fate that led Clarke to her all those years ago; a self-fulfilling prophecy of which the only outcome could be this moment, so singular and unique in its existence, it could only have been crafted just for them.  

Clarke knows this, too.

It’s why she’s looking at Lexa like that; an expression so specific and intense Lexa feels it slung through her own body. It’s sad, she thinks—achingly, soulfully sad—but soft too, in a way Lexa hasn’t felt since the night they met since Clarke’s fingers smoothed through her curls and her lips breathed champagne bubbles over her rouged cheeks.    

It makes Lexa—hanging here in front of Clarke by a decades-old promise—scared.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Clarke asks, nudging the bowl of home fries in Lexa’s direction. She smiles shyly but there’s a tightness around her mouth, a plea in the furrow of her brows that screams for Lexa to say something—anything.  

Lexa doesn’t know how.

How do you explain to someone that they’re all you’ve ever wanted? How do you tell them that you’re afraid you won’t be the same to them?

“If it’s no trouble,” she answers eventually and watches the way Clarke’s tense shoulders unravel.

//

Noon sees the lunch crowd filter in—gallery owners and bookstore clerks chased over the twelve o’clock streets by the rising sun—but no one notices the reunion taking place in the corner of the café, the two of them cinched together over the tabletop, as if by some invisible, decades-old string.

It’s weathered this string. It has borne the brunt of so much heartache—so many years of waiting—but it’s still pulled just as tight between her own heart and Clarke’s as it was seventy-four years ago and it gives Lexa hope that they will be OK.

“No!” Clarke groans, cheeks red as she pours over the photograph in her hands. It was already an artefact when Lexa found it at an estate sale in Long Island back in 1994 but now the thick, white border and it’s spidery blue caption— Rebecca’s Birthday, October 1976 —is yellowed and the corners are creased from being handled. “Tell me I didn’t look like that!”

“I think the bell-bottoms are fetching,” Lexa smiles innocently, playing with the damp string of her teabag.

She loves watching the way Clarke talks; loves hearing the cadence of her voice and seeing the way her lips quirk. It’s the little things that disappear when all you have to remember someone by are captured likenesses and the relief that Lexa feels at being able to piece Clarke back together into a whole person again is so strong it’s almost physical.

“No one looks good in bell-bottoms,” Clarke shakes her head in disgust and Lexa laughs.

“Tell that to the person who lived through them.”

As soon as the words are free of her lips, Lexa wishes she hadn’t said them. Wishes they’d stayed trapped inside of her alongside every other dark, unpleasant thought she’s ever had but, try as she might, she can’t claw them back. All she can do is watch Clarke’s shoulders tighten, her face still.

“I’m sorry,” Lexa whispers, brow tightened under the weight of her guilt.

She wonders how much longer they’re going to have to do this dance; if they’re going to spend their entire lives tiptoeing and avoiding the obvious.

Clarke shakes her head, dismissing her apology gently.

“It’s so old.”

Her voice is serious now as she smooths her thumb over the photograph, tracing the lines worn into the cardstock as delicately as if they were veins beneath skin.

It must be strange, Lexa thinks, to see oneself captured in such a way. The Clarke in the photograph—an anonymous blond figure in the background of the picture—looks the same age as the Clarke sitting before her now. To her, this can’t have been more than a few months ago. To the world, it’s been over four decades.

“I’ve had it for a long time,” Lexa replies as Clarke slides it back over the table, avoiding the stack of dirty plates yet to be taken away. Their fingers catch across yellowed cardstock and the feeling—raw and electric—lingers on Lexa’s skin well after Clarke has retracted her hand to search for something in her bag

She watches Clarke search for a moment, frowning into its depths before pulling out a photograph of her own—this one glossy and new, the edges crisp and the ink fresh.

Lexa’s breath trips.

It’s her.

It’s her the night they met; the pale lace of her own dress, among a sea of dark evening jackets and silky, low-slung gowns, the curls of her own cropped hair, caught in mid-flight as she turned to face the direction of the camera.

It’s the moment she first laid eyes on Clarke all those years ago, rendered her forever as vivid as it had had been then, and it’s so sudden, Lexa thinks she might cry.

Heat—thick and aching builds up behind her eyes. Her lips tremble.

She hasn’t seen a picture of herself in years.  

“This was…”  

“Last night,” Clarke shrugs helplessly, reaching forward over dirty dishes and cold tea to brush a thick lock of hair off of Lexa’s forehead. “You grew out your hair.

Lexa laughs at that; she’s done so many things since then, how perfectly Clarke of her to point out a change of such little consequence. How perceptive of her to smooth over Lexa’s fears with so few words. “I like it.”

//

“You live here?”

Clarke stares in wonderment at the crown moulding and elaborate bannisters of the hallway nestled at the top of a walk-up West of the park.

Lexa knows what she’s thinking: rent here can’t be cheap. And it isn’t, or it wouldn’t be, if not for Anya.

Anya who’s doorstep Lexa appeared on twenty-eight years ago with nothing more than a suitcase and the name of her dead uncle to convince her to help her.

Anya who’s taught Lexa more about life in those twenty-eight years alone than Lexa’s learnt herself in all of the years she’s been alive.

“A friend put me onto it,” she explains, fishing the key out of her pocket and holding the door open for Clarke to step inside.

The apartment hasn’t changed much since Lexa moved in in the mid-nineties: it’s small but tidy with a long, skinny kitchen and her bed tucked into the U of the bay window. Her furniture is classic and clean, all estate-sale or Goodwill finds, antique armchairs and old, revarnished tables. If she’s learned anything over the years, it’s that leaning into trends leaves her with nothing but horribly outdating possessions—she still shivers when she thinks about the lava lamp and awful brown-and-mustard lounge set she’d acquired somewhere around 1975—so she sticks to simplicity instead. Bold colours are kept to a minimum.  

“It’s beautiful,” Clarke marvels, running her fingers over the stems of the books lining the living room walls; rows of them stacked neatly on their shelves like little soldiers conscripted into Lexa’s one-woman war against boredom.

She picks one up—a first edition of H. G. Wells’ The Time Machine with its beige cover and embossed title—and smiles at Lexa from the corner of her eye, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“You’ve been thinking about me.”  

It’s a statement, not a question.

It’s true regardless.

“Always.”

Clarke flashes her a cheeky smile, lip caught between her teeth as she slots the book back into place. It settles against the wood with a dull thud. Lexa watches the progression of Clarke’s fingers down the shelf.

They stop at the spine of a worn, black journal, pulling it from its perch before Lexa can stop her and Lexa feels her heart evacuate her chest.

Its cover is blank save shiny fingerprints worn into the thick leather from years of handling, and a single strip of white paper taped to it with peeling scotch tape. It only takes Clarke a second to recognise her own writing. The note she left seventy-four years ago, last night.

“You kept it?”

Lexa nods.

“Yes.”

She watches Clarke leaf through the pages, watches her take in the photographs and the articles, the timelines drawn in shaky ink. The notes scribbled in the margins of newspaper clippings and speculations about mysterious blue-eyed blonds.

There are journal entries in there too, Lexa knows. Dated from 1946 until now. Tiny paragraphs of life between all of the waiting.

When Clarke looks up at her there are tears in her eyes. Her voice is so thick, she almost can’t speak.

“You waited for me. All this time.”

Lexa swallows. Did Clarke think she’d do anything else?

A shaky breath pulls her out of her thoughts. There are tears on the tip of Clarke’s nose.

“I didn’t expect you to do this…”

She shakes her head, looking upward, blinking tears off her lashes.

“I never thought I’d be someone worth waiting for.”

“You’re the only person that’s ever mattered,” Lexa replies, so quickly it shocks her.

It’s a truth she feels down to her bones. One etched into her existence. The knowledge that they’ll always find each other. That they’re all that matters.

She wobbled sometimes. It’s been so many years there’s no surprise she doubted it but that doesn’t make it any less true.

Suddenly, Clarke is everywhere at once.

Her fingers are in Lexa’s hair, her lips are on Lexa’s jaw, her entire being is a flurry of movement so intense it sets Lexa alight like kindling to a flame. Lexa kisses back with just as much intensity—a desperate kind of decades-old need, nurtured and tended to with gentle hands—her heart beating frantically in her chest.

There’s a distant thunk; the journal falls to the rug beneath their feet.

Lexa’s fingers map their way along Clarke’s cheeks, down her neck, along her shoulders, under her jaw, remembering lost textures and the way it feels to be kissed. After so long without it—so long fantasizing and wishing, hoping and praying—it’s a sensation so strong it makes her dizzy.

She can hardly think.

She can hardly breathe.  

Clarke tastes like rich, dark coffee and syrup and, beneath that, champagne. She breathes hot breathes along Lexa’s cheek and her fingers rake desperately over Lexa’s stomach beneath her clothes, nails clawing at the layers of thick wool until her coat spills off her shoulder and stumbles backward until she feels her mattress give beneath her buckling knees.

She sits.

For a moment, Clarke hangs there above her as if suspended by some greater force. Lexa can smell the sweetness of her perfume and traces of herself trapped in the folds of her clothes. Can see the tiny baby hairs at her hairline and the pretty flush on her cheeks.

She’s crying, Lexa thinks. Her eyes are wide and shiny, a watercolour shade of blue because Lexa is crying too: hot, wet tears she can feel dripping down the valley of her face and when she reaches shaking fingers up to wipe them away, Clarke catches them, her own fingers curling under the shelf of her jaw, her own thumb brushing them away.

Lexa blinks against the feeling and swallows the sob caught halfway between her heart and her mouth.

Oh, God.

This is real.

She’s here.

It’s enough to spur her onward as she leans forward, eyes still closed as she slips a hand around the back of Clarke’s neck and pulls her down to the mattress.

//

When Lexa wakes, it’s dark.

Properly dark now, not the four o’clock half-light that still shocks her to this day despite having lived through twenty-eight Winters in this city.

The curtains are open above her, slinging puddles of watery moonlight over the floor, the rug, the corner of a bookcase. An oblong patch of light illuminates the edge of the mattress and only then does Lexa realise she’s alone in bed, the sheets draped haphazardly over her bare body. It makes her heart trip.

Had it all been a dream?

It’s a thought that has the power to shatter her completely.

It’s a thought that has the power to shatter her entirely. She’s dreamt of such things before but never quite as vivid as this, never with so much detail and feeling but still, she supposes, stranger things have happened. Cold seeps in through every crack in her heart. She wants to cry.

She runs a hand over her face, over her hair and down the back of her neck until she hits a bruise, a pleasant ache in the dip of her collarbone that simmers beneath her skin like champagne bubbles and it’s enough to drive her fears away.

She hadn’t dreamt it.

A moment later the toilet flushes, a chink of yellow light skittering across the hardwood and Clarke pads back to bed, curling herself around Lexa’s prone body like she’s fit there all of her life. A hand fastens itself around Lexa’s bare waist.

I’m here, it says and the tension coiled through her ebbs away like the tide.

I love you, it says and Lexa sleeps without dreams.

//

The second time she wakes is a far more pleasant affair.

The cold of the night has retreated to the furthest corners of her mind and the curtains and closes against the morning sun, bathing them in warm orange and pales yellows.

When Lexa looks up, Clarke is there. The weight of her, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with Lexa’s oxford short draped snugly around her shoulders, is firm and grounding.

After so many years of waking up alone, the shock of Clarke being there leaves her momentarily dumbfounded. For all of her waiting and wishing, all of her planning their reunion in her mind's eye, she has exactly no idea how they’ll navigate this from here on out.

In the past, it’s a thought which would have scared her half to death but she feels at peace with it now. Surely the hard part is over? Nothing that happens now can scare her any more than the thought of never seeing Clarke again had for so many years.

“You know I would call you a stalker but this is actually kind of flattering,” Clarke murmurs, sensing her movements.

Lexa sits up, sheets pooling around her waist and drapes herself over Clarke’s back. When Clarke sinks her head comfortably into the crook of her neck, she smiles. Clarke has the journal open in her lap. She runs her hands over the veins of ink and brittle paper.

“You’re the one who upped and left me for seventy-four years,” Lexa argues. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Take up knitting,” Clarke suggests, pressing a kiss to the underside of her jaw and Lexa grins.

“Oh, I did.”

“You did not!”

“I’ll have you know I was quite the handi-crafts woman.”

Clarke sighs contentedly against her.

“I’ll have to hold you to that.”

#clexaweek2020 #clexaweek2020 day 3 #clexa #time travel #immortality #a touch of pining #a lot of pining

[insfiringyou]

BTS - ‘One Last Time’ - V leaves for the military (V x Cassandra)

Contains: Angst. Smut.

Set a few months after V and Cassandra’s historical roleplay goes wrong and she was forced to use her safeword, and following the events of ‘Refuge’ where Taehyung moves out of their shared apartment, Cassandra seeks closure on their relationship before he enters the military. 

This is a major part of our headcanon universe and ongoing storyline (find out more here) - this is set after Jin, Suga, RM, J-Hope and Jimin have started their military enlistment. 

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM   /   Jin  /   Suga  /   J-Hope   /   Jimin   /   V   /   Jungkook 

& Our full masterlist can be found here

Rated Content below the cut

She unclasped the polka dot skirt as she locked the door and stepped out of the wide pool of fabric, turning to the pair of washed-denim jeans she had slung over the back of her chair before the show. It had been a two week stint at the small theatre and her throat was a little sore from singing. ‘Dreamboats and Petticoats’...her friend had shown her the advertisement for the part in the local newspaper and, while it wasn’t Broadway, the month of practise for the song and dance numbers had kept her mind and body occupied, preventing her thoughts from running wild.

The lighting was dim in the dressing room, but a sparkling glimmer in the large mirror caught her eye and her heart began to thud heavily as she eyed the large crystal vase on the table, a sea of blood-red flowers cascading over the sides. She considered who had let him backstage during the show, before she spotted the delivery receipt from a local florist on the dresser, weighed down by a tall bottle of Dior foundation. With a trembling hand, she knowingly teased through the lightly-spiced stems and petals until she found what she was looking for. The note had been handwritten; one corner of the paper slightly curled from the moisture of the bouquet. 

I leave on Friday

Always yours,

Tae

She put the note down slowly, surprised to find that her eyes had started to water. She had known for months he was due to go in and had subconsciously been avoiding the news websites she usually scrolled through for the past few weeks, not wanting to get involved. The flowers caught her eye once more, their fresh, sweet scent filling the room just as they had done on the day they met. Even the vase, a tall, crystal number, seemed identical and she wondered what had happened to the original. Had she lost it when moving apartments? Getting dressed and with a heavy heart that seemed to be beating too fast, she made up her mind and grabbed her car keys from her purse, deciding to forego the wrap-up party which was already taking place in the foyer, but gulping a free chute of champagne on her way past.

***

Roaming her eyes over the set of buttons, she struggled to recall which number Jimin resided at. A familiar pang of frustration rose in her as she reached in her jean pocket and pulled out her cell, flipping through the string of text messages between her and Taehyung, vaguely remembering him texting her the address a few weeks before. The fact he had sold his cozy, top-floor apartment in Gangnam to move into her cramped studio had been an arguing point from day one, and now, with an ounce of bitterness, she hoped he finally realised what a stupid thing he had done. It had been the first of many tense moments between them in the months leading up to the sex act which had gone so terribly wrong and she couldn’t help but wonder if they had been allowed more space apart, more breathing room, their lives wouldn’t have become so poisonously entangled that they needed to push each other to such extremes. It was pointless thinking of that now - what had happened had happened and, while they had texted intermittently in the past two months, with time healing some of the hurt he had caused her that night, she wouldn’t be able to forgive him completely. 

She found the message she was looking for and pressed the buzzer on the intercom, unable to remember which of the four floors Jimin’s apartment was on. She automatically took a step back as the front door opened, the sight of Taehyung on the doorstep, wearing a pair of frustratingly attractive glasses beneath his dark, curly hair, leaving her a little winded. He was clutching a crumpled paperback between his long fingers, the title unreadable in the small distance between them and she noticed how mature he looked; how his usually boyish features had changed in the months since she last saw him. She didn’t know what to say and could see he was likewise stunned into silence. Remembering why she had come; the flowers he had sent, she felt a stab in her chest and slowly moved forward, wrapping her arms around him in an embrace. His sweater was soft against her cheek, his scent familiar, as she held him close, feeling his hands cautiously touch her back, his fingers splaying as he hugged her gently.

“You’ve still got your hair…” She eventually murmured, realising they had been silent for half a minute as she pulled away. He looked surprised to see her; it was something in the way his dark eyes twitched which only someone who knew him as intimately as she had done would notice. 

“I thought I’d enjoy it while I still can.” He replied slowly, his hand moving subconsciously to touch the edges of the tightly permed locks, as though in a daze. “You got my flowers.” It was not really a question and when he stepped aside, she followed him into the building without a pause, waiting for him to lead her into the ground floor apartment. 

“How did you know I was performing?” She asked, waiting for him to close the door behind them before taking a few more steps into the narrow hallway. The pastel hue of the wallpaper along with the framed photographs which perched on the edge of a painted cabinet suggested the decor had been chosen by Ara; her and Jimin’s matching smiles filled the photo frame, the picture taken at a beach. She eyed, beyond that, a golden trophy she vaguely recognised from the MAMA awards and wondered whether it was Jimin’s or Ara’s.

“I saw a review online.” He shrugged easily beneath his pale turtleneck sweater. 

“I just took it for the money…” She paused, cheeks a little pink. The musical, which mostly attracted the older residents of the city along with their grandchildren, was not exactly the type of gig she had planned when going into acting. But then again, why should she have to feel embarrassed in front of him? “And the costumes.” She added with a smile.

“I love Buddy Holly.” He murmured sincerely, making her wonder whether he had even noticed her blush. 

“I know…” She whispered. A quick glance in the living room told her, as expected, he was alone. While the basics of the furniture were clearly not to his taste, the various objects lying around were clearly his; indicating he had been occupying the place for a number of months. She tried to recall how long Jimin had been away but failed. She guessed Ara must still be on tour, or otherwise happy to stay elsewhere while Taehyung stayed in the apartment. She wondered whether he had started looking for a new place yet, somewhere he could return to after all of this was over. “Do you have time?” She met his gaze.

“Yes...it’s just me here…” He confirmed, leading her into the adjoining space. She looked over the small pile of books littered on the coffee table as he put down the one he was currently reading. She could see the crumpled cover now it lay face up; the image of a train track fading into the distance beneath the title ‘Different Seasons’. “Do you have something else lined up?” He asked, hovering by the doorway to the kitchen, waiting to see if she would sit down.

“Not yet.” She turned to face him, once more taken aback by how bookish and academic he looked in this unfamiliar place. 

“I’ve been thinking about what happened…” He started, needing to say something to break the awkward air between them. She could see he had been holding onto this for months, unable to express his feelings in a text or phone call, and needing to see her face-to-face to explain in person. “I want you to know how sorry I am…”

The longing in his voice made her stomach drop, knowing he had spent months coming to terms with what had happened... He seemed so harmless and, looking at him now, she found it hard to believe how scared he had made her. A part of her knew, deep down, that this didn’t mean anything...that whatever had caused him to act out that night was still in him somewhere and she hoped that whatever toxic environment had caused their relationship to sour so quickly, he would know next time if it were to happen with someone else, to stop himself before it was too late.

“I just couldn’t leave things the way they were.” She admitted with a sigh, knowing that while it was not perhaps the most sensible option, it was the truth. “When you sent the flowers…” She found herself staring into space. “I remember why I fell for you in the first place.”

“Red carnations…” He murmured in a low voice.

“Because you wanted me...I know.” She nodded, recalling in perfect clarity how he had looked when she first saw him; the silk shirt he wore with the top set of buttons unfastened casually as she caught him in the foyer, the delivery boy ratting him out as being the one to have sent the flowers. She had not yet removed her long dress and the delicate beading and lace detailing had glimmered in the soft light, cast down from the chandeliers. She had been the queen of the fairies on stage and she couldn’t help but wonder whether he would still find her attractive up close, without the bold theatre makeup and glitter she had wiped off as soon as her final scene was over. The way that he looked at her as she tapped him on the shoulder, with his dreamy dark eyes, had quickly dissolved any doubts. His eyes ran over her features like she was the only woman on Earth; that they were meant to be together. It was the closest thing to love at first sight she had ever seen. 

“I still feel that way.” His voice brought her back to the present and her eyes snapped up to meet his. He held her gaze strongly, his usually dreamy expression replaced with something more fierce and concrete. 

“I meant to come and see you sooner.” She explained, both to herself and him as she moved closer.

“To end it?” 

“I hoped you wouldn’t argue with me.” She said softly, confirming his question. 

“I don’t see the point…” He murmured gently, rubbing his nose between his fingers and taking his glasses off. “You’ve clearly thought it over.”

She nodded, looking up at him. “Thank you.” Her voice whispered. “I wanted to come and say goodbye.”

His mouth twisted in acceptance, biting his inner cheek. “It means a lot.” She could see the tears starting to well in his eyes, making them glisten as his voice cracked. “I won’t bother you anymore.” He promised.

Her heart sank and she reached out for his hands, grasping them softly. “Don’t…”

He let out a sob as the first tears fell on his cheeks, his lips opening and closing a few times as he tried to speak. “I’m so scared Cass…” He eventually said, body trembling. She thought it was the most honest thing she had ever heard him say and felt a surprising wave of relief wash over her. His admittance wasn’t news to her; she had known it from the moment he received the letter, months before, but he had desperately tried to hide his feelings, masking them with wine and sex and pointless arguments. She wondered why he had fought it so hard, but realised she couldn’t relate; while her own sex faced plenty of challenges, it was only those with the Y chromosome which had to go through this particular ordeal. “I don’t know how I’m gonna make it through…” He wept, letting go of her hand to wipe his eyes messily with his sleeve.

“It’s not forever.” She reasoned, whispering soothingly. 

He sniffled. “I had this image of you being there when I come out…” His voice shook. “Of us getting married, having kids..”

She felt her cheeks grow warm, her stomach dropping unpleasantly as his face began to swim before her eyes, her own tears falling thick and fast. “It’s hard for me too…” She admitted, knowing that despite knowing him for three years, she had never seen him so vulnerable; he had never allowed her to get close enough to see him this way. “You’re not a bad person Tae.” Her brow furrowed, realising it was true.

He lifted his head from his chest, looking her straight in the eye. “I wanted to grow old with you.” 

“Stop…” She pleaded, her eyes and cheeks wet.

She felt his fingers tangle in the back of her hair as he bridged the gap between them, pressing his mouth gently to hers, their tears mingling as he opened his lips against her, wanting her to respond...to know how he was feeling. It was no use trying to resist; she could sense herself softening beneath his touch, knowing that she shouldn’t but unable to stop herself from kissing him back; their bodies pressing closer as she felt his warm breath against her skin. It felt cathartic and final, with her finally pulling away to press her forehead to his.

“One last time…” She nodded, agreeing with his silent plea, whispering against his lips. 

He was silent for a moment, nuzzling her warm, wet cheeks with his nose before tightening his fingers against her scalp, being careful to be gentle as he tilted her face upward, her long neck arched and exposed as he looked at her. 

“I loved you so much…” He gasped, his eyes glistening as he took her in.

“You too.” 

Their eyes stayed locked for a moment longer, savouring the mutual confession which was all that remained of their love. When their lips met again, she found her own hands moving to his hair, running it through the tight curls as he brushed the straps of her camisole off her shoulders, his palms holding her steady. She clutched him tightly to her as he opened his warm mouth against her chest, pecking her pale skin while she gasped above him, running her thumb over his exposed cheekbone. He continued for a moment, trailing along her collarbone before looking up, his eyes full of lust as she caught his lips between hers. 

Her fingers trailed along his lower back, appreciating the soft indents of his pelvis as she eased his sweater from his torso, throwing it to the shag-pile carpet before moving back to him, grasping his cheeks in her palms as they kissed ferociously. The band on her jeans was tight, but he slotted his thumbs between the gap at the back, moving them along her hips until he reached the button at the front. She allowed him to unbuckle her and slip his fingers beneath the hem of her panties, pulling them down her legs as he dropped heavily to his knees. Sweetly, he pressed his lips to her inner thigh, moving along the curvaceous parts of her skin where a light pattern of stretch marks adorned the fleshier part of her legs. She let out a moan, savouring his tenderness as he kissed her lovingly - seeming to trace the patterns with his lips, as though wanting her to see herself the way he did. Her lips parted as he tilted his head and moved between her thighs to the triangle of tightly curled pubic hair, pecking her slit sensually a couple of times before pulling away, a little breathlessly. 

“Can you stand up?” She asked softly, taking his hands in hers and pulling him to his feet.

She unbuckled his belt quickly, the sound of the metal clasp ringing through the cozy room as she eased the black fabric away from his crotch, reaching beneath the zipper to curl her fingers around his cock. She bent down as she uncovered him and kissed his long shaft gently. He was not quite hard; his emotions overwhelmed his desire, and she encouraged him onto the small, two-seater sofa at the edge of the room, sitting him down while she nested between his legs, the carpet soft against her bare knees. He didn’t protest as she wrapped her lips around him, clutching him gently as she sucked his cock. She knew his body intimately and she found herself brushing her tongue familiarly along the grooves and veins in his shaft, pressing against the underside of his tip as he hardened in her mouth. His head lolled back as she withdrew, letting him go almost completely before sinking down on him again. 

“You feel so good Cass.” He gasped, stroking her hair softly as she kept up the pace, working him slowly in a way she hadn’t done in years. It had been a long time since she had made love to him with her mouth, with her in control, setting the pace. She wondered when things had changed; when they stopped showing their love for each other through their bodies and instead became addicted to pushing each other to their limits, using each other like a drug. With a moan, she kept going until she felt his fingertips against her cheek. She let him go softly, looking up. 

“Can you fuck me?” He asked gently, his expression dreamy beneath his bangs. Slowly, she nodded, her thighs sticky as she stood up and removed her shirt and bra. His eyes fell to her breasts as she steadied herself against him, holding his bare shoulders and straddling his waist. His cock was wet, glistening and upright and she spread her lips with her fore and middle fingers, her clit brushing his pubic hair as she sank onto him. As always, it took a moment to adjust to his thickness and he held her by the hips, slowly moving her against him, up and down, guiding her and pressing his lips to her breasts. She appreciated the sound of their bodies coming together, the wet noise of his cock inside her, merging with their gasps. His mouth closed around a nipple, pecking it gently before moving to the other and pulling away, brushing both thumbs over the sensitive red tips, making them sheen with saliva. 

She realised, as his lips returned to hers, that he too had forgotten what it felt like to be together like this - without the toys and the kinks and the pain. Her stomach churned with sorrow and she was almost grateful when he wrapped his arms around her naked back and, clutching her close to him, lowered her backward onto the floor, the shag pile soft and comfortable against her skin. He slipped out of her, removing his trousers and underwear from his ankles, before pushing back into her, his body covering hers as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. Their lips came together as his breathing intensified, signifying the tell-tale start of his orgasm. She knew he was trying to hold off, to savour the moment and make it last, but eventually his hips bucked against her and he allowed himself to give in, burying himself deep as he clutched her naked body to his, their hips pressed together tightly as he came inside her. She kept kissing him, knowing that when they stopped, they would have to part, and she didn’t know whether she was ready to say goodbye just yet. He likewise seemed reluctant to let her go when his hips finally slowed, but eventually, he slipped out of her, his cock having grown soft inside her warmth. He pulled away, his breath haggard, and kissed her cheek gently. 

She lay for a moment in silence as he rolled off her, her own breath heavy; breasts heaving against her chest as she watched him stand up. “I need to go…” She murmured, getting to her feet. Taehyung turned to look at her, his eyes moving to her pubis as she straightened. She followed his gaze, a little dazedly, to the space between her legs and touched her fingers to the warm semen which dripped down her inner thigh, across her stretch marks and cellulite-puckered skin. 

“Here…” He reached towards the coffee table, past the paperback he had been reading, and handed her a box of tissues. She thanked him quietly, taking a couple to clean herself and trailing it between her thighs and over the bottom of her pubic hair. He put the box down and took a couple for himself, wiping his cock before reaching for his discarded underwear. 

“Um…” She looked around, searching for a trash can in the unfamiliar apartment.

“It’s okay.” He muttered as he adjusted the elasticated waistband of his boxers against his waist and reached for the bundle of tissues. He disappeared into the kitchen and she took the opportunity to get dressed, grimacing a little when she realised her thighs were still a little tacky against her tight jeans. 

Taehyung turned to the wall when he returned, dressing quietly as she slipped on her shoes, wondering if sleeping with him had been the right thing to do. She checked her pocket to make sure her car keys were still there and the little jangle caught his attention, alerting her to the fact she was leaving.

“Can I write?” He asked softly, voice full of uncertainty. 

She was silent for a moment. “If you want to...” She said quietly. If she had thought he looked more mature when he first answered the door, his next expression broke that illusion. His lip quivered slightly, though he barely seemed to notice. “Try not to worry too much…” She whispered, trying to reassure him. 

He followed her out of the living room and into the hallway. “What did you do with the flowers?” He questioned. 

“They’re still at the theatre. I’ll pick them up later.” She turned to face him as they reached the front door and they were silent for a moment.

“I meant what I said in the note.” He looked at her, his voice low. “No matter what happens...”

“I know.” She nodded, knowing it was true. While neither were virgins when they met, they had been each other’s first love, and that would never change. “You too Tae.” She sighed. “Good luck.”

“Break a leg…” He agreed and they both smiled sadly at the shared joke. 

“Goodbye.” She whispered.

***

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[therainroguefanfiction]

🎃 Frightful October Act V, #13 ~ Urbex (Haechan / Donghyuck Lee)

📑 Table of Contents

Genre: Supernatural, AU, Fluff, Friendship, Halloween

Word Count: 3,259

Pairing: Reader x Haechan

World: NCT

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It was the night of Halloween and you had resolved yourself to spending the night reading as many horror books as you could while munching on your favorite snacks. You had been invited to a party to ring in the holiday, but partying wasn’t really something that interested you.

You stepped out of the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand when the doorbell rang. Confused, you glanced at the clock above the fireplace. It was eight-thirty. ‘Who could that be?’ you wondered, setting the bowl down on the coffee table next to your book. You checked the peephole before pulling the door open. “Haechan? What are you doing here?”

Your best friend smiled, his hands behind his back.

“I thought you went to the party,” you shifted, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool October air hit your skin.

“Nah, it wouldn’t be fun without my bestie!”

You raised a brow, knowing something was up. Normally, he would have pushed himself inside already, plus he had no problems going to the party without you last year. “What is it, Haechan?”

“Ah, well…” he gave you a sheepish smile. “Mark hyung and the others didn’t want to go, either. Chenle thought it would be fun to do some urban exploring – he’s been watching a lot of those videos online lately.”

“Okay… and what does that have to do with me?” You were getting a bad feeling.

“I may or may not have promised them that you would be willing to come with us?”

“I’m sorry, you what?”

“I’m sorry!” he bowed, holding his hands together above his head. “You’re skilled in martial arts, so you being around makes everyone feel safer! It was the only way the others would agree to come.”

“Haechan – ”

“Please!”

You frowned, glancing over your shoulder at your horror book waiting to be read and the popcorn that was now probably cold. You looked back at Haechan’s pleading face, and back again to your snack. With a heavy, defeated sigh, you turned back to your best friend, who took the sound as a sign of compliance.

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you out the door. You barely had enough time to pull the door closed behind you. The cold air nipped at your skin and you whined, ‘He didn’t even give me time to grab my jacket!’

The rest of the group was waiting down the street at Jaemin’s house, loitering around Mark’s car. After playing a quick rock-paper-scissors tournament to determine who would sit where, everyone piled into the car. Jeno won but allowed you to sit upfront in his place. Jaemin, Jeno, and Jisung sat in the back, with Chenle, Renjun, and Haechan sitting across their laps. Not the safest thing to do, but everyone trusted Mark’s safe driving.

The destination Chenle had chosen was Oakmeadow Estates, an abandoned gated community on the outskirts of town. No one knew why, but the place had been completely abandoned five years ago and the city hadn’t made any moves to do anything with it.

Mark pulled up to the metal gate and you stepped out of the car, Haechan following close behind. The gate was rusted, vines curled around the bars like a snake constricting its prey. It was on a track and had been previously opened enough to allow a person to slip through.

Your fingers wrapped around one of the bars at the front of the gate. Haechan squeezed into the opening and the two of you started to push it. It creaked and moaned, and it took some effort to unstick before it finally started to slide along the track. Mark pulled the car through and you pushed it back to its original position. That way, if anyone drove by they wouldn’t notice anything amiss.

Haechan held the passenger side door open for you and you thanked him, climbing back into the car. He grinned, plopping onto your lap before closing the door. You huffed but said nothing. Mark followed the road to the back of the estates, which was surrounded by towering spruce trees. There was no power there anymore, the streets illuminated only by the full moon that hung above and headlights of the car.

He parked in a cul-de-sac and everyone hesitantly shuffled out of the car.

A gust of wind ruffled the trees, making you shiver as you folded your arms tightly, hands in the warmth of your armpits. ‘I think it’s getting colder. And man is this place cree-py,’

Haechan frowned, shrugging his jacket off before holding it out to you. “Here, wear this. Sorry I didn’t give you a chance to grab yours.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, taking it from his hands.

He nodded. “This sweater is thick, so don’t worry!”

With a smile, you slipped your arms into the jacket, sighing in content at the warmth it provided. It smelled like him, which was a plus in your eyes.

Mark unlocked the trunk and everyone gathered around as he handed out flashlights and walkie talkies.

You whistled. “You really came prepared, huh?”

“You can never be too prepared,” he smiled.

“Are we splitting up, then?” You asked, clipping the walkie talkie to the pocket of your pants.

Mark hesitated before nodding. “We’re going to split up into two groups.” He shuffled around in the black bag before pulling out a handful of thin sticks. “Long sticks on one team, and short sticks on the other.”

The group took turns taking a stick and hiding them. On the count of three, everyone revealed their stick, everyone’s eyes immediately snapping to your long stick before checking theirs.

“Yes!” Haechan cheered, throwing his arms around you. Jisung and Jeno high-fived before doing the same. The other team didn’t look pleased.

Mark made everyone test their walkie talkie and flashlight. “Okay, we’re all set. Don’t stray too far from the car, and don’t wander off on your own. Stay alert and on your guard.”

You headed toward the two-story house in the middle, your shoes crunching as they followed the gravel path. The grass was overgrown, reaching your knees as it tilted over the path like hungry hands. Jeno took the lead, slowly pushing the door open and shining his flashlight inside.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” he called, pausing to listen for a response. “We’re just exploring, we mean no harm.” The house remained silent so he stepped inside.

Everything was covered in dust an inch thick, kicked up into the air as everyone entered the house. On the left was an archway leading into the living room. You shined your flashlight, the beam ghosting over the pictures hanging on the walls. They all seemed like normal photographs except for one, sitting in the middle of the wall above the fireplace. It was hanging lopsided, like many of its brethren, the glass broken in a single line from the top corner to the bottom.

The photograph itself was faded and old, a rustic orange in color. A woman sat straight in a wooden chair, her hair pulled taut into a bun that sat on top of her head. In her lap was a young child, maybe five years old, wearing a white dress. She looked terrified.

Something about the photo made you feel uneasy as a chill slid down your spine. It seemed like the girl’s face was moving, and you leaned closer, squinting in the darkness. Her face flashed before turning into a swirling void of black like someone had taken a ballpoint pen and circled it a dozen times. You blinked rapidly, brow furrowed. The girl’s face was normal again. ‘I guess the darkness is playing tricks on my mind…’

Shaking your head, you stepped back into the entryway, following Jisung up the rickety stairs. They creaked under your weight and the railing was loose, shifting when you put your hand on it. He pushed open the door directly across from the stairs – it was a small bathroom. You stepped past him, pushing open the next door.

It was a bedroom, stripped down and nearly bare. The wallpaper was faded, the flower pattern barely visible as it peeled and yellowed in various places. The queen-sized bedframe was missing one of its legs and the dressed had been stripped of all its drawers. The wood was splintered as if the drawers had been removed with force.

Jisung stepped inside and you headed to the next room. It was also a bedroom but looked more worn down than the first. The springs on the single bedframe were sticking up like a bed of bloodthirsty nails. The carpet was stained a sickly shade of yellow-green and the wallpaper had been ripped from the walls. It looked like one of those stickers stores put on their product, and then you try to peel it off, half of it gets stuck on.

You stepped farther into the room, glancing at the dresser across from the bedframe. The bottom drawer was pulled out a bit, so your finger wrapped around the handle and you tugged, pulling it open all the way. The bottom of the drawer had been removed. You pushed it closed again, the handle rattling as you did so. Against the back wall was a long mirror, pieces of the glass missing. You stepped closer, inspecting the glass. Words had been etched into it, but it was too dark to see. When you pointed the light at it, it became too bright to make out the words.

A dark shadow moved behind you, reflected in the bottom of the mirror, followed by a soft bang, as if something had been knocked over. You whirled around, training the light where you thought the sound had come from. Your heart picked up speed as you slowly approached the closet door, reaching your hand up. You hesitated, fingers brushing against the metal. You took a deep breath to calm your nerves before wrapping your fingers around the handle.

A scream ripped through the air, sending a chill through your body. You abandoned the closet and rushed down the stairs, trying not to trip. Haechan was at the bottom of the stairs, breathing heavy with his eyes wide open. Jeno was kneeling beside him, flashlight aimed at the ceiling, the light shining off the chandelier.

“What happened?” you demanded, kneeling on his other side and gently grasping his shoulder. His eyes met yours, a mixture of embarrassment and fear swirling in their depths.

He offered you a sheepish smile. “Something landed on my head. I thought something grabbed me…”

A squeaking pulled your attention to the ceiling where a small bat was flying in and out of the beam of light as it tried to escape. You sighed in relief, standing up and offering him your hand. He gladly accepted, sliding his hand into your own. Once he was on his feet, he kept a tight grip on your hand.

You gave it a tug as you turned toward the stairs. “Come on, I wanna finish exploring upstairs,” he followed close behind, lacing his fingers with your own. You headed straight for the second bedroom but stopped short when your light fell on the closet door, which was now open.

Haechan walked into you, not expecting the sudden stop. “What’s wrong?”

Your brow furrowed. Had you opened it in your haste to leave the room? Your hand had been around the handle, but you never turned it. Or maybe you did and just didn’t realize it. Cautiously, you walked around the bed, scanning the area with the flashlight. You pushed the door shut, testing to see if it would spring open on its own. It didn’t.

Haechan frowned at you. “Did you find anything?”

“I heard a sound in this closet,” you explained. “You screamed before I could open it…”

He seemed to realize what you were getting at and swallowed. “Who opened it, then?”

“Maybe… it was Jisung?” you questioned, glancing at him. “He was up here with me.”

“Let’s get out of here, I don’t like this.” He tugged you back toward the door and you followed him down the stairs, but you couldn’t help but look behind you at the open door. Something about that closet really unnerved you. “Jisung!”

The youngest of the group was nowhere to be found.

Jeno stepped out of the kitchen, looking at the two of you curiously. “Something wrong?”

“Where’s Jisung?”

“He went over to the other group.”

“Before or after Haechan screamed?” you asked.

“Before,” he frowned, looking between the two of you. “What’s going on?”

You and Haechan exchanged a look. If he had left before the scream, then there’s no way he could have messed with the closet. Was there someone hiding in the house and they were trying to scare you? Or was it something else, something sinister that couldn’t be seen with the naked eye? Your hair was beginning to stand on end and dread was pooling in your stomach.

“Let’s get ou – ” your words were cut short when you saw the look of terror on Jeno’s face. You followed his wide eyes and nearly dropped the flashlight. Standing at the top of the stairs was a shadowy figure, short in stature. It was too dark to make out any features – the only thing you could see were two bloodshot eyes staring directly at you. The three of you were frozen.

“Wh-What is that?!” Haechan whispered, gripping your arm.

Shakingly, you lifted the flashlight. The weak beam lit up its dark, sunken face. Blood dripped from where its hairline should be. Its mouth opened, showing off rotting teeth. A high-pitched scream ripped from its throat, threatening to pierce your eardrum.

“Run!” you ordered, shoving Haechan to get him moving. You brought up the rear, keeping your eyes on the creature so it wouldn’t be able to sneak up on you, slamming the door shut. The others came running over, asking what was happening and what the scream was. “No time to explain, get in the car!”

Mark fumbled to pull the keys from his pocket and everyone jumped in, slamming and locking the doors. As he pulled away, you glanced back at the house, seeing a dark figure standing in the upstairs window. “Crap, the gate!”

With your heart hammering against your ribcage, you jumped out of the car, jogging over to the gate. Jeno joined you and together, you tried to push the gate open. It started to move but then came to a dead stop with a loud groan.

“I think something’s blocking it,” Jeno breathed loudly, following the length of the gate as it sunk into the tall bushes. You followed close behind, keeping your eyes peeled and body alert. You held the bushes apart for him with some difficulty.

A chunk of broken brick had been shoved inside the track, blocking the gate from opening any farther. Jeno wrapped his fingers around it, trying to pry it free but it wouldn’t give an inch.

“I can’t get it.”

“Let me try,” you switched places, your fingers digging at the brick. Even with your monstrous strength, you couldn’t get it to budge. You glanced around, finding a thick stick lying on the ground. It wasn’t as thick as a branch, but you hoped it would hold up without breaking. “Let’s try this,” you said, doing your best to wedge the end of the stick under the brick.

The walkie talkie crackled before Mark’s voice came through, full of worry. “Are you guys okay? What’s going on?”

Jeno unclipped the walkie talkie from my waist as you wiggled the stick back and forth. “Yeah, the gate got stuck but we’ve almost got it.”

The stick snapped just as the brick rolled free of the track. You heaved a sigh of relief, exchanging a look with Jeno. Worry lingered in the back of your mind, though. It was obvious that the brick had been deliberately put there to stop the gate from opening, but by who? And why?

The two of you stepped back through the bushes and you glanced at the car. Everyone was watching the two of you, a mixture of relief and fear present on their faces. The gate moved easily now, sliding along the track with a whine.

The bushes rustled on the other side of the road and you tensed up.

“What was that?” Jeno whispered, stepping closer to you as his eyes scanned the darkness.

“It was probably just a squirrel or something,” you shakily breathed out, not entirely convinced by your own words.

A twig snapped behind you, right where the two of you had been just a few moments before. Red eyes shined through the inky blackness. You stared back. It felt like your body was paralyzed. Your legs wouldn’t move and your mind became hazy like a fog was entering your brain. The eyes seemed to speak to you, beckoning you forward.

Jeno grabbed your arm and tugged you roughly toward the car, breaking whatever trance you had been under. Before the door was even closed, he was yelling at Mark to floor the gas. The car ride back was silent as everyone reflected on their own personal experiences that night. No one wanted to talk about what they had seen and heard, scared that admitting it would make it real.

You and Haechan were the last ones to get dropped off and the two of you headed toward your house in silence. You stuck the key into the lock, pushing the door open and plopping onto the couch. You felt completely exhausted and just wanted to drink some hot chocolate and go to bed.

The clock read eleven-fifty-five. Had you really been gone that long? In some ways, it felt like you had only been there for an hour at most, but at the same time, it felt as if you had spent an eternity in that house.

Haechan fell beside you, his head falling onto your shoulder as his hand found yours, tugging it onto his lap. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s never talk about this night again.”

“Agreed.”

The walkie talkie in Haechan’s pocket crackled with static and he pulled it out with a furrowed brow, waiting for a voice to come through. You took it from his hand, pressing down the button. “Mark? Is that you?”

More static.

“Maybe the channel got changed,” Haechan suggested, taking it from your hand. He played with the knob until the static stopped. “There. See?” he held down the button. “Testing, testing, one two three. Markie hyung, can you hear me?”

The grandfather clock started to chime loudly, signaling the arrival of midnight.

The walkie talkie clicked as if someone was pressing the button and heavy breathing came through, following by a distorted voice, “Y̸̥͘ó̸̜ü̸̘ ̶̨̕w̷͚̒o̶̦͌n̵̢͝’̸̘̒t̸̞͂ ̸͔̀g̷̦͠e̴̗̾t̴̰͌ ̵̲̎ả̴̗w̴͕͋a̸̺͐y̸̛ͅ ̷͙̑n̸͎̕ḛ̷̎x̷͍̓t̸̼͊ ̵͍̚t̷̗͊ȋ̸̫m̸̝̏ë̸̦́.̷̠̍.”

Both of you froze as an icy chill settled over the room. With a gulp, you took the walkie talkie into the kitchen and dropped it in the sink. Haechan hung in the doorway, watching you curiously as you searched around the kitchen drawers until you found a meat mallet. You brought it down on the walkie talkie with a satisfying crunch before turning to Haechan.

“I say we spend the rest of the night hiding under the comforter and pretending this never happened.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he nodded.

And that’s exactly what the two of you did until the sun filtered through the window the next morning.

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