Do You Write Yandere Stuff?

do you write yandere stuff?

Hello there,

I do not write Yandere, but you can pop in another request that you may have in mind.

Saph ❤❤

pairing: jungkook x (gender neutral) reader / word count: 20k / genre: fluff (author!reader, florist!jungkook)

summary: “You’re in love and you didn’t tell me?” Jimin sounds affronted. “Who is it? Are they cute? Where are you hiding them? I knew you were lying about those flowers, you lying liar.” or: the story of how you meet a pretty florist with soft hands and warm eyes, how he mends your broken heart, and how he helps you realise some other things along the way.

warnings: use of a few curse words, reader is self-deprecating and suffering from heartache towards the beginning (v mildly angsty ig? but dw it passes), but otherwise this is a Very Soft fic!

–

“It’s time to get up.”

“It absolutely is not.” Your voice is muffled under a layer of pillows and blankets, material pressing down on your body and head, covering you. A protective cocoon. “I’ve become one with my duvet and we shall never be parted.”

You yelp when the blanket is ruthlessly ripped from you. Your curtains have been thrown open and you can feel how the sun is streaming in through your windows, warming your skin, even if you can’t see it; there’s a particularly fluffy pillow smothering your face right now to keep the world outside at bay.

“This has to be against the Geneva convention,” you whine as your collection of pillows is similarly stripped from the bed, leaving you entirely bereft from their comfort and protection. You curl into a tight ball around your Pusheen cushion and try to protect her from Jimin’s grasping fingers— your final bastion of defence against him. “No! Not Pusheen! Please! Take me instead!”

Keep reading

Hi, if you could send them, I would definitely try to write them.

Lots of love Saph ❤

Is there anybody on here who writes requests for House M. D...???

Because I have requests I would like to send in

you can hear it in the silence

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem reader

tags: reader is female and uses she/her, no use of y/n, fluff then angst then fluff again, canon typical violence/content, near death experiences, reader gets injured, BEST FRIENDS TO LOVERS MY BELOVED, title from you are in love by taylor swift sorry not sorry

word count: 7.5k woah howd that happen

notes: btw i have not read the books and have no idea how the series lore works. im just a tv show enjoyer who loves using Every Single Trope in the book <3

You decided to blame it all on the black cat you passed that morning.

There was really just no other explanation as to why you were having the worst possible luck imaginable.

It started when George insisted that the four of you celebrate the latest win for Lockwood and Co. Hung on the fridge was a chalkboard that was updated daily, labeled ‘Days Gone Without a Near Death Encounter’. The company had reached its latest milestone, which was reflected in the large number ten written on the board in Lucy’s neat handwriting.

“Oh, come on, Lockwood. Just smile for the picture,” Lucy demanded, not able to keep the smile off of her face. George peered over her shoulder at the sight of you wrestling him into position next to the fridge.

“And why am I the one being subjected to this?” He asked indignantly.

“Well, we had to have the sign’s number one offender in the picture, of course,” you explained simply, dodging his hand that aimed to yank at your ear.

He shot you a flat look, but you could see the way his eyes shone with mirth and the way a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Without a doubt, this was your favorite thing about being a part of Lockwood and Co. Sure, you loved the adrenaline that came with containing visitors and looking for sources, but nothing would beat this. Laughing around the kitchen, stomachs full from George’s great cooking, Lucy inevitably poking fun at Anthony, and everyone’s spirits high after a successful job.

You particularly loved the way that Anthony was finally able to bring himself to relax. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, you could see how the burden of his responsibilities was affecting him. You had known him long before he became the sole resident of 35 Portland Row, before the business, and before George and Lucy managed to fight their way into his heart. You had remained each other's constant through it all.

Thus, all of his attempts to hide his internal struggles were not lost on you. You tried to make things easier for him at every turn, triple checking the kits before you left for a job, washing the dishes even though it was definitely his turn, and doing absolutely anything you could to make his life easier.

“You’re too soft on him,” George accused you one day, kicking your foot lightly with a sly smile on his face. “You nearly tackled me over the couch the last time I tried taking the last of the noon khamei that, must I remind you, I made.”

“You must be going mad, Karim, because that never happened,” you said with a laugh, looking up from your drawing of George and his scheming face that you were sketching onto the Thinking Cloth. Cartoon George’s eyebrows were furrowed together, a frown on his face while he was trying to figure out how to beat Anthony at chess. Real George grinned back at you, ready to fire back a retort before Anthony spoke up after moving one of his pieces.

With a mouth full of noon khamei, he said, “And that’s why she’s my favorite.”

“I’d better be your favorite, after putting up with you for this long,” you said in disbelief. “I would’ve made you choke on that pastry if you said it was George.”

Anthony used his ankle that was hooked around your chair leg to pull you an inch closer to the table.

“You were the only candidate for the spot.”

The two of you shared a smile while Anthony checkmated George’s king.

After another minute of arguing, you were able to corral him into taking the picture by the chalkboard. George and Anthony left the kitchen to set up the movie in the next room, a whirlwind of arguments over what you would be watching. You and Lucy trudged up the steps in the meantime, going to return her camera to her room. The two of you placed bets on who would break the company’s streak next, and Lucy was insistent that it wouldn’t be her.

Still laughing when you reached the top floor, you pushed open Lucy’s door and moved to land face first on her bed.

You adored Lucy’s room. After a few months at Lockwood and Co., her room was now completely transformed from the attic full of extra junk to an actual bedroom. Her bedside table was full of her small belongings that you loved to look through. A pair of small scissors that she used to trim her bangs whenever they got the slightest bit too long. A stack of her audio recordings she had yet to send to her friend Norrie. Her black nail polish. At the foot of her bed was her pair of Converse that she had kicked off earlier.

“Oh, look, the picture developed.” She held the picture out to you to see, pulling your attention away from the pictures pinned on her mirror.

You took the freshly developed photo out of her hand and couldn’t help but let a smile take over your face. Anthony was half grinning and the board was tilted from when you accidentally knocked him into it. You could see where your hand was curled around his bicep to keep him from ducking out of frame. You moved to hand it back to Lucy, but she shook her head, smiling like she knew something you didn’t.

“It’s for you.”

“Really?”

This confused you. Lucy never really gave away the photos she took, instead choosing to stick them on her walls. She was almost completely done covering one of the posts in her room, and you assumed she wanted to add it to her collection. Except she nodded, the odd grin still painted across her face. She moved for the staircase, leaving no room for argument.

“I guess you’re right, if Anthony got his hands on this, he’d probably toss it,” you agreed, moving down the stairs after her.

Lucy had to fight the urge to hit you. You and Lockwood were really some of the stupidest people she had ever met.

Slipping into your bedroom that was next to Anthony and George’s, you reached onto your shelf for your photo album. You had lots of pictures of the four of you, but not nearly as much as Lucy. All of yours fit into one photobook, and you flipped to the nearest empty page. You froze while sliding the picture into the sleeve. It was actually really cute.

Well. No one would know.

You darted down the steps after Lucy, the photo safe in your wallet and your album back in its spot on the shelf.

The small television sat in the center of the living room, the movie already playing. Everyone was sitting in their unassigned assigned seats, Lucy in her armchair on the left and George lounging on the single couch opposite her. Anthony, ever the annoyance, was sprawled out along the length of the entire couch, his long legs kicked up on the arm rest while his feet, clad in pink socks, hung off the edge. You grumbled to yourself and cursed everyone for starting the movie while you were gone. You laid down hard on top of Anthony, causing the air to leave his lungs. You repositioned yourselves for a while, before finally ending up with you laying down on your back and him draped on top of you on his stomach. His head rested under your chin, and your legs were tangled together. He shifted and you could smell cinnamon.

“You smell nice,” you mumbled into his hair.

“Quit sniffing me.”

“You remind me of a flower.”

“You’re terribly allergic to them.”

“I know.”

The film played for a few more minutes. The movie was actually pretty interesting, and you watched in amusement as the main character slipped down the stairs and toppled into the love interest.

“This movie sucks,” Anthony mumbled into your neck.

You smoothed a hand over the back of his messy hair.

“Why would you let George choose it?” you whispered back.

“I didn’t. I chose it.”

You rolled your eyes and did not respond, opting to watch the movie instead. Anthony had a terrible habit of talking whenever anything played on television. The only times you could pay attention to movies was when he was fast asleep. Your hand began to card through his brown hair, and it felt like his body melted into yours.

He groaned, reaching up with his arm to half-heartedly swat your hand away from his head.

“Stop that. I’m going to fall asleep.”

“The only other way to get you to fall asleep is by taking a bat to your head. I’m up for that too, if you’d prefer.”

“It’s so fun when you threaten me.”

George shushed you both from his side of the room, oddly defensive over a movie he was arguing against less than half an hour ago.

“If you guys could stop talking, that'd be great.”

You held up your hands in surrender. Anthony did too, you guessed, as he quickly reached to pull one of your hands from the air and back to his head. So much for not wanting to sleep. After a few more minutes of lightly dragging your hands through his hair and sweeping stray hairs out of his face, he was out like a light. You craned your neck slightly to see if he was actually asleep. Your heart constricted in your chest.

As his best friend, you would admit that Anthony looked nice. Most people would agree. When he wore his trademark button up shirt and tie and had a blinding smile plastered on his face he could charm his way into whatever he wanted. But nothing would beat the way he looked here at home, in a tee shirt and comfortable pajama pants, his hair haphazard from you running your fingers through it.

You fell asleep to the sound of church bells as the man on screen kissed the bride.

—

Your neck tickled. You moved your right arm, not surprised to find it stuck. Opening your eyes, a familiar scene was before you, the sight of you and Anthony tangled together on the small couch. Ridding yourself of him was always like solving a difficult puzzle. In his sleep, Anthony always found a way to cling, as if you’d run away in your sleep. It appeared that your position had not changed much while the two of you were off to Dreamland. He was hung half on top of you, his right leg sandwiched between both of yours, an arm curled over your waist and his hand stuck under your back. His face was burrowed into the area between your shoulder and your jaw, and when he exhaled, you could feel the warmth tickle your neck.

Your favorite blanket was falling off of Anthony’s leg and onto the carpet. It was your favorite blanket, a funny one that George had knit for your last birthday. Stitched above a slightly lopsided cartoon ghost was a stupid joke.

Why do ghosts ride lifts?

It raises their spirits.

Lucy must’ve thrown it over the both of you last night, but she didn’t take into account how Anthony was a living, breathing, fully functioning human heater. You were convinced that all of his thoughts bounced around his head like crazy and significantly increased his body temperature. He said it was from the high blood pressure he got from being around you so much. You decided to agree to disagree.

A clink could be heard from somewhere in the house, presumably the kitchen. Your stomach echoed its hunger at you. You snuck a chance at Anthony, who was still fast asleep.

During the night, Anthony had herded you between the cushion and the back of the couch, his body effectively creating a barrier between you and the door. You could practically feel your heart soften at this. Another new change that came from the start of the company was a rather… fierce protective side that came out of him. Even asleep, his mind was working at a million miles per hour. One of your free arms rubbed up and down his back, which seemed to make him stir awake.

“Anthony, let go.”

He ignored you and his grip seemed to get even tighter. “Good morning,” he rasped instead.

Your heart, still softened from thoughts of your best friend, lurched violently against your ribcage. Not even you were immune to the way he sounded first thing in the morning.

“I’m going to starve to death if you don’t let me go eat.”

“Oh no,” he mumbled, moving you in his arms so that your back was pressed firmly to his chest. “What wood would you like the coffin to be made of? Do you prefer an open or closed casket?”

He caught your wrist and held it against your chest when your arm moved to hit him in the face.

“Mmm… Mahogany. And open casket, but only if you get Lucy to agree to do my makeup. You can’t have me looking like a corpse at my funeral.”

“As if I’d ever allow that. But I’ve just remembered we’d have to use silver for the coffin, actually. We can’t have your ghost coming back to visit us.”

You smiled as you absentmindedly spun the ring around his finger. “You could do the eulogy, I guess. I wouldn’t want to overwhelm George, as I’d like him to do the catering.”

He hummed noncommittally into your shoulder, and you could tell he was nodding off again.

“And invite Kipps for me too, please.”

He stiffened. Scoffing, he tightened his grip on you the slightest bit again.

“If he even thought about showing up, I’d put his rapier right up-”

A new noise chimed in now, a crash from the kitchen.

You sat straight up, senses heightened.

“Hello?” You called out.

There was no response.

You pushed yourself up off the couch, climbing over Anthony’s legs.

You padded across the wooden floors, your socks quieting the sound of you moving across the room. Nearly tripping over a stack of books from the library that George left sitting around, you walked past the other couches and reached to grip the doorknob in your hand. Anthony beat you to it, though, and he slipped into the hallway before you.

Prick.

The hallway was empty. A quick glance up the steps showed that it was also void of life. You caught a glimpse of old newspaper clippings that mentioned the company and of course, ones mentioning Lockwood himself. You turned back around, and was met with the sight of Anthony brandishing his rapier, having silently pulled it from its stand next to the front door.

“Relax,” you whispered. “The scariest thing you’ll see this early in the morning is George without his trousers on.”

It was able to get a slight laugh from him, but the crease between his eyebrows told you he was still worried. Your hushed tone and nervous shuffling told him the same thing.

In the corner of your eye, the both of you caught movement through the frosted glass that led to the kitchen. A figure moving, one that was much too tall to be George or Lucy. Your breath caught in your throat.

Anthony turned to you, a serious look on his face now. Stay back, he seemed to say. He continued towards the door, his sword held defensively in front of him. You slid yours out of its holder as well and followed behind him.

His hand rested on the doorknob and he turned to face you again.

One.

Two.

Three.

He slammed the door open, its hinges creaking in protest. It seemed like the glass would rattle straight out of the door with the force of it colliding into the door stop. Anthony’s gaze swept around the room, surveying the danger. You held your rapier up in front of you, ready to jump into action. Instead, you watched as he pulled his sword out of view from whoever was in the kitchen, and rested it on the doorway.

“Well, good morning,” he said, cheerily, and you already knew he had his endearing smile on. “To what do we owe this pleasure, sir?” He stepped over the threshold and continued conversing with this person in the kitchen.

Taking it as a sign that no danger was nearby, you lifted his sword and returned both of yours to the rack before following him into the room.

Sitting in your usual chair was a young man, probably in his early twenties. He had messy blonde hair, which looked like he, too, had just rolled out of bed and come straight to 35 Portland Row’s kitchen. His face was sickly pale, and it looked like he was going to pass out right on the chair in the middle of the room. George was standing in front of the pantry, looking rather upset with a broken glass in hand.

All of that worrying because of a young man and a broken cup.

“Forgive my state of dress and rather abrupt entrance, Mr. Moore. You can never be too careful these days, can you?” Lockwood asked, smoothing his own hair back into place while continuing to beam at the strange man in your seat.

You made your way over to George, who ran a hand through his unruly curls in frustration.

“What’s up, Georgie?”

He sighed, tossing the remains of the cup in the trash before turning around and pressing his palms to the counter. “Yesterday, Lucy was badgering me so much about picking up last nights’ movies that I completely forgot to restock our food supply.”

“So?”

“Usually, I wouldn’t care, but,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “this man looks like he’s a second from keeling over, and we have nothing to offer him. You should’ve seen the way he looked when he came knocking about an hour ago. He looked even worse than he does now.”

You two dared a glance at the man in question, who was swaying slightly in his seat. Tears were forming in his eyes, and his hands were shaking. He tried to clench and unclench his fingers to hide it, but the tremors were clear as day.

“I could run to Arif’s, pick up some doughnuts,” you offered. If he was this unwell now, you could only imagine what kind of state he was in when George opened the front door.

George’s entire face seemed to light up. “That’d be great. I’m going to get the kits ready, it looks like we have a job on our hands.” He disappeared down into the basement, whistling down the steps. You could hear the sound of keys jingling as he swung the keyring around his finger.

You continued toward the front door, and squeezed one of Anthony's shoulders to let him know you were heading out. Still deep into his serious conversation with Mr. Moore, he nodded his head slightly towards the coat rack. Don’t forget.

You gave him a show of sliding your arms through the sleeves of your jacket and even throwing on the warmest scarf you could find before shutting the door behind you.

—

It passed you when you were crossing the street back to the house.

A small black cat, sprinting in front of you like one of its nine lives depended on it. You nearly dropped the dozen doughnuts in your hand, and you watched as it dived into a nearby bush. How cute.

(You would later retract this statement.)

You opened the door and were met with the sound of voices coming from your right, in the sitting room. Anthony and Mr. Moore were immersed in their discussion, a piece of paper full of notes in the former’s lap.

You placed the box in front of the older man and insisted he take one. Up close, his condition looked even worse. Dark circles, much more severe than Anthony’s, hung under his eyes. Wrinkles littered his face although the man could have been no older than twenty-five.

“Sir, I assure you that coming here to Lockwood and Co. was the best decision that you could have made. We will deal with this issue as soon as possible, and I hope that we are able to give you peace of mind.”

When Anthony spoke to clients, he tended to slip into a persona. He would play up his confidence and feign concern. But the sympathy that dripped from his words now was genuine, and you felt yourself worry for this Mr. Moore.

You settled down on the couch next to Lockwood. Anthony handed you your tea, which had a splash of milk and a small bit of honey, and he took his usual doughnut from you, which was filled with creme. The man gave a weary smile after finishing off a jam doughnut.

“Me and my love Elizabeth were just like you two,” he whispered, voice catching.

You sat a bit straighter on the couch.

Mr. Moore stood up, and Lockwood followed suit. “I assume that you can understand how I feel, son.”

“I understand completely,” agreed Anthony.

“Promise to take care of your love, Mr. Lockwood. Better than I took care of mine.”

The two of you responded at the same time.

“Oh, we aren’t-”

“I swear it.”

The two men shook hands before Lockwood directed him to the door.

You could do nothing but sit on the couch in shock. Anthony’s words echoed in your head.

I understand completely.

I swear it.

I understand completely.

I swear-

“It’s rather cold out. Were you fine on the walk to Arif’s?”

Anthony asked you this while pulling the scarf from around your neck and slinging it over the back of the couch. The words were sweet, and while his voice usually made you feel as happy as the tea he made you, you currently felt about as sick as Mr. Moore looked.

“Why did you say that?”

He looked taken aback for a moment before he pinched your side.

“Sorry, if it’s a crime to wonder if someone with Touch was about to get her fingers frozen off.”

“Not that,” you sighed, shrugging your jacket off. He took it from you and hung it up on another coat rack. “That thing you said to Mr. Moore. We aren’t… We aren’t lovers. Why didn’t you deny it?”

He stood as still as the rack he was in front of. He turned to face you with no sign of his Anthony Lockwood confidence on his face. It was a bit eerie. The two of you stared at each other for a few moments longer in silence. He pursed his lips before one of those fake smiles you hated to see took over.

“Just building rapport with the client.”

Your heart sank.

“Right.”

“The mutual understanding is good for-”

“I know, Lockwood.”

His fake grin seemed to flicker off his face at the use of his last name. He was always ‘Anthony’ to you. But Lockwood was who was standing in front of you now, having this conversation with you.

“I’m going to go get ready now,” you explained, shifting your weight awkwardly as you slipped past him out of the sitting room. You looked about ready to bolt away from him. “I assume we’re heading out in a few hours?”

He wanted to say something. Your fingers were already gripped tightly around the banister, your feet carrying you halfway up the first flight of steps.

What did you want him to tell you? That he was in love with you? That you were the first person he looked for when he walked into a room? That he did nothing but worry about you, wonder if you were okay, and desperately need you to be safe?

Instead, he nodded. “Yeah.”

You could do nothing but accept his response and wonder why it hurt so bad. You gave him one of your fake smiles, too, it only getting slightly genuine when you passed Lucy on her way down the steps. Lucy reached the bottom of the steps and her and Lockwood stared at each other for a few beats of silence.

“You’re even more dense than she is,” she complained, before making her way over to the box of sweets.

—

You were right to worry about Mr. Moore. Lockwood had explained it to you on the way over, his recap filling the silence of the cab instead of your usual joking. It was just the both of you. Lucy had planned months ago to go see Norrie today, and George had gone to do the much needed food shopping he had forgotten about in his haste yesterday.

Mr. Moore, or Leonard Moore, was now the only one living at 15 Ashburn Way. His wife, Elizabeth, had been murdered last week. The tragedy was a result of a rogue burglar that had struck her over the head before fleeing the scene. Leonard was away on a business trip and came back to find her body in their bedroom.

They had been childhood sweethearts and were married on Elizabeth’s twenty-first birthday. The lovely couple bought a nice house further away from the busy city, a home big enough to start a family in. She hadn’t been born with a Talent, but Leonard had. His gift of Sight was just now beginning to wear off, and every night after her death, her death-glow stayed beside Leonard, a harsh reminder of everything that happened.

Mr. Moore had no idea what the source could be, but her personal effects were all located in her bedside table on the second floor. He said that he saw Elizabeth early this morning. She was rageful and charged for him, Leonard narrowly being able to escape dying by Ghost Touch. The situation had utterly destroyed him.

“That’s tragic,” you mumbled. Poor Mr. Moore.

Lockwood went silent after your acknowledgment. He had been talking to you, but your lack of response the entire ride made it seem like he was talking to himself in an empty taxi. You had spent the better half of the cab ride staring out the window, watching the buildings get sparser and the greenery begin to take over as you neared the suburbs. You could see his face reflected in your window. He looked surprised at your response.

His call of your name was cut off by you turning to him abruptly. “We’re here.”

You slipped the cab driver his payment and as always, Lockwood beat you to opening your own door. You swore he could teleport.

The house was beautiful. It wasn’t too big or small, and you could see yourself wanting to live in a house like this in the future. It was in a nice, quiet neighborhood, too. The two of you smiled at a passing neighbor who wished you a good night.

Anthony seemed to read your mind. “It’s cute, isn’t it? I can see why they chose to live here.”

You couldn’t help but give him a real smile. “Yeah.”

The gate to the house was wide open, a testament to how fast Mr. Moore had left. The grass was neatly kept, although a little overgrown. A swing was hung from an oak tree in the front yard. Although they did not have any children, it was already on its way to becoming a picture perfect family home. You could picture little kids running around here and summer picnics in the grass. It all made you so unfathomably sad.

You were lagging behind. Lockwood had already climbed up the porch steps and was watching you look around the property. You knew he was just observing and not rushing you, but you couldn’t help but pick up your pace to join him.

“Alright, let’s go,” you said, adjusting your grip on your bag.

He blinked a bit sadly at you and a soft call of your name slipped past his lips.

Your stomach churned. You reached out to grasp him firmly by the wrist, the one without his watch on it. “Anthony, I know. We can talk about it later, alright? The sun is setting.”

He wanted to argue with you about it. It was written clear as day on his face. But he knew you had a job to do.

“Right.” With one final look at you, he slipped the house key into the door and pushed it open.

You shined your torch on the light switch, and flicked it on. The house burst into light, bringing life back into the home. Anthony looked at the thermostat.

“It’s broken.”

You shared a look before walking through the kitchen. At the table was leftovers for a meal for one.

A crunch could be heard under Anthony’s foot. A broken glass, the liquid once in it sitting around the debris. A knife was sitting uselessly on the ground a few feet away.

“Do you think he tried fighting back?” you asked quietly.

“Probably. Neither of them strike me as the kind to throw knives in their free time.”

No matter how upset you were with him earlier, there was no way that you would walk into a haunted house without listening to the plan first. The two of you walked straight up the wooden stairs as planned, each step creaking and protesting under your combined weight. Following Leonard’s directions to the bedroom, you were continuing down the hallway before Anthony caught your wrist.

“Do you hear that?”

You furrowed your brows. It was completely silent, save for the sound of your own breathing. You were about to respond when you heard it, too.

Crying. No, not crying. Wailing. Quiet gut wrenching sobs, that you could hear as loud as day, now.

But, you couldn’t really hear it. You could feel it. It was like the crying was coming from the walls, from the ground, and from all around you.

“You ready?”

He nodded and drew his rapier as you closed your eyes. You gingerly placed your hand on the wall, and sensed.

Using Touch felt like being suspended in open air.

It was like you were nowhere, but everywhere at the same time. After you came into contact with the wall, you began to see things. Flickers of the Moores’ life here. Them sharing a romantic dinner over the kitchen table. Them laughing in the living room. As you began to continue down the hallway, you could see more. The two of them fighting in the doorway, them kissing in front of the Christmas tree.

The source was definitely in the bedroom.

You opened your eyes.

Anthony was still behind you, and his sword shined under the fluorescents. You drew yours as well before nodding at their bedroom door. After a silent count of three, you pushed it open quietly.

The bedroom was in about the same state as the kitchen. One of the red curtains lay in a heap on the floor, clearly torn off. The sheets were unmade on the bed, and you could smell it before you saw it. Blood. Using the end of your weapon, you lifted the blanket off the bed. On the right side, a dark red puddle was soaked into the mattress. You covered up the stain, not wanting to look at it anymore.

The house was starting to get cold. A shiver went down your spine; she was near. You could feel Anthony’s warmth from behind you as you both dropped the kits so he could prepare the chains.

You moved towards the bedside table on the right, the net in hand. The top of it was completely empty, except for a single framed picture of Leonard and Elizabeth’s wedding day. She looked absolutely gorgeous in her white wedding dress, and her and her new husband were sharing a smile so full of love. Both of them deserved better.

Suddenly, the lights flickered before the room was plunged into total darkness. The new moon in the sky did nothing to help your case, and you and Anthony reached to turn on your torches.

“Looks like Lizzie doesn’t like us looking through her stuff,” he mused. “We have to go faster.”

“No, really?” you couldn’t help but fire back.

You gripped the handle of the top drawer and tugged it open. It was neat and ordered, totally unlike the rest of the house. You could feel the energy radiating out of the drawer, a pull strong enough that it felt like you were being drawn into it.

“Lockwood, the source, it’s… it’s definitely in here.”

“Good, keep looking.”

He was crouched down, lining the salt up in a circle around the both of you.

You began to reach for the trinkets inside the drawer, feeling the emotions and memories tied to each one. There was a wide range of them, some sad, but most were happy. You had touched her diary, a necklace, and a ticket to a carnival when you saw it. A box, tucked into the very back of the drawer. You reached for it, and brought it into the light of your torch. When you popped the top open, there sat a ring in the middle. A gorgeous diamond was embedded in the center of the box, and it seemed to shine even under the harsh light of your flashlight. It was beautiful. And then it was like the box was on fire.

You cursed, wildly, clutching your hand as you staggered back. It was like you were drunk. Unable to control your limbs, you flailed like a baby deer. You ended up on your back a few feet away from the drawer, your palm burning like somebody had pressed it to the inside of an oven.

Your vision was swimming in and out, and you were vaguely able to make out Anthony’s panicked face in front of you. He stepped out of the circle. Why did he step out of the circle? Your fading vision turned into black. Maybe you had passed out. But you could hear Anthony calling your name, and you could definitely feel the way your hand was aflame, the pain completely unbearable.

“Anthony… Anthony, I can’t see. It hurts. It hurts so bad.”

You could feel yourself wave your burning hand in front of your face, and fear gripped you by the throat. It was taking so much effort to breathe in and out. You couldn’t see anything. You reached out with your good hand and felt for him. Felt for anything. But your sense of Touch felt dialed up to one hundred. Touching the floor made you see nothing but Elizabeth slow dancing with Leonard here. Touching the wall behind you gave you a rush of euphoria, the memory of the couple painting their house together for the first time.

You could hear Anthony’s voice next to your ear. “I know, I know it hurts, but I need you to move. I’m sorry, I know.”

You could feel his quick breathing on your back as he attempted to control your limp body long enough to pull you to safety.

He dropped you somewhere on the floor, a bit roughly. You knew the circle was not intact, The chain and salt who knows where, now.

You could vaguely register yourself mumbling. Whether it was coherent or whether it was nonsense, you didn’t know. The overstimulation of the room didn’t let you think, your brain overloaded with nothing but memories and voices and feelings.

You felt hands on your face. You started to sweat. Fight-or-flight mode kicked in, and you decided to fight. You swung your fists at nothing, crying out in fear the entire time. Your hands were caught with ease, but then you heard his voice.

“It’s me, it’s Anthony, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you need to tell me where the source is, please.”

Calm flooded through you at the sound of his familiar voice. The recognizable way his words echoed in your ears gave you something to hold onto. You felt yourself grounded immediately.

“The… the box, there’s a… there’s a ring inside,” you managed to get out. But you could feel the way his hands slipped from his face and knew.

Elizabeth was here.

Your heart rate began to pick up. Anthony wouldn’t be able to fight her off and secure the source at the same time. You felt panic surge through you, the thought of your best friend fighting a Type Two alone, the thought of your best friend Ghost Locked. The thought of your best friend dead. The sounds of the shrieking ghost faded to the background, and you began to feel around the floor.

To save your best friend, you would have to push all of it away. You had to put your trust in Anthony to do his job, and get yourself to do yours. You fought Elizabeth’s memories that were rising to the surface, suppressing them completely. You blocked off every single thought and focused only on the mission before you.

Secure the source.

You shut your eyes and felt. You felt for the strength that coursed through you when you briefly touched the ring, and trusted your body to move. Your hand knocked against something hard, and you felt the unbearable warmth surround you again. Gritting your teeth, you picked it up one last time. White hot pain seared through you again, and you wanted nothing more than to drop the box. The ground shook with vibrations and his footsteps.

Anthony. You had to do this for Anthony.

If you had dropped the net near the bed it couldn’t be far now. You blindly reached out towards the vague area you thought it to be in, your arm going numb due to the sheer pain you were in. Your knee snagged on something, and you felt relief course through you. The net. You dropped the box on top of it and wrapped it clumsily, your arms shaking, and your right hand unable to move.

Then it was silent.

“Anthony?” you nearly sobbed.

Dread coursed through you.

No.

No, no, no, no.

You couldn’t hear yourself.

You cleared your throat and tried again.

“Anthony?” you yelled, screaming this time, uncaring of the poor, sweet neighbors nearby. Yet still you heard nothing. You put your hand to your heart and could feel it hammering wildly against your chest. You were alive. You were breathing, although unsteadily.

But was he?

Your unsteady breathing became hyperventilation.

You felt around blindly, moving further away from the bed and deeper into the room. Another wave of nausea hit you. It was stronger this time.

“Anthony, please.” You were begging now, begging for something. Anything. You could feel your mouth make the sounds but nothing was coming out. Your hands raked through your hair, tugging at the roots. You couldn’t hear and you couldn’t see, but you could feel. And you felt awful. Your body gave out a few feet from the door.

You felt warm, all of a sudden. Not warm like the heat of the source. But warm like falling asleep at the kitchen table and waking up with a blanket around you. Warm like wearing someone else’s jacket after you refused to bring one. Warm like Anthony. You wondered if this was what dying felt like. You stopped fighting.

Hands. Hands were on your back, you could feel them wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you up. Hands wrapping around your front, hands gripping your face. Your head lolled forward into something hard.

Cinnamon.

You smelled cinnamon.

You hiccuped.

“Anthony?” You tried again, knowing you would not hear it.

A hand sliding to the back of your head. Pulling you towards something warm and firm. A body. His body.

Cinnamon.

You were safe.

And you felt yourself slip out of consciousness.

—

You woke up seeing and hearing more than you would have liked.

Bright lights shone through your eyelids, and the steady beeping of monitors was quiet next to you. Your fingers twitched and the sound of a chair scraping the floor nearly exploded your ear drums. Reluctantly prying your eyes open, you were met with Lucy’s pretty face. Her hair was unbrushed and her bangs were pushed out of her face. Her jaw was hung open, her eyes wide as if she had just seen a ghost.

Ha.

“Luce-”

She surged forward to capture you in the tightest hug you’ve ever been a part of.

“You had us worried sick,” she sobbed into your hair. “Never do that again, do you understand?”

“I’ll try not to,” you whispered, not used to the sound of your voice again.

You pulled back far enough so you could give her a wet kiss on her cheek before she wrapped you in her arms again.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. I can’t believe you almost left me alone.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

You smiled into each other's necks.

“I have to go tell Lockwood,” she murmured, reluctantly pulling back from the hug. “He’s been going insane.”

You nearly jolted up at the news.

“Is he alright?”

She nodded, pressing the button to call for a nurse.

“Physically, he’s all good. He had to get stitches on his arm and has a couple of bruises, but he was out of the hospital a week ago. Didn’t even have to stay the night.”

“A week ago?”

You sat back against your pillows, letting it sink in. You had lost consciousness for a week. Missed out on an entire week of your life.

Lucy nodded, before reaching for your left hand. A quick glance to your right one showed a thick layer of bandages over your palm, where you had held the box.

“We’ve had to wrestle Lockwood out of your room a few times. He’s barely been eating and sleeping, but seeing you awake will hopefully soothe his state of mind.”

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest. Poor Anthony, he had to deal with you in hysterics and the aftermath of the job. The door opening caused you and Lucy to look up, but seeing a doctor in the doorway instead of your best friend made you slouch.

“Don’t look so happy to see her,” teased Lucy, before she slipped from the room.

Dr. Anderson was very sweet. She checked you over and found everything to be perfectly fine, and even let George into the room when she saw him sitting outside. He brought you a plate of his best shirini morabai and updated you on everything that went on in the week you were gone.

Lockwood had taken to sitting by your bedside during every minute of visiting hour. It was quiet at Portland Row without you. Lockwood was apparently unbearable to be around, sleep deprivation and stress turning him sour. He would snap at people when they would do something as small as breathe too loudly or he would go silent altogether. Today was one of the rare days where the two of them could convince him to go home and function normally for a few hours before returning to the sterility of the hospital. Lucy went back to Portland Row to pick him up and would be back any minute now.

You were letting George take the last pastry when the door nearly slammed off its hinges. George stood up abruptly, getting ready to aim his plate at any violent attacker who stepped in.

It was only Lockwood.

You took him in for a second. His hair was disheveled and his tie hung loosely off his neck. His jacket was missing completely, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was cold. The dark circles that you had worked so hard to get rid of were back. Your feet were moving before your mind could tell them to, and you were yanking wires out of your arm.

You could hear George say, “You really shouldn’t have done that,” but you didn’t care.

Anthony was here. He was alive. And he was right in front of you.

You stood on unstable feet, and your first steps had your knees buckling. But it didn’t matter, because he had already crossed the room and swept you into his arms. He was warm.

“You’re… You’re okay,” he mumbled shakily into your skin. The two words took an insane amount of effort for him to choke out. The next four words came easier.

“You’re my best friend.”

You pressed a kiss to his chest, rattled by the sheer amount of love you had for him. “You’re mine too.”

Anthony’s next three words came even easier.

“I love you.”

It felt like someone had taken a vacuum and sucked all of the air out of the room.

“You what?” You pulled away from him, the shock painted all over your face. Your hands interlocked around his neck to steady yourself. You wondered if you were going to pass out again.

“I love you,” he repeated, his voice steady. His hands slid down your back and went up to cup your face again and again, as if he needed proof you were real.

“I nearly lost you a week ago and never got the chance to say it. So, I’m telling you now.” He let out a deep breath before knocking his forehead against yours. “I love you. And I couldn’t sit here for another moment without you knowing.”

You laughed. Anthony’s heart did a triathlon in his chest.

“I love you too. I think I have for a while now. It was true five years ago and it’ll be true for the rest of my life,” you said, beaming directly at him.

He gave you a real, golden, and shining, Anthony Lockwood smile before leaning down and kissing you.

He smelled like cinnamon.

And everything was okay.

Cultivating a Life with You | JHS

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Hoseok feels more at home with you than anyone he’s ever known. So when you get your heart set on planting a garden, he’s gonna do whatever it takes to make that happen for you.

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•one shot

•plant dad!Hoseok x reader

•5k heartfelt plant puns

•fluff, romance, established relationship, slice of life

•no warnings 🤷🏽‍♀️

•inspired by this gorgeous Hobi shoot

•masterlist

•breakfast with bangtan masterlist

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Keep reading

Just WOW

meet my eye & vow to be true

pairing: cassian x reader

summary: what is sent through the bond is sacred, the most honest of all things - isn't it?

author's note: based on a request made by @horneybeach1, the first one i have ever received - i hope i did your request justice, and i apologize for the delay <3

warnings: brief description of injuries

word count: 2,789

As you pull your blade from the body in front of you, the nameless male falling to the ground, you see the end. The end of the carnage that has filled this camp for countless hours before the sun began its descent in the sky.

All that surrounds you now is the slow movements and utter quiet of the army that had defeated those laying at your feet. A combined Night and Autumn Court unit, formed for the destruction of one of the last of Hybern’s holdouts.

You instinctively begin searching for your family, scanning the area around you for some reassurance of their safety. You had seen Azriel and your mate hours before, both with their siphons ablaze, carving a path through your enemies.

In the time since, you had tugged at the bond, seeing to the safety of your mate. Cassian responded to each of your tugs with one of his own, conveying what you needed from him; he was safe and unharmed.

You had only caught glimpses of the other members of the Inner Circle and knew you would only settle once you had seen for yourself that they were safe.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize that none of them remained close, you had ended up on the far edge of the battle, one of the last areas to cease fighting. It is your name that pulls you from your forming list of possible locations of your family.

“Lady Y/N, what a relief! When you didn’t show up at the healers’ tent everyone became worried. The High Lord sent us in search of you.” It is one of Cassian’s captains approaching you. Thalien, a loyal male you had known for centuries.

“The healers’ tent?” You give him a puzzled look. “Why would you expect me to be there?”

“The entire Inner Circle is gathered ‘round it, no one knows any exact details about what happened to him.”

“Thalien, out with it. Who is so injured that it has the entire leadership of our court concerned?” The worry and anger replacing your curiosity leaks into your response and has the captain stumbling over his words.

“It’s…I thought you would have known…The General M’Lady, he was injured during the battle. No one knows how long it was before he was found.”

“Anything else?” Your words are grated, anger moving solely to the forefront of your emotions.

“That is all I know, I swear it.”

Although you know the captain is not at fault, you can’t help the look of contempt you throw his way as you take off past him without another word.

----------

Nesta is the first you see as the healers’ tent comes into view. You can tell by the way she steps into your path and raises her hands that your emotions can be clearly read.

“Y/N…he needs calm. They’re doing everything they can for him. Wait out here with us, it’ll be better that way, I promise.”

“Nesta…please.” Your voice breaks as you say the words.

You can tell by the way she looks at you that she knows there is no stopping your entering of the tent. She exchanges glances with her sisters, Mor, and Amren, all remaining vigil with her outside of the tent. After a moment Nesta steps to the side, the two of you having always understood the stubbornness of the other.

You move past her and pass through the opening of the tent. As it closes behind you, your breath is stolen form you.

Cassian, the imposing force of a mate that he is, is laying unconscious on a table in the center of the tent. His wings having fallen slack on either side, resting on the dirt floor. Blood covers the floor surrounding the table and you trace it to a wound on his abdomen so massive it would have meant death for any one other than an Illyrian.

The upper half of his leathers has been removed. Madja and several other healers work in tandem in what could only be described as controlled chaos.

You feel a hand grip your elbow and you realize for the first time that Azriel and Rhysand stand inside the tent with you.

You meet both of their eyes and see your worry reflected back at you. Rhysand knows the question that lays in your eyes and moves to put his arm around your waist.

“He was found in the woods; it would appear he was going after a group of fae being held captive. From what we gathered the men holding them captive ambushed Cas…they’re weapons laced with faebane. We don’t know how long he had been out there before he was found.”

You gave him a silent nod, doing everything you could to keep your tears at bay.

“What of the captured fae?”

“Already on their way to Velaris, Eris has also offered them sanctuary should they choose it.”

Venom leaks into your voice with your next question.

“And the men?”

It is Azriel who answers as he comes to stand at your other side and brings his arm across your shoulders.

“They’re dead. Somehow Cas remained conscious long enough to tear them down, allowing the captured fae to escape.”

You expect no less from your mate. His heart had always been his greatest attribute, his role as protector outweighing all others he donned.

The three of you fall into a tense silence, clinging to each other as you watch the one male you never thought you would see fall fight for his life.

---------

You aren’t sure how much time passes before Madja steps back and approaches the three of you.

“He is a fighter; he is only still with us because he willed it.” She meets your eyes and ensures you hear her words. “Your General will rise and fight another day. Give him time, he will wake.”

You can’t help the tears that fall with your next words.

“There are no words of thanks I can give you Madja that would repay what you’ve done today.”

“Your thanks would be wasted on me, my dear. You lot are more important to me than you could ever know…no matter how neglectful you all are in following my advice.” She pins the three of you with a glare but can’t help the small smile that crosses her face.

You return her smile, knowing that she is a vital part of the foundation on which your family stands.

A moment of silence falls between the four of you before you find the courage to ask her your small hope, grasping Madja’s hands in your own as you voice it.

“Can we…can we bring him home? He’ll want to be at home when he wakes.”

Madja glances behind her at your mate and you can see her considering her answer before she voices it.

“For you, my dear Y/N, I will make it so. Give us time to prepare him.”

---------

Cassian can hear the questions Rhys is asking Madja about his recovery, can hear the shit Az is giving him about letting mere mortals get the best of him, but all he can focus on is his mate. His strong, fearsome, beautiful mate, standing at the edge of their bedroom like a stranger, as though she doesn’t belong right by his side.

He has been looking past his brothers and the healer since he awoke, hoping to catch your eye. Only when Madja ends her examination, and you offer to escort her out do you finally meet his gaze. What he sees in your eyes outweighs any physical pain he has ever experienced.

He watches the door as it closes behind you, feeling nothing as he reaches out to you through the bond.

“Cas, she’s –”

“Az, don’t. I’m the one that fucked up, she has every right to feel how she does.”

“And how exactly did you fuck up brother? By almost getting killed?”

“I lied…through the bond.”

Both males fell silent, waiting for Cassian to continue.

“We had been sending waves through the bond throughout the battle, making sure the other was safe. After…After what happened, happened, I may not have let her know the extent of my injuries.”

“You made her think everything was fine, didn’t you?” Cassian’s failure to respond was answer enough. “You absolute dickhead, how foolish can you be? I could kill you myself, I certainly wouldn’t blame Y/N if she did.”

Rhys let out a low whistle from where he stood, his eyebrows raising higher than Cassian has ever seen them do so before.

His expression hardened a moment later.

“Never have I seen Y/N so terrified Cassian. For three days she hasn’t left your side, no matter how often we begged her to eat, to sleep. You’re right, you fucked up. Fix this or injuries inflicted by mortals will be the least of your problems.” The room began to darken with each word spoken by the High Lord. “Do. You. Understand. Me?”

Cassian could do nothing but nod, words failing him.

The two males gave him a look of disdain and turn to leave.

“Will you two at least help me up so I can find her?”

---------

It doesn’t take long for Cassian to find you.

The library at the House of Wind had always been the place you found solace. You found peace within the stacks of books.

He comes upon you in the furthest corner of the library, returning a book and undoubtedly searching for a new one.

Cassian knows by the whitening of your knuckles around the book you are holding that you hear him approach.

“Y/N/N, I know –”

“Cassian, don’t.” The anger in your voice is anchored by the tears he sees in your eyes as you look up at him. “There is nothing you could say that would excuse what you did. So please, do us both a favour and go back to bed. Then maybe you’ll actually be okay the next time you tell me you are.”

“Let me explain.”

“Explain what? How you used what connects us at our cores to deceive me? Or how you almost died, alone, in the woods because of your refusal to tell me the truth?” Cassian can’t help but recoil at your words, knowing each one is truer than the last. “There is no explanation you could give that is good enough. No reassurance you could give me that what you did was right. Leave, now, for both our sakes.”

As you turn away from him, he can’t help but reach for you, letting out a cry of pain as he does, having overextended his injuries.

Your hands are at his sides in an instant, helping him remain stable.

“You damn fool. You’ve likely undone Madja’s work, and you’ve only just woken up.”

Cassian can’t help but hold his breath as you begin to undo the buttons of his shirt; the two of you having been in this exact position under very different circumstances.

You both grow quiet as your hands skirt across his abdomen, checking the state of his bandages, refusing to meet his eye the entire time.

You let out a disapproving noise, “You’ve split your stitches. Our bathroom…now.”

You put his arm across your shoulder as you lead him out of the library and up the stairs.

---------

Cassian settles on the bathroom vanity as you gather the first aid supplies you both decided long ago to keep close at hand.

You step between his legs as you bring a cloth to clean the blood from his wound. He can tell that even in your anger you are as gentle as you can be.

And it’s your quiet apologies as you fix the stitches he tore, that he realizes it’s not your anger he should concern himself with.

Cassian grabs your hands to halt your movements.

“Y/N, please. You can yell, scream, say whatever vulgar words I undoubtedly deserve, but please, my love, at least look at me.”

You don’t make any movement, Cassian takes your chin between his fingers and tilts your face upwards, so your eyes meet his. He finds no trace of anger, finds nothing but immense pain. His next words come out broken, barely above a whisper.

“Talk to me…please.”

Cassian watches as your eyes search his.

“I was so scared, I thought…I thought I’d lost you.” Your voice breaks and he can see you give yourself a moment before you continue. “The thought of losing you steals the breath form my lungs, turns my world black. You were okay, you told me you were okay, and then I see you on that table…”

You choke back a sob as Cassian’s hands come to settle on either side your neck, resting his forehead against yours.

“What do you feel Y/N?”

Your hands come to rest atop his.

“Your hands, the…the callouses from training.”

“Good, what do you smell?”

“You, my mate. The coolness of the winds coming off the Illyrian mountains, and the crackling embers of the fire inside the cabin.”

“And what do you feel?”

“Safety and love, my home.”

“I am here Y/N, I am real. I’m not going anywhere, not now and not any time soon if I have anything to do with it. I will fight the Mother, the Cauldron, anyone, or anything to stay by your side.” He pulls back enough to look directly into your eyes. “I will spend the rest of our days showing you how truly sorry I am. I swear to you, never gain will I use our bond to deceive you. Never.”

You both wince at the same time with the voicing of his vow. Cassian watches as the mark appears on his lower sternum, knowing the same is appearing on you.

“Cauldron boil me, that definitely could have waited until my other injuries healed.”

You both let out a small laugh at his words.

“This doesn’t mean I’m not angry, you have a lot of groveling ahead of you General.”

“Hmmm…trust me when I say I will be on my knees before you the first chance I get.”

Cassian leans forward and captures your lips with his, quickly deepening the kiss as he leans your head back.

You rest your hands on his thighs and press further into him. Cassian breaks the kiss with a hiss of pain.

You’re quick to check him over, worrying about causing him further pain. Cassian once again takes you hands in his and leans in to kiss you again, pulling away a few moments later.

“As much as I would enjoy continuing our current activity, I think Madja was right when she said I need rest. Lay with me?”

You look up at him though your lashes as you give him a nod. You keep a hand on his arm as he stands from the vanity, and you help him slowly make his way to your bed. Helping him settle against the headboard.

“You know, if I could, you would be on top of me, gripping the headboard…it’s oh so lonely here by myself.”

“You’ll just have to make it up to me some other time, now, won’t you?”

He makes sure the look he gives you shows that he means to live up to your challenge.

“Let me change and I’ll join you.”

He gives you a small smile as you enter your shared closet and can’t help but push love and adoration down the bond when you emerge in the red silk pajamas he had gifted you on your latest name day.

Cassian watches as you grab your book off your nightstand and settle into your side of the bed.

“Read to me?”

---------

It isn’t the first time Cassian has asked this of you, and you know it won’t be the last. He had said once that your voice brought him comfort like nothing else. The wonder in which you fell into books being his favourite.

You motion for him to rest his head in your lap. He moves as slowly as possible, wincing only once as he settles his wings on either side of you.

You brush your hand through your mate’s hair and stare down at him, giving him the most loving of smiles, him giving you one of his own in response.

You lean down, ghosting your lips across his forehead and begin reading, watching as he quickly falls into a much-needed sleep.

You realize, in that moment, that your anger has dissipated, knowing nothing is as valuable as moments such as these with your mate.

 The General needn’t know of this realization though.

For he is oh, so good at earning your forgiveness.