#and him refusing to rest is more stubbornness than a sign of a strong body )

[cami040405]

Between Art and Silence - Vincent Sinclair x Reader

Chapter 6: Beneath the Silence of the Walls

Summary: Tension builds in Ambrose as you discover more about the town's past and the Sinclair brothers, a duality continues to grow within you and a strong feeling begins to show itself.

Warnings: Mentions of death and suicide.

Chapter 5 here!

(A/N: This chapter turned out really long, I hope you're enjoying the story and how things are going for you and Vincent.)

The day dawned gray. The clouds weighed down on Ambrose like a thick curtain, muffling the sounds and plunging everything into a timeless torpor. You watched through the window, sitting in an old armchair, still holding the wax sculpture in your hands. During the night, you had barely slept. Your body begged for rest, but your mind refused. 

Vincent had not shown up again. Bo had not given any sign of life since the veiled conversation the day before. And Lester… well, you weren't sure what to think of him. He had a simple, almost gentle air. But even the sweetest people could hide thorns. You had to do something. You couldn't stand still. You had to understand. You had to see. You put on your coat, tied your hair in an improvised bun, and left the room with careful steps. 

The house was silent. The old boards groaned under your feet, but you tried to ignore the sound, as if you could become invisible at will. Downstairs, the house was a maze of antiques, carved furniture, and old portraits in dark wooden frames. You recognized a few faces in the frames—Trudy, the matriarch. Maybe the father. Twin children. Bo and Vincent’s features, small and still untouched by life.

But it was the hallway to the left of the kitchen that drew you in now. Something in you told you there was more to it than dust and memories. You pushed open a wooden door that led to a dimly lit basement. The smell of mold and rust hit you like a punch, but you went down anyway. Step by step.

Downstairs, a workshop.

But not like the others. This one was rougher. Sawdust on the floor, mannequin parts piled up in a corner, plaster molds and precision tools. There was something almost clinical about the organization of the space. At the back, a black curtain covered what looked like a smaller entrance.

You hesitated.

And then you heard footsteps above.

You froze.

The sound stopped, as if it had been imagined, you approached the curtain with your heart pounding. You pulled it slowly. Just enough to peek.

It was a small room, but what was there…

Mannequins. But not ordinary ones. They were so realistic that you felt a shiver run down your spine. An old man in an armchair. A girl in a wedding dress. A boy holding a balloon. All of them were paralyzed, their eyes lifeless. The wax on them looked… different. Thicker. More organic.

You stepped back. You swallowed hard, the feeling of panic invaded you in cold waves. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t art.

This was macabre.

You left the workshop in silence, your knees weak, your stomach churning. As you returned to the hallway, you heard a voice.

“Woke up early, huh?”

You almost jumped.

Bo. Leaning against the front door, with a lit cigarette and a restrained smile.

You tried to hide your nervousness.

— Yes… I thought I could get to know the house better.

Bo nodded slowly, his gaze scanning you from top to bottom. — Sure. Make yourself at home. My house is your house… for now.

His tone was calm, but it left something like a veiled threat in the air. You swallowed hard, forcing a smile.

— I was thinking about taking a walk. Maybe going to the gas station. See if you've made any progress with the GPS.

Bo took a drag on his cigarette, his gaze locked on yours. — Really? I can drive you. It's best not to walk around alone. The streets aren't safe.

You hesitated.

— I can go alone. It's close, isn't it?

He smiled, this time showing his teeth.

— Stubbornness. I like that.

He threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stepped on it with his boot. — But that’s okay. Go if you want. Just don’t be alarmed if you end up getting lost.

You nodded and left.

The path to the gas station was short, but the tension made it seem eternal. Every rusty sign, every dry twig cracking made you look over your shoulder. The wind blew hard, carrying dry leaves and the acrid smell of the forgotten city. The gas station seemed abandoned at first glance. The dirty windows, the gas pump with cobwebs. You had decided to explore further, if Bo didn’t want you there, then there was something wrong there.

You went down the stairs to the basement.

Now calmly, you could see that behind the surgical chair, there was a small office. Piled up papers, an old desk, a full trash can. You started to search, without knowing exactly what you were looking for.

And then you found a drawer with files.

Photos of people and cars with license plates from different states, maps with hand-drawn markings and dates written on them.

At the bottom of the drawer, a wallet. With documents. Cards. A photo.

You recognized the face. It was that of a young woman. The same one you had seen in one of the "sculptures" in the workshop.

Your blood ran cold.

Ambrose wasn't just weird. It was a trap.

Trying to stay calm, you put the document in the inside pocket of your coat. You needed proof. You needed to plan carefully. No running away. No alerting the brothers. They were dangerous. And you were in their midst.

As you left the station, you noticed a figure in the distance.

Vincent.

He was standing next to the old movie theater, watching you silently. The mask made it impossible to read his expression, but you felt like he knew you were discovering something.

And as strange as it seemed... he didn't look angry.

He looked... distressed.

You held on to your coat tightly.

The city was crumbling around you. But now you had a thread. A real thread that you would pull until all the wax fell away—revealing what really lay beneath Ambrose.

And maybe, just maybe… beneath Vincent, too.

You walked back to the house with measured steps, feeling the cold wind cutting through the gaps in your coat. The discovery at the gas station still throbbed in your mind like a constant alarm. The document, folded neatly in the inside pocket, felt like it weighed a ton. Every step you took was like walking on broken glass. Still, you kept your face calm.

You had to keep your disguise. You had to figure out who Vincent was.

When you reached the house, the gate was ajar, you crossed the porch and found the door unlocked. The interior seemed quieter than ever, as if the entire house knew what she had seen.

You went down the stairs that led to the basement you had seen earlier. As you passed through the hallway, you heard a soft sound of something being dragged.

You followed the sound.

It was Vincent’s studio — or at least part of it. He was there, but how did he get there so quickly and before you? It was a mystery, but you didn’t want to think about it at the moment. He was sitting at his work table, sculpting in silence. His bare hands covered in paraffin, paint stains on the arms of his sweatshirt. His movement was mesmerizing, methodical. Almost gentle.

You approached him slowly, respecting his space.

“Vincent...” you said hesitantly.

He looked up, slightly surprised. His eyes behind the mask fixed on yours. — “I know you don’t talk much,” you continued, your voice calm, soft, “but maybe… maybe you can listen to me.”

Vincent didn’t move immediately. He just watched. You bit your lower lip, searching for the right words.

“I saw some portraits in the house. Of you… children. Of your mother. Trudy, right?”

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“Was she an artist too?”

A further pause. Then Vincent took something out of his apron pocket. His small notebook, worn at the edges. He pulled out a pen and scribbled something nimbly. Then he turned the page so that you could see:

“She taught me everything.”

You felt your stomach tighten. It was the first time you had seen direct words from Vincent. His handwriting was clean, precise, almost elegant.

“Were you close to her?”

He wrote again. You turned the page:

"She loved me just the way I was."

You scanned the words carefully, as if they might shatter.

"And... and your father?"

Vincent hesitated. The hand holding the pen shook slightly. He started to write, but stopped. He wrote again. When you turned the page, you read:

"Pain. Only pain."

You took a deep breath, fighting the empathy that overflowed in your voice.

"You didn't deserve this."

He looked away for a second. His fingers touched the surface of the sculpture in front of him, as if he were reconnecting with the art so as not to lose himself in the memories.

You moved a little closer.

"Is that why you... sculpt? To keep her memory alive?"

Vincent answered faster this time. He wrote only one word:

"Yes."

You felt a lump in your throat. There was something tragic about that silent man—something that went far beyond what any mask could hide.

— Vincent... — you spoke softly. — Why am I here? 

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached out and pointed to a canvas leaning against the corner of the studio.

You walked over to it, pulling back the cloth that covered it. And what you saw made your heart stop for a second.

It was a portrait of you.

Half unfinished, but still vivid. Your face was molded with stunning detail, your eyes expressive, and your hair sculpted with care. But there was something more — the way he had portrayed you. It wasn't just a portrait. It was... affection. Respect. Talent. Something intimate.

You turned slowly to Vincent. He was still standing there, watching.

— You saw me... really saw me — you whispered, moved. — Not as an intruder. But as... as someone.

Vincent lowered his head. He wrote calmly:

"You aren't afraid of me."

You read it. Then, without much thought, you took a step forward.

“No,” you said. “Not from you.”

For a moment, the silence between you was filled with something new. A tenuous trust. A bridge built between two damaged souls. But you were still in enemy territory—and you knew it.

So you asked boldly, without turning away:

“Vincent… What's Ambrose really?”

He froze.

The pencil slipped from your fingers. You didn’t flinch. Your eyes fixed on him.

Vincent hunched his shoulders, as if carrying the weight of an impossible answer. You closed your eyes for a moment. Ambrose was a labyrinth. But inside him, there was someone trying to show you the way. Silently. With gestures, sculptures... and now words. Vincent was not your enemy. 

But before you could say more, he slowly reached out and ran his hands through your hair and face, and like a whisper, he said: 

"Stay." 

The solitary word seemed to vibrate with a silent urgency. There was something in the way he said it—in the slight wavering of tone, in the way he almost tore the sound—that said so much more than the request itself. You looked up at him, uncertain. 

"Stay...? But... why?" 

Vincent didn't answer right away, because he didn't know how, because he himself didn't fully understand what was going on inside him. His mind, until then accustomed to living in silence and form, in plaster and wax, was in disarray. 

When he first saw you, confused at the entrance to the city, he felt the same indifference that protected him from the world. But as the days passed, something changed. You didn’t look at him with pity. Or with horror. You saw in him a man. An artist. Someone who was still human—even if Ambrose’s mirrors had tried to erase that image years ago.

But how to say that? How to explain that the warmth of your presence had become an unexpected refuge?

How to tell you that he didn’t want to let you go, but he also couldn’t bear to see you hurt?

So he wrote.

With more hesitant letters this time, almost timid:

“I don’t want you to go away.”

You read slowly. A deep silence filled the room, dense as Ambrose’s own atmosphere.

“Why?” you asked, your voice somewhere between surprise and the touch of something sweeter, more emotional.

Vincent didn’t answer. Because that was the question he had been asking himself since you arrived. Why you? Why, of all people, did you get through his defenses? Why, when he saw you sleeping that first night, he felt such a visceral, almost instinctive impulse of protection, as if your presence would erase — even if for a few seconds — the dark echo of the house he lived in?

He lowered his gaze, as if he was afraid you might see too much.

You took a step closer. Just one. You didn't invade. You didn't force it. You just let the space between you be filled with the truth that grew without words.

"What if I tell you that... I need to understand what's happening here?"

Vincent felt his chest tighten. Like a thorn buried in raw flesh.

Yes, you needed to understand. But there were things... things that even he couldn't face. Slowly, he wrote another sentence.

"There are things you can't see yet."

You felt the shiver down your spine.

"What if I insist?"

Vincent looked up. You saw the pain there. The fear. Not afraid of you—but for you. As if all the chaos about to be revealed could swallow you alive. As if he were the only shield between you and the abyss. 

He started to write, but stopped. He looked at you, then at the canvas with the still incomplete portrait. And there, in that silence, you understood. 

Vincent was torn. He wanted to keep you there. Because you meant something. Because you saw beauty where others only saw deformity. Because with you around, Ambrose didn’t seem so suffocating. But he also knew what Bo was capable of. What the city was capable of. And worst of all: he knew that one day you would find out everything. 

Vincent stepped back from the table a little, as if the weight of the world was on his broad shoulders. His trembling hands now rested on the wooden bench. You, carefully, touched his arm lightly.

He shivered, but didn’t back away.

“You don’t have to tell me everything now,” you murmured. “But I’m not going to run away, Vincent. Not from you.”

For a moment, the silence seemed to suspend time itself.

Vincent’s eyes shone beneath his mask, fixed on you, filled with a painful mix of confusion, fear, and something harder to name—something he’d long thought he couldn’t feel.

With an almost reverent care, you took another step closer. Your heart was beating loudly, but not from fear. There was a tension in the air, yes, but it was soft, like the thread of a secret about to break. Like the stroke of a brush on the first layer of canvas. You raised your hand slowly, lightly resting your fingers on his shoulder. Vincent didn’t pull away. His large, rigid body remained still, but his breathing was slightly shorter, irregular. The muscles, tense beneath the dark fabric, betrayed that he felt it. 

Every little touch.

Then, without saying anything else, you leaned in... and placed a soft kiss on the side of his mask, exactly where his cheek would be. It was a silent gesture, but one of overwhelming tenderness. 

A kiss that asked for nothing, demanded no answers. A kiss that said: you are worthy of affection, even if you don't believe it yet. Vincent remained still, as if the gesture had frozen the air around him. His trembling hands gripped the bench beneath him. The entire world seemed to shrink until it fit in that moment. He didn't know how to react. 

No one had ever touched him like that. Not since... Trudy. But this was different. It was gentle. Free of pity. Free of obligation. You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, still so close.

"I see you, Vincent," you whispered. And then you smiled. A small smile, full of truth. Vincent didn't move. He didn't dare. But inside him, something old and silent, dormant under years of wax, scars, and pain... was beginning to wake up.

And that terrified him as much as it comforted him.

Vincent felt the world spin in silence. That gesture—simple, small, almost ethereal—burned like fire beneath the mask. The exact spot where your lips had touched the cold ceramic now seemed to radiate an unbearable heat, a heat that didn’t come from your skin, but from what you had just awakened inside him.

His chest rose and fell with difficulty, as if breathing required effort. His throat tightened. His hands, still clasped to the sides of the bench, trembled imperceptibly. He didn’t know what to make of that gesture, that sweetness. He hadn’t been prepared for this.

All his life, he had been the monster in the attic. The mistake covered in wax. The hidden, deformed son. He was used to looks of disgust, to stifled laughter, to words spoken behind his back.

But you… you saw him.

And more than that: you chose him at that moment—without demanding that he be different, without fear in your eyes.

He wanted to touch you. He wanted to say something. But his voice was still a territory he didn’t know how to inhabit very well, and touch… touch terrified him. His body was made of scars, of broken memories, of pain that had accumulated like melted wax on his skin. And yet, something inside him—something small and fragile—wanted to try.

But he just stood there. Still. Panting. Feeling more human—and more vulnerable—than he had ever felt before.

You, on the other hand, felt your heart racing… but not from fear. There was a lively tension in your body, like electricity under your skin. The palm of your hand still tingled from the touch on his shoulder. Your lips, which had touched his mask, seemed charged with the echo of something greater than words.

You knew what you had done. You knew you had been bold. But you didn’t regret it. Inside you, a mixture of empathy, tenderness, and curiosity stirred like an underground river. You couldn’t explain exactly why you felt such a connection with him. It was an impulse, yes, but also a conscious choice. You saw him as something beyond the mask, beyond the silence. He was… complex. Painful. And beautiful, in his own twisted and profound way.

And by kissing him there, you wanted to show him that. That he didn’t need to hide. That he could, at least with you, exist. Your chest tightened with a kind of soft anxiety—the kind of anxiety that comes from doing something real and not knowing what the response will be. But in his eyes, even if shy, you saw the reflection of something good. Something that trembled, yes, but that responded.

You understood him more than he could imagine. And deep down, you knew: this was just the beginning of a connection that could both heal… and consume you both.

.

The silence that followed the kiss was so thick it could be cut with a blade. Vincent remained still. You pulled back slowly, your eyes still locked on his—or on what you could see through the crack in his mask. The heat between you still vibrated, and even without words, there was an exchange. Something undeniable.

You didn't say anything else. You just gave one last gentle, caring look before turning around and going back up to the bedroom.

Vincent stood there.

Alone.

His heart pounding with a strength he didn't recognize. His hands clasped on his knees, as if he was holding back a primitive impulse to follow you. An impulse he would never have allowed himself. The mask hid his expression, but inside... he was in ruins.

You closed the door slowly. The room welcomed you with the faint smell of old wood and the soft light coming through the window. But inside you, everything was a storm.

You threw yourself on the bed, but not to sleep. You lay on your side, your trembling fingers brushing your own lips, you had done it. Kissed the mask of someone you barely knew — and yet, you knew in a strange, almost intimate way. There was a trust there that you yourself didn't fully understand, but that you felt was true.

Your cheeks were still burning. Did he understand what I meant? Did he feel the same? — you thought.

But more than that, you felt like you were diving into something bigger. Something dangerous, but also precious. Vincent was silence, yes. But a silence full of voice, full of pain... and full of beauty. You closed your eyes, letting your breathing slow down little by little. For the first time since you had set foot in Ambrose, you felt a spark of security. Not of the city, not of the situation — but of him. Of Vincent.

And maybe it was crazy, but something inside you told you that he would never hurt you.

.

At the Sinclair house, while you and Vincent were talking, Bo was in the garage, fiddling with an old engine part. He grabbed a rag to wipe his hands and walked up the creaky steps to the front of the house. The coffee cup was still steaming on the table. 

The sound of the street was hollow, almost dead. Bo leaned against the wall, staring at the painting of Trudy in the living room. 

“Mama, your little boy is in love,” he murmured, with a half-smile. “He’s going to get screwed. Again…” 

Later, when Vincent returned, Bo was waiting in the front hall. 

“She’s taking you with her, isn’t she?” Bo said bluntly. 

Vincent stopped. The notebook was tucked under his arm. He didn’t say anything. Bo stepped closer, his tone full of calm venom. “Do you think she’ll stay when she finds out who you are? What we are?” 

Vincent didn’t move. 

“She’ll run. She’ll scream. And you’ll have to decide. Either kill… or lose.” 

Vincent's grip on the pad tightened. Bo sighed and stepped closer, low and cruel:

"You want to protect her? Do you think she'll love you? Look at you. A walking scar. A failed artist trapped in the shadow of a rotten past. Do you know what will be left when she finds out? Pity. And then, disgust."

Vincent's hands shook. He turned, ready to leave, but Bo grabbed him tightly by the shoulder.

"I won't let her ruin everything. You may be in love, but I've been taking care of us since the beginning. Ever since Dad killed himself. And if I have to kill her to keep everything going... I'll do it."

Vincent pushed his hand away hard. His eyes burned behind his mask. But he didn't attack. He didn't fight back. He just walked away, as if each step was a protest.

Bo shouted from behind:

"If you're not strong enough, I'll be strong enough for both of us, brother!"

.

Vincent went into his room and locked the door. His hands were shaking. His eyes were burning. He wanted to destroy everything around him, but he couldn’t. 

You were his only light. His only chance at redemption. But keeping you there… was also condemning you. He leaned against the counter. He pulled out his notebook, but didn’t write anything. His fingers gripped the pencil as if they were about to break it. The mask muffled his face, but his eyes… his eyes were watery. 

He hadn’t cried in years. Not after Trudy. Not after he’d learned to lock everything inside himself. But now, there was you. You with your deep eyes, your delicate hands, and that look that saw. You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t pulled away. You touched your mouth to his mask—a gesture so intimate, so surreal, that he still wondered if it hadn’t been a figment of his own imagination. 

Vincent ran his fingers over his ceramic cheek, as if he could feel the heat still etched there. He wanted to do something. He wanted to respond.

But what?

He hadn't learned how to be loved. Only how to be feared. Manipulated. Silenced. And now... now someone dared to treat him like a man. Like a human. He walked over to the shelf and took out a small wooden slab. He began to carve. His fingers were nimble, methodical. It was the only way he knew how to speak—through art. Through his hands.

It was a bird. Fragile, but with its wings spread. And on the animal's chest, he carved something simple: a curved line like a smile, and a closed eye.

It would be his gift to you. When he was ready. When he could find the courage to offer it.

In the room above, you looked at the wax sculpture Vincent had given you. You ran your fingers over the soft curves, thinking about him.

Downstairs, Vincent was molding wood as if he were trying to shape a future. Both of you separated by the floor of the house. But connected, in silence. And by the beginning of something that neither of you could name yet.

But it burned…

And it grew.

Like a flame in the middle of wax.

.

[jujuonthatkaisen]

Boyfriend Gojo Imagines pt. 2 (18+) !!

WARNING; mentions of implied future death and rough intercourse Minors DO NOT interact. please forgive me for any typo's I simply refuse to re read this :D

safe for all genders.

Beyond Stubborn. At times you literally can't convince him to even try to see things in a different light. After all, he has always been the most powerful in the room, so why should he? This is a battle you feel you’ll fight forever. If Gojo says something is blue while it's really red, now it is blue. 

He can be manipulative. Gojo, with his ego in the heavens, cannot stand to see something not go his way. It pains him more than he will show or tell anyone. He does not even mean to act this way with a malicious intent, it simply punches him in the gut when something is out of his control. He is the strongest, everything should be in his control. 

There are times when Gojo tells you not to leave the house today due to a strong curse present in your area. You even so much as attempt to walk to the local coffee shop, and he will be flying to your exact coordinates in under 3 seconds. 

Gojo can be slightly jealous. He has never fully blown up at you about…anything really, but he still can become pissy when he feels that he is not getting an adequate amount of your attention. Whiny Satoru will show up out of nowhere and you will quickly realize that he’s actually just being too stubborn to say that he wants a backrub. 

Doesn’t like when you spend more time with your friends than him. He will tell you this point blank period and you will ultimately have to break his heart by informing him that you DO in fact have a social life outside of him. 

His height can really get in the way of you two kissing or showing affection of any sort. He’s convinced that his back will give out when he’s 87 due to bending over to kiss you too much…if he’s lucky enough to reach that age. 

He has to lather on sunscreen every morning in the summer. Sometimes he walks out of the house looking like a greased pig, but somehow still beautiful? It’s so unfair. 

His scalp will be the first thing to burn if he is not wearing a hat and it's a sunny day. It is honestly kind of cute to see pink skin clashing with the bright white of his hair. 

He is a big cusser, he’s not always loud and brash about it, but it can be jarring and surprising at moments. 

He is whiny. He never fails to find what he doesn’t like before he can point out what he likes. This is like a double-edged sword in your relationship. 

He can be overwhelming in the bedroom. He is used to his strength and agility, but when he’s really found his pace in you…nevertheless you absolutely need a safe word or to pinch his elbow 

He thinks his dick is a gift to the world, just like the rest of his body naturally, and he would like to be shown that you hold this same belief. 

He likes to get head for hours at times, only if he’s really in the mood though. It’s not an every occasion thing, but when it is, it IS. 

Gojo is a biter, and can mostly restrain himself from really bruising you up, but sometimes his urges get the better of him and he leaves a dark blue mouth sized bruise across your neck. 

He likes to pin you down and feel you practically go limp under him, he will ask for a sign that you are okay though, whether it's him whispering an “are you good?” in your ear or kissing your temple and waiting for some movement from you, Gojo will always do his best to make sure you are comfortable in his bedroom with him. He can’t imagine ever losing you. Let alone losing you because he was too selfish and dominant. 

[ridesagain]

D&D STATS.  ( ref. )

STR.   22 ( +6 )    DEX.   12 ( +1 ) CON.  15 ( +2 ) INT.   15 ( +2 ) WIS.  15 ( +2 ) CHA.  6 ( -2 )

tagged by: WITH THE RIGHT CREDIT NOW, @primedspecimen DID tagging: @eyelied, @spiiderdad, @herwillmadereal, and @doctorscrders! some of my newer followers, as i’d love to learn about your muses!

[phantomenby]

Chatterbox

For so long you had hated talking. Fearing social interaction and being at the mercy of others' scrutiny. But it was different with them, with your boys, they were so sweet with you, so understanding,

It had taken you months to make even a whisper. Your diagnosis wasn't on the harder end of things so to speak, but you still had to have a great level of trust to speak to someone, but your boys were special, something about them made you want to sing.

You still remembered the first time you spoke, how their eyes widened and you were showered with kisses and surrounded by purring chests.

"Do you want this one or that one?"

Marko was standing beside you, leaning over a booth that had popped up selling jewelry over the summer. He had all but dragged you there when you finally finished work, wanting to buy you something to match with him and the rest of the boys.

You had ended up getting a thick bangle, it was decorated with blue stones and was heavy on your wrist, the weight of it was grounding and you had fiddled with it the entire way back to where the other three were standing.

Soon enough Dwayne's arms had encompassed you, strong and protecting, keeping you safe and sound. He pressed a kiss to your jaw, nuzzling it before passing you to David who wrapped his arm possessively around your waist.

"Did you get something dear?"

Nodding you lifted your wrist, showing off the piece you had been adoring since it had been pushed over your hand.

Paul whined, complaining about how he wanted something to match with you, tussling with Marko who had apparently dishonored him.

Dwayne rolled his eyes, moving to lean beside you, "you two know the lady's gonna be there all summer right?"

Paul paused, Markos head trapped in his armpit "but I wanted to go with them!"

You giggled, "we can still go, it's open all night."

They all paused, eyes snapping to you. Paul's arms became slack and Marko rushed to you, picking you up and spinning you around, shouting his adoration for you.

"Oh, my little bunny!" You squeaked, voice vanishing as your face flushed, realizing what you had done.

From then on you had spoken a lot more, at some point you had become quite the talker, engaging in almost endless conversation about anything and everything. Your boys always indulged you, finding your voice rather soothing. They wanted nothing more than to hear it for an eternity.

You were nearing twenty now, still, the youngest compared to them but feeling older by the second. They wanted you to turn, suggesting that you would be better as one of their own, well a vampire, you were already theirs.

But no. You wanted to wait. You loved the sun, the daytime called to you even as your body clock changed to suit their needs.

The four of them had become quite irritable about it, but you just brushed it off, understanding how stubborn they could be.

The only thing on your mind was how your one-year anniversary was coming up. You wanted it to be special, it was your first serious relationship after all, and so you had been talking to Star about it who had been more than eager to help you plan things.

She was well versed in sign language you see, so you appreciated how no matter what you were able to talk to her.

-

"So I was thinking we could..." the two of you were hidden behind the wispy veils she had collected and hung around her bed, legs kicking the air as the both of you lay on your fronts and fawned over the planner you had brought with you, snacking on red vines to keep your energy going.

Star was a half, that much you knew. But she and Michael would soon turn together, soon becoming officially part of the pack.

Yet you refused to even think about it.

While the two of you schemed the boys sat in the center of the cave with Michael, drinking and smoking, talking and thinking.

"Have you said anything to them about it," Michael took the joint offered to him by Dwayne, legs stretched out and cheeks flushed slightly from the Santa Carla heat, "I mean, I'm sure they're just nervous, its not an easy thing to do."

That was something they tended to forget, they had been undead for so long it was natural to them. But you were still so painfully human, fragile and weak in their eyes. They could only protect you so much.

We're worried. Michaels eyes flitted over to Markos, the land meeting the ocean, the brunette nodded for the curly haired blonde to continue, we think they'll leave.

Michael scoffed, choking on air before laughing loudly, stopping when Star's head turned to look at him.

"God. That's dumb and you know it, they love you."

David bristled, he knew it was true, your relationship with them was like no other. But this barrier was a lot bigger than others.

They wanted you to become just like them. To be theirs for all eternity.

If only they knew how dangerous it was to push someone to the edge, to force them into such a decision.

-

Star had left after two hours of planning with you, Michael coming to retrieve her and pulling her out of the cave, disappearing in a whirlwind of soft touches and laughter.

Dwayne had embraced you soon enough, picking you up and carrying you to the rest of your mates, letting you stretch out over his lap as he cuddled you on one of the broken sofas they had beside the fountain.

His nose was pressed into your hair, breathing in your scent as he spoke, "how are you little dove?"

You smiled, leaning further into his hold, breathing in his scent in a similar fashion. You wondered how he would smell if you turned.

If

That word caught their attention as it passed through your mind.

"Pup..." you looked to David, his eyes were cold and made you wince, not knowing what had set him off.

"What's wrong..." you trailed off, noticing how all of their eyes were dark, suddenly feeling quite uncomfortable in Dwayne's hold as his fingers dug painfully into your flesh.

"We need to talk."

That was it. The dreaded sentence.

You looked up at Dwayne, his eyes burned your own and you immediately looked away.

Marko and Paul moved closer, the two of them leaning on the fountain as the four of them watched you.

"What- what's wrong?" your hands were clenched, muscles tensed as your eyes flitted between their own, not brave enough to meet them.

"You know what."

You flinched at David's tone, body curling into Dwayne's jacket which had been placed over your shoulder.

"You said you didn't mind," and that was true, they didn't. But the thought that had been passing through your mind said enough, you were unsure, unsure enough to do something rash, "you said you could wait."

Paul scoffed, mind alot clearer and full of irritation from the conversation that had earlier, "we're waiting for nothing."

Your eyes met his, not enjoying how blank they were, when they were usually filled with joy and mischievousness.

"You don't want to turn."

"I didn't say that-"

"You didn't need to"

You pulled away from Dwayne, sliding towards the opposite end of the couch, shoulders tense as you wrapped your arms across your front.

"Why are you bringing this up, we already talked about it and you said-"

"Stop talking." your mouth snapped shut, chest constricting in an uncomfortable fashion. They never said those words to you, refusing to send you back into the silence you had been hiding in for so long. Yet they slipped so effortlessly from David's lips.

Dwayne tried to reach for you, hand retreating with your body flinched away from him.

David sighed, sitting straighter in his wheelchair, looking to you and trying to meet your eyes with his own, "we heard you and Star talking," his irritation grew as you turned away from him, choosing to look at the cave floor, "you can't lie to us kitten, you have to turn either way."

-

You hadn't spoken to them for the rest of the night.

Instead, you had been actively avoiding them, returning to where Star was pretending not to listen in, curling beside her and letting the girl play with your hair.

Something about it had set you off. Maybe it was their tone, how cruel they were when they spoke to you, how they told you to stop talking.

You wanted to turn. You really did.

But it was complicated and you hated change. You knew the moment you began such a big transformation your life, or lack thereof, would be permanently different.

No longer would you enjoy the warmth of the sun, daytime as a whole would be unappealing to you.

Paul and Marko had already been laying it on thick recently, how much more fun life was when you were a creature of the night.

Telling you how food tasted a thousand times better, how if you fed well your veins felt full of energy.

How much stronger, faster and bravery you would be.

You wanted to turn. You would turn.

Your anniversary was in three days. And sitting in your room had made it harder and harder not to dwell on the thought of seeing the boys again.

Star was supposed to swing by at some point, probably with Michael in an attempt to smooth things over.

knock knock

And there it was.

Hopping out of bed you shuffled down the hall, chewing your lip as you approached the door.

You made it halfway before you realised the silhouette visible through the obscure glass.

David

Obviously, since neither Star nor Michael had hair as blindingly bright as his.

Maybe if you didn't move he wouldn't-

Never mind, now you could see Marko there too with his vibrantly decorated coat.

"Doll?"

The eldest's voice carried through the doorway, his knocking becoming louder as he used his whole fist.

You winced at the sound of it, his tone was on the more irritated side and you knew he would break the door if he hit it hard enough.

Stepping forward you moved closer, walking until you were just a foot away from the door, placing your hand on the glass.

You heard a sigh, watching as David shifted to lay his palm flat where yours was.

"You gonna open the door pup?"

You didn't respond, choosing to maintain your silence.

Marko went for the doorhandle, giving it a twist, growling in annoyance at the fact you were keeping it locked.

Meeting David's eyes he sent him a nod, moving around the house to test out your back door.

Keeping you distracted he nudged the small postal slot with his fingers, opening it so his voice would pass through better, "sweet, what's wrong? Talk to us-"

You scoffed, cutting him off and shuffling back.

He growled as a warning, "if you wont open the door I'll break it down, ignoring me wont help you."

Your chest siezed at what was clearly a threat, staring at the doorhandle just as you heard a sound from the kitchen.

Looking away for a moment you saw a shadow pass by the entrance to the kitchen, turning back to the front door showed you David had vanished.

Taking the small window of opportunity you had you bolted, heading up the stairs and closing the hatch at the entrance before they could pass through, hearing the resounding thud as Paul slammed into it.

Clearly, the other two of your mates had showed up without you noticing, though they could have been there the whole time waiting for you to give up.

It wasn't the first time they had dropped by since your little disagreement.

Not that you knew that.

They always made sure to check up on you when you weren't feeling particularly social.

Usually, it was because your mind was stressing you out, and this time it was, but only because of four certain boys.

One of which was slamming his hands on the door, pushing it up even as you lay on top of it, keeping it closed with your weight.

"Let us in! This isn't helping idiot-"

No speaking only in your mind you mimicked the actions of the person beneath you, slamming your hands down Go away

It went quiet, the four of them speaking in the same way you had.

Pressing your ear to the door you tried to listen for anything, only recognising the sound of boots slamming down the steps as two of them retreated.

"The longer you keep this up kitten the harder this will be," that was Dwayne, his voice deeper than usual, "come on out, we'll play nice."

You gulped, eyeing the window across from you warily as two figures rose in the air in front of it, Marko waving his fingers at you teasingly.

[mingtinys]

Password

pairing : kang yeosang x gn!reader

fluff , humor , suggestive

warnings : none

word count : 1.3k

requested ? no

a/n : just wanted to write a little yeo blurb for his birthday <3

"Password?" Yeosang pokes his head out between the narrow slit of the blankets, a mischievous grin playing at his lips. You narrow your eyes at him, unbelieving of his audacity to request a password for entrance to the pillow fort you both built.

But nonetheless, you yield to his game, holding up a bag of chips, "I brought food?"

He thinks for a moment, "Enticing, but not quite it."

"Can you give me a hint?" You bargain, wanting nothing more than to return to the warmth and safety of your little fort in the living room. Your toes were freezing after making the treacherous trek to and from the kitchen to retrieve the snacks he asked for.

The temperature in the dorms had been plummeting ever since a large snow storm knocked out all power. Leaving you and Yeosang's movie night in pitch black, devoid of any entertainment. Your phones both died within the hour and so ensued the pillow fort. A perfect escape from boredom and the growing cold. At least it would be once Yeosang stops playing around and lets you back in.

"Fine," he sighs, "it starts with 'Yeosang, you are the most beautiful handsomest man I have ever laid eyes on. My life would be void and meaningless without–'"

"Oh, you can't be serious. I'm not saying that."

He pouts, it's cute, admittedly. Soft, pink lips downturned and brows furrowed, made visible only by the soft glow of a single lantern placed inside your burrow. It's late, and despite the early signs of exhaustion present on his face, he still finds it in himself to be as sarcastic as ever.

It takes everything in you not to melt and give in to his game. You hold strong, leaning in closer to his face and matching his pout.

"Please let me in, Yeo."

There are a few moments of silence, and then a long sigh. "Fine, but only because you said please."

A victory smile tugs at your lips as you shuffle your way into the fort. It's a small space, knees bumping against Yeosang's as you attempt to get comfortable. But in all honesty, you really don't mind the proximity. The insulation from the mound of blankets mixed with Yeosang’s body heat provides a cozy warmth that fully envelopes you.

When you look up, Yeosang is across from you, pout still etched into his features. It makes you chuckle. Knowing he won't drop the act until you give him something, you close the already minute distance between the two of you.

Your hand rests on his neck, thumb just barely grazing over the sharp cut of his jaw line, and capture his lips with your own. Yeosang remains stoic, refusing to reciprocate in a stubborn act of rebellion. But you know his weak spots and exactly what words to say to make him crumble.

"You … Kang Yeosang … are the most beautiful, handsomest, sexiest man I have ever laid eyes on." There's a slight twitch at the corner of his lips. 'Almost got him' you think to yourself. Maybe pulling him out of his protest will be easier than expected. But then Yeosang clears his throat and turns his head to the side, trying his best to hide the pink tint invading his cheeks, but you still catch it.

Yeah, he's definitely flustered.

“Yeosang...?”

Nothing.

"Sangie," you drawl out in a whine. Something about the noise peaks his attention more than your previous attempt. His eyes dart to the side, head still turned as he looks you up and down, thinking. And then, in true diva fashion that he could have only picked up from knowing Hongjoong for too long, he let's out a "humph" and redirects his attention back to the makeshift blanket wall.

"Playing hard to get isn't cute you know." It's all a big lie. After all, you find just about everything he does cute. Even when he’s pretending to give you the cold shoulder over something as silly as refusing to shower him in compliments to gain entry to your own pillow fort. A soft giggle leaves your lips, and you're able to spot another crack in his foundation when he stifles back his own.

He's determined, you'll give him that. But he made a vital mistake the moment he cocked his head to the side, exposing his neck.

You lean forward once more, pressing your lips to the soft skin at the junction of his shoulder and neck. You feel the shiver that runs up his spine, causing him to jump, but don't stop there. Slowly, you begin trailing feathery kisses up his neck and along his jaw line, each one earning a sharp inhale from the boy. 

Admittedly, the action is a little bolder than you usually are with him. You're sure Yeosang is thinking the same. But part of you thinks he's only keeping up the act because he likes the turn it's taken. Or maybe he really is just that determined to win his little game. And so were you.

Your hands trail along his arms, slowly gliding higher and higher until they come to a stop, holding the back of his neck. Your lips ghost against the shell of his ear and he tries to lean his head away from your touch, only for you to pull him right back in.

"Do I have to say it again?" You whisper. And for the first time in minutes, he elicits a reaction. A simple nod. It's minimal but impossible to miss with how close you are. You playfully roll your eyes but succumb to his wish anyways.

"I love you." You mumble, placing a gentle kiss to his temple.

"And you are the most beautiful..." You kiss his cheek next, and his head turns ever so slightly back in your direction.

"Handsomest... "Then his nose.

"Sexiest man– " You pause at his lips, letting them just barely brush against your own. Yeosang's hot breath fans your face in shaky exhales, chest rising and falling more erratically than before. His hands come to rest just under the hem of your shirt, squeezing at your waist.

"I have ever laid eyes on– mmh–!"

Yeosang finally breaks, hands shooting up to grab your face. He pulls you in, effectively cutting off your sentence as his lips crash into yours. It's messy and it's desperate, yet there's still a certain gentleness to how he kisses you. Even as a hand slips away from it's position cupping your jaw and tangles itself in your hair, he's delicate with you. Never rough in how he holds you flush against him, leaving an opening to pull away if needed. Which, as your lungs begin to burn, you're thankful for.

Stupidly, however, you take the few seconds of precious oxygen for granted by pushing your luck once more. "Does this mean I won?"

A grin dances across Yeosang's lips at your question. With one eyebrow raised he shakes his head and laughs. "Not even close, sweetheart."

Next thing you know, Yeosang lunges forward, lips reconnecting with your own. His hand comes to cradle the back of your head, protecting it from hitting the ground as his full body weight comes down on top of you. Your back meets the cold, hardwood floor before you could protest.

Unfortunately, one of the pillows providing vital structure to your fort gets pushed over in the process, and the entire thing crumbles. A mass of fuzzy blankets and throw pillows bury you and Yeosang.

"Yeosang," you whine, breaking the kiss once more to push the now suffocating pieces of cloth from your face. Cool air pricks at your skin once you remove the last blanket. You glare up at the cause of all this mess. Yeosang's face is mere inches from your own, still positioned on top of you.

"I hope you're happy with yourself, you destroyed our fort." He deadpans.

"Me!?"

[infinitefandomimagines]

Thin Ice - Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader

WARNINGS: mild angst, cursing, arguing, clingy kuroo cause i think he's adorable, hurt/comfort

-

SUMMARY: after an intense fight with kuroo, you resign to the couch for the night. however, kuroo still needs his nightly dose of cuddles and is determined to get them

-

"Whatever Tetsurou, I'm too tired for this anymore. I'm done." The two of you had been arguing into the late night hours about God knows what at this point. So much had regrettably been said in the past hour that you couldn't even tell who was in the wrong anymore. It was just one thing after the other. Your cheeks were damp with the few tears you'd been unable to hold back and your head was pounding like a drum. You were absolutely drained.

Not that Kuroo was fairing much better, dark bags hung under his blood shot and glossy eyes, causing his face to look a little more hollow than it actually was. If anything, he looked even more exhausted than you were.

It was rare to see him like this. Usually he'd cover up his hurt with a quick joke or comment, but his stressful day at work had eroded away at his walls, leaving him completely vulnerable.

"What do you mean done?" He asked, fully preparing for the worst. Was this it? Were you about to leave him? No. You wouldn't, the two of you always worked things out.

"I mean that I'm done with this argument, I can't do this anymore. I'm going to bed, and I suggest you do the same." You started gathering pillows and blankets from the various pieces of furniture in the living room, setting them up on the couch to form a makeshift bed.

"You're not actually sleeping out here are you? Kitten-"

"Don't call me that, not right now! Just leave me alone Kuroo, I don't want to see you until the morning." You sounded a little harsher than you intended to. But your own stubbornness refused you the chance to take it back.

Kuroo let out a scoff, "Oh so I'm Kuroo now? Whatever Y/N, sleep wherever you want, I don't care." He didn't mean that, not in the slightest, but the need to get in the last word had overcome all sense of logic he had left. So with clenched fists and a tense jaw, he stormed out of the living room before you could utter another word. The slamming door of your shared bedroom finally allowing you the privacy to let loose the flood of tears you'd been holding back.

Unfortunately for you, the close proximity of the living room and master bedroom created by the quaint one story house allowed for the muffled sobs of your boyfriend to reach your ears. Your heart hurt at the though of him curled up all alone on the large mattress, but again, you were too headstrong to do anything about it. Everything was so overwhelming that your body ended up giving out. Your eyes falling shut as you hugged a throw pillow close to your chest.

It was around 2:30 a.m. that you were roused from your slumber by the sound of shuffling feet. Sleepily rubbing at your eyes, you looked up to see a large, dark figure looming at the foot of the couch. You nearly jumped ten feet in the air, your heart rate quickening to an unatural pace. The sharp yelp you let out was followed by the figure flicking on a light, revealing that the figure was in fact your, very exhausted looking, boyfriend.

"Woah, Kitten it's just me!" He stretched out his arms in an attempt to calm you.

"Tetsurou what the fuck? You scared the shit out of me!"

He grimaced, mumbling out an apology. That definitely wasn't his intention.

"What do you want?" You asked sharply.

"I couldn't sleep, not without you." His voice is pleading as he looked at you expectingly.

"Well maybe you forgot, but we're not exactly on cuddling terms right now." You weren't even all that upset anymore, most of your sour emotions fading away with the few hours of sleep you'd gotten. Nonetheless, a few traces of bitter hurt and anger still remained. It was the principle, the fight the two of you had was still unresolved, and being woken up so suddenly didn't exactly help much with your current mood. He really expected you to just come to his beck and call because he "couldn't sleep?"

"Can we just forget about it until the morning? Please, I need you." He sounded a little more desperate this time. Now that you thought about it, he seemed on edge and antsy. He kept shifting his weight from side to side, the backs of his heels lifting up as he did so.

"No, Tetsurou, go to bed. I don't feel like being around you right now. Just give me some space and we can talk in the morning." You dramatically slung your blanket over yourself, making it a point to toss over to your other side, turning your back to Kuroo.

There's an annoyed huff, and suddenly your blanket has been rudely ripped from your body. Before you could protest, a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, hoisting you off the couch and over Kuroo's broad shoulder.

"I didn't want it to come to this but you've forced my hand."

"Kuroo Tetsurou put me down!"

"Sorry Kitten, but I need you, so we're doing this the hard way." It seems as though his defense mechanisms have built themselves back up, as this time his voice holds a more teasing tone to it.

Despite your protests, he carries you back to your shared bedroom, gently tossing you onto the queen sized mattress. You're quick to make your next move to escape, but before you could move more than a few inches, Kuroo plops down on top of you. His chest is pressed up against your torso and he's already nuzzled his face into the side of your neck, pinning you down with the full weight of his body.

"Tetsu, get off!" You squirm under him, grabbing at his back. You hadn't even realized that you'd resorted back to calling him by the nickname he loved so much. But he surely did, his chest warmed as the name rolled off your tongue. He took it as a sign that you weren't really as mad as you were letting on to be. The two of you were okay.

His breath tickles your neck as he let's out an exaggerated sigh. His hands move to either side of your head, giving him the leverage to prop himself up just enough to lift his head while maintaining the ability to hold you down with his weight. His face is now centimeters away from your own, his nose brushing against yours as his hot breath fans your face. Did this smooth mother fucker really brush his teeth before he came to talk to you?

"I'll let you get up if you can tell me why we were even fighting." His voice is low and gravely. He knows he's got you by the way your eyes refuse to meet his, and he can't help the smirk that crawls it's way onto his face.

Based on the way he's looking at you, you're expecting him to spew out some teasing comment, but instead he presses a chaste kiss to your lips. It's sweet and innocent, a contrast to his usual eager and cocky displays of affection.

"I'm really sorry, Kitten." He whispers, and you know it's genuine. "And I should have said it earlier instead of storming off. I don't want us to end up like my parents, going to bed angry and never fixing anything."

There it is. That's why he was acting so desperate when he'd come to wake you up. His parent's rocky and loveless relationship imprinted on him at a young age, showing him everything he wanted to avoid in his own relationship. His worst fear was being unable to break the cycle of heartbreak set by his parents, and your unresolved argument scared him.

You couldn't help but feel a little guilty knowing that you were to blame for the pain he went through tonight. You instinctively reached up to cup his face in an attempt to comfort him, the pad of your thumb gently running over his cheek bone. Any anger or bitterness you'd felt had melted away with his heartfelt apology. He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as he let out a relieved sigh.

"I'm sorry too, Tetsu." He let out a soft hum as your hand glides down to the back of his neck, finger tips scratching at his nape and playing with the soft tufts of hair. "We're okay, I promise."

Kuroo's previous smirk had now melted into a soft lopsided smile. Leaning down, he presses another kiss against your lips, this time a little more confident and eager.

"Okay, now can you get your fat ass up so I can breathe?" You mumbled against his lips. The sudden snarky comment has Kuroo putting back up his signature smirk. A deep chuckle reverberating through his chest. "Are you gonna stay?"

You nod silently and that seems to be enough to convince him.

Although you'd made quiet the fuss about it, you actually miss the pressure and warmth provided by his body as he lazily rolls off of you, now laying on his side. But the warm feeling isn't gone for long, because next thing you know Kuroo's arms have already snaked around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. He's got you pressed flush against him, one arm holding your waist while the other tangles itself in your hair. His chin rests comfortably on top of your head, every now and then tilting it downward to press soft kisses to your hair.

It isn't long before his breathing is already starting to even out, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. The feather light circles you're tracing into his back only speed up the process.

"You're lucky I love you," you joke, but you're sure he gets the hidden message in your words. Although, the response you're waiting for never comes. There's no way he's already asleep, he's definitely toying with you.

Your fingers halt their movements on his back. Impatient with waiting for his response, you dig your nails into his back, just hard enough to get his attention.

"Hmm? I was sleeping, did you say something, Kitten?" You don't miss the subtle taunting that laces it's way into his words. Oh, he's definitely toying with you.

"You are on thin ice Kuroo Tetsurou."

With your ear so close to his chest you hear the soft vibrations of his chuckle. "I love you too, Kitten."

[i-did-not-mean-to]

For the Romantic Bingo - The Perfect Proposal, :)

Aaaah Pixie, my dear...

Okay, let's see...

Proposal II

Words: 1,5k

Characters : Thorin x reader

“What are…”

The words die on your lips as you step onto the narrow ledge; Thorin holds out his hand and you almost stumble over your own feet at the sight of the golden light pouring over him.

He looks so much like the statues of his forefathers and yet, he’s nothing like them for – under the surface layer of silver and gold – he hides a beating heart so ferociously alive that neither stone nor ore might keep it in check.

“I need to talk to you,” he smiles softly, pulling you closer to his side, his feet firmly planted on the rock that is his cradle and his home.

A strange feeling washes through your veins, diluting your blood and making you feel weak in the knees; since his coronation as the rightful king of the Longbeards, Thorin has kept you close – a valuable councillor and a valued friend – and you wonder if your time by his side has come to an end.

The mere thought clenches like a fist around your aching heart; you are in love with him, you have been for a long time, and it frightens you to even imagine being sent away.

It is so incredibly hard to pierce the mask of stoic self-control that he wears day-in, day-out.

Moreover, Thorin – like almost every other dwarf you had ever met – was ridiculously private, so this meeting could mean anything and its exact opposite.

“My friend,” he says while turning to the sinking sun, “I am much like this day.”

“Beautiful? Perfect? Warm and sunny under the dark clouds?” you supply and make him chuckle by waxing poetic with so much more ease than him.

“No, diminishing,” he replies calmly, “I am no longer a young dwarf…”

He turns back to you, seeks your gaze and holds it for a long moment, his hand lifting as if to caress your cheek.

You know that he’s right, but you disagree with the notion that his best years are behind him.

“What follows should be the happiest decades of your life, Thorin,” you promise, “this is the moment when you can rest and recover; your heir is strong, and your future is bright.”

The hand in yours twitches as his smile broadens, melting like wax under the onslaught of a steady flame.

“Do you like it here?” he then suddenly asks and nods at the vast expanse stretching endlessly before your eyes; once a desolate plain, it is now speckled with the signs of stubborn life sprouting roots that reach deep into the heart of the earth and throwing out living arms of growth to reach for the sky.

“This is home,” you reply. You are home, but that, you do not dare to say.

Is this the moment where your king tells you that he has no need of your services anymore? Is this the second where your heart is shattered by the rejection of a love that has never breached your lips only because it has never crossed his mind?

“You seem tense, my…love,” Thorin comments, shrugging off his heavy cloak to settle it around your shoulders to keep you warm as the sun sinks inexorably into the horizon like a ball of flame extinguished in a lake.

So many fires have died in that body of water, you know, but – unlike Smaug – the sun shall rise again and grace everyone with another shower of pale light.

“What are we doing here, my king?” you ask softly, tugging at his hand lightly to draw his attention from the landscape to your face; you refuse to think about the soft word spoken with such conviction.

Hope is a dangerous blade that cuts both ways as well you know.

How you relish in his beauty; it is the pulchritude of thrumming life rather than the cold perfection of a statue, and you’d take his wrinkles and scars over an idealised painting any day, no matter how flawlessly smooth it might be on the surface.

“I…” he falls silent again, his brow knitting in concentration as he goes over decades of book learning, societal and cultural norms, as well as basic life experience in search of the right words to say.

“I wanted to be alone with you,” he admits after a moment, “and – depending on your answer – we might well have to re-enact at least part of this conversation at a later date…”

“Yes?” you prompt him, your heart beating furiously in your throat and your hand growing sweaty in his broad, rough palm.

“I wanted to offer you what I know I can promise,” he says, his eyes shifting from the radiant, vibrating blue of sunny days into the velvety, crystalline hue of winter nights, “a land, a mountain, and a heart that have seen too much war and are still fighting their way back to…prosperity. I know not if any of them shall succeed.”

“Look, Thorin,” you cry out, pointing wildly at the small tufts of unyielding bushes pushing through rock and cracked earth, “life will find a way. Worry not, my king.”

To keep you from tumbling off the face of the mountain, Thorin tightens his hold on you and his smell – smoke, leather, and clean skin – envelops you like a physical blanket.

“I…your king, you say,” he mutters, his heavy brows furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line, “is that all you see when you look at me? Is getting the crown the last thing I had to achieve?”

You chuckle at that.

“No, Thorin, but my king you are indeed.”

“I don’t want to be your king,” he exclaims in quiet frustration, “I want to be your husband.”

“Even if you were my husband, you’d still be my king,” you contradict him automatically before you even fully realise what he has said.

“Pardon me?” you whirl around and – this time – you really almost throw yourself off the narrow ledge you’re standing on.

“You are impossible, woman,” Thorin laughs, throws you over his shoulder and carries you back into the mountain.

In the soft light of the torches, his eyes change hue yet again, and in those soft azure depths, you discover a well of love and affection of which you might have heard the gurgling echoes without ever daring to approach the stone wall surrounding the precious source.

“Then let me be your king,” he exclaims passionately, pulling a satchel out of the pocket of his tunic and handing it to you almost shyly.

Opening the bag, you find a necklace of rare beauty and a ring wrought around a stone the exact same shade of ever-changing blue as his eyes.

“Those are beautiful!” you gasp, letting them flow like water through your fingers before remembering how undignified such a display of greed is.

“They’re family heirlooms,” Thorin explains not without pride, “but if you don’t like them, we can have new ones made…”

“Stop, Thorin,” you interrupt him, “I love them; they’re gorgeous. Be so good and repeat your suit!”

Clearing his throat and muttering how you’re almost as bad as the Elven king when it comes to form and proper procedure, Thorin enunciates painstakingly: “I, Thorin II, you may fill in the numerous titles and epithets yourself, the dwarf to whom you’ve been friend and confidante, nurse, teacher, and solace, am asking you – respectfully – to accept my courtship so that – if I manage to win over your heart – I might claim your hand in wedlock.”

For a good moment, you cannot find the words to express the whirlwind of confusion and joy tearing you apart from the inside out as it rages through every corner of your soul and heart.

“I accept,” you finally reply, in a voice as calm and official as his has been.

You don’t fully understand what his words entail, but the idea that Thorin will try to woo you is at the same time ludicrous and utterly exciting to you.

“Between you and me – and I admit that is the main reason why I wanted to do this in private – can you at least set my mind at ease and tell me if there is any chance that I will win you over? I am aware that– beyond the title – I have not a lot to offer compared to younger suitors.”

“Loyalty, honour, and a willing heart?” you supply softly, cupping his bearded cheek in one hand and rubbing your thumb over the dark shadows of fatigue and grief under his radiant eyes.

“Oh, my love,” he sighs longingly, “I am battered and bruised, grumpy and – if my nephews are to be believed – ‘stuffy’, but I do love you and I’d do anything within my power to prove myself worthy of your love.”

“We shall see, Thorin Oakenshield, we shall see.”

[angry-geese]

hello, how are you? so i don't remember very well how it went, but yesterday i found your tumblr and i was amazed and you write so well 🥺💗

but then i'm a bucciarati simp (i will never get over your end) and i would like to know if you can write a scenario where the reader is just an ordinary citizen who admires bucciarati (because he helped her a while ago) and wants to join the passione and he's just against it because he doesn't want to expose her to danger, he just wants to know her real reason, so he uses his ability to find out if she's lying, which is very helpful as there's a sexual tension there and well, everything ends up in sex.

ok that was very specific lmao maybe if you want to change or are not willing to write, that's fine with me.

anyway thanks, you are amazing 💗💗

aww thank you <3

don't ever worry about being too specific, I always love seeing what other people come up with :)

Tomorrow - Bruno Bucciarati x Reader

warnings: nsfw/minors do not interact. mutual pining, fluff. minor mention of violence. unprotected sex, quickie, fingering, hickeys, hair pulling, body worship (??? if you squint???). afab reader.

word count: 1.7k

It's hard to believe it's almost been a year.

Your shop had been open for barely a month. When you first moved to your neighborhood, it was made known to you it was a dangerous place. But rent was low, and the building was just too perfect to pass up on. Not many places had room for a bakery, and a space to live upstairs.

You were in over your head. But you were too stubborn to admit it.

It had caught his eye the moment he saw it. Maybe it was its cozy nature; a small shop tucked away, full of plants, a cat dozing off in the window. Or it could have been your inviting smile, the way you lit up as the door opened.

Every day he got the same order. By the end of the first week, you made sure to have it ready for him.

From the very beginning you faced issues. A business like yours attracted a lot of attention; good and bad. The local gangs knew you were bringing in money. They wanted a cut, and you weren't willing to give it to them.

You should have given it to them.

You were warned. They told you they'd come back. You were warned but didn't listen.

They trashed your shop. You swept broken glass from your floors for weeks before it finally came out. They were persistent; more than you ever thought. When you stood up to them, they threatened to kill you. They probably would have, had Bruno not stepped in. While you were willing to lay down your life for your business, he wasn't going to let you.

You're not quite sure what Bruno did, but you never saw those men again.

You never charged him for food again. If it meant he would keep coming back to your shop, you would do a lot of things. You said you owed him. At first, he was willing to accept. Weeks went on as you still refused his money. It got to the point where he felt bad. He hid money around your apartment hoping that you'd take the hint. But you never did.

You could never pay him back. Bruno claims you already have—with all the free food—but truly it's a debt that can't be repaid. Putting it lightly, you owe him your life.

The mess was cleaned up, but you'd never feel safe in your home again.

Over the past few months, Bruno had become one of your closest—if not your closest—friend. His little free time was spent at your shop. The two of you could talk for hours about nothing in particular. Business would come and go, but he was always there. If you called, he'd come running. You really didn't have to call. At the first sign of problems he was by your side.

Bruno's influence only works so much. He could only pay off those thugs for so long.

He was worried when you missed his call this morning.

His stomach sinks as he sees the broken glass.

You're not crying. You really don't look too upset. To you, this is the final nail in your coffin. You only notice him as he stops. You motion for him to sit next to you on the steps.

The people in this town are like vultures. They can sense any bit of fortune. Any money you have can't be kept for long. Stashing it away is never a good idea.

"What happened?" He asks.

"I didn't get my protection fees paid in time."

He takes a seat next to you. For the first time in his life, he feels speechless. As far as he knew, he'd taken care of this. Those thugs would have hell to pay.

"I want to join." You say.

"What?"

"I'm taking Polpo's test." You say. "I want to join Passione."

"Why?"

It's finally occurred to you how close your faces are.

You ball up your apron and toss it aside. You don't have a better answer for him. As much as you wish you did; you don't. You want to tell him anything but the truth. Really, he feels betrayed. Has he not done enough? Has this all gone to waste? He's tried all he can to keep you away from the gangs.

It seems it wasn't enough.

His grip on your arm tightens. You don’t dare look him in the eyes. As if you couldn't be more obvious. You nearly jump out of your skin as he licks a long stripe up your cheek. Instantly your face goes red. Your cheeks burn at the heat that sends right to your core. You're stammering out a few nonsensical sentence fragments.

"That's the taste of a liar, y/n."

You whip around to face him. "I want to be able to defend myself!"

The look in his eyes isn't what you expect. It's more a look of betrayal than anything. To be honest, you didn't expect him to have any reaction at all. He's rather adamant about keeping you away from Passione.

"I can protect you." His voice has gone oddly soft. "I'll take care of you."

Bruno's grip on your arms loosens.

He leans in for a kiss. It's soft, but his warmth lingers on your lips long after he's pulled away. He smells like fancy cologne, and almost like a restaurant, strangely enough. It's a weird, comforting mix of cooked food and expensive men's cologne.

He's wanted to do this since he first met you.

His hands move to cup your cheeks. They're so warm. It's hard to resist his touch. He looks at you with such longing that it makes your chest swell with affection. The heat in your face returns, but it's in less of a lewd manner. He admires every dip and curve of your clothed body; how your waist is cinched in whenever you wear your apron, how your strong hands work pastry dough into shape.

He leans in for another kiss. It's deeper this time, and leaves a longing ache in your chest. The rough muscle of his tongue presses past your lips. He tastes faintly of alcohol.

You're too impatient to get to your room. He'll settle on bending you over your apartment's kitchen counter. He wants to take his time with you, but for now, he's content with this. Maybe there'll be a second time.

His long fingers work to undo the buttons of your pants. You don't take a lot of prep work. You're already soaked. Two of his fingers press into you. They’re long, but fairly thin, and slide right into you. His fingers stroke against your g-spot as his thumb works circles around your clit. It doesn’t take him long to figure out just what makes you weak. Bruno has you a shaking, moaning mess in no time.

You lean against the counter, propping yourself up on your elbows. He wastes no time in freeing himself from his pants. His cock is built like the rest of him; long and dark. It’s girthy, but not intimidatingly big. The hairs towards the base are neatly trimmed, and the same color as the hair on his head. A vein runs up the bottom, only getting more prominent as he gets harder. He shoves your pants down to your knees.

Bruno groans as he sheathes himself in you. The feeling of your warm, wet cunt is intoxicating. Maybe he’s a bit more pent up than he thought. His hand buries in your hair. He leans forward to nip at your earlobe. Bruno coos words of praise into your ear, telling you how good you take him, how good you feel around him.

He rolls his hips against yours in desperate, quick motions. Bruno can't decide what to do with his hands. They're gripping your breasts, then your hips, then settling in your hair. He’ll have you like this again, he’s certain of it.

Heat pools in your stomach. His touch leaves you with an aching need for more.

"Fuck- I've wanted this for so long," he says, "you’re so beautiful.”

His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. He sucks a dark mark into your shoulder—one where you won’t be able to see it. It sends a whole new heat to your core. While his cock isn't the biggest, it curves in just a way that makes your toes curl.

He makes it known just what he thinks about you; babbling about how good you feel around him, about how long he’s wanted to do this.

The sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room. If you had any neighbors, you'd certainly be getting noise complaints. Your moans are like music to his ears. You don't worry about being quiet. Let others hear you, what do you care?

"Harder Bruno!" You cry out.

He can't resist something as beautiful as you.

His free hand moves to your clit, tracing circles around the bundle of nerves. He works you up in a way you never knew possible. Your skin feels feverish, and sensitive to the touch. The heat in your stomach only gets more unbearable. You want to beg him to cum inside. You need him to cum inside. Your mind is too hazy to think of much else but him and the way he fucks into you. He leaves none of your sweet spots unstroked.

Something in you snaps. There’s not one specific thing that sends you over the edge; it's everything. You clench around him as you cum, crying out. The way you suck him back in is almost enough to send him over the edge.

His thrusts get sloppier as he nears his own orgasm. He scrambles against the counter for purchase, gripping the edge of it so tight his knuckles turn white. He doesn't want to risk cumming inside. He pulls out, giving himself a few pumps before cumming into his hand.

Bruno presses a kiss to the exposed flesh of your shoulder. Your skin is sticky with sweat. A tired, but pleased look spreads across your face. His hair tickles your neck. The sight of your shaky, sleepy form is almost enough to make him hard again.

You lean back into him, giggling. “We made a mess…”

“Want to make another?”

"Are you suggesting a round two?” It’s a joke, but you carry some seriousness behind it.

"Anything for you,"

[featherfur]

Meng Yao should have been around when Jiang Cheng was running around with his head cut off trying to make disciples out of rogues and convince everyone to get started on the war. I just think he’d see this, probably manic, idiot who needs help and is 100% willing to be bossed around and who really doesn’t care about Meng Yao station in life because he’s just fucking desperate and wants to die but can’t because Yanli and just go “actually I’m interested”. Because Jiang Cheng would riot if he knew Meng Yao wanted to go back to his dad, and well Jiang Cheng is very pathetic when he thinks he’s being left behind (“You’re leaving me for the Jin just like Shijie? Tears and loud words for you! Tears and loud words dor a thousand years!”)

And Meng Yao would have a spot in Lotus Pier where he is VERY clearly wanted, he probably doesn’t become sworn brothers with anyone (or LXC and NMJ realize that no one needs to give the Jin any more influence and become sworn brothers with Jiang Cheng) unless it’s Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian (unfortunately WWX will still probably be killed or hunted at the very least but atleast Qin Su is alive? Maybe having MY around will help calm JC into the fact that LWJ wants to bang his brother and help him so JC can convince WWX to let LWJ atleast play for him, then maybe WWX can accidentally let slip about him already destroying one half and LWJ can help destroy the other half… Dunno if the Wen Remnants survive either sorry, honestly I don’t know if anyone can stop JGS in the long run)

So there’s two ways this goes: (under read more I have Thoughts)

Meng Yao DOES go to the Jin Sect still because JC gets wanting your Dad’s Approval even when he’s a dick AND he protects Yanli who immediately adopted him when JC showed up to the war with him. Without being stuck between a Rock and a Hard place (sorry NMJ not everyone is a annoyingly stubborn with their morals as you and MY is being hurt :( leave him alone :(( ) MY is able to continue being pressured without breaking and even though JGS keeps trying to get him to manipulate JC, MY won’t and won’t manipulate NMJ either and every time he goes to Lotus Pier to ‘look into’ the Jiang Sect he actually just spends the week being plied with children and listening to Jiang Cheng explain the fashion industry Again and talk about silks vs cashmeres vs wool so he just gets a vacay and is more prepared to stand up against his dad.

Also JC and Yanli catch on pretty quick to Madam Jin abusing MY because they were there after Madam Yu would hurt WWX and they know the signs of trying to hide the pain and Yanli suddenly starts Show Up whenever Madam Jin tries anything because that is her Didi now and she will protect him and if anyone ELSE tries to mess with him she will rip them apart like when Jin Zixun tries to bother WWX.

JGS does eventually manage to frame something on WWX but MY intervenes immediately by telling JC the truth and without the ‘did my kinda insane PTSD ridden brother so this?” Panic thoughts JC gets his people and is waiting for the force of Jin and smaller sects, with his two sworn brothers on either side. Because yeah NMJ absolutely hates the Wen but can he really ignore LXC and JC? Plus NHS on the side? He’s only there to protect WWX, anyone else can get fucked and even then he’s only protecting WWX because JC asked him too because NMJ thinks WWX sucks for choosing the wens because he’s very much of the one track ‘the wens suck’ mind. MY pretends he has no idea what’s going on but he does summon Jin Zixuan on ‘accident’ who shows up, annoyed he had to leave his kid, and is like “are we really going to accuse Nie Mingjue, known Wen hater, of protecting Wei Wuxian and lying about his innocence? Because his sword is the same size as my body and I’d rather Not”

(okay he’s more polite and subtle but that’s the gist) somehow Jin Guangshan dies, I’m voting Yanli poisoned him because I think Meng Yao is 100% willing at this point to simply take the abuse because Jiang Cheng and Lan Xichen aren’t essentially telling him to murder his father and that he’s stupid for not holding harder to his morals (sorry NMJ,,, you just,, I love you but MY is hurting and he’s not as stabby as you) NMJ is still very much crankily telling him his dad sucks whenever they meet but Jiang Cheng gets all sparkly whenever MY is around because MY will say he’s Doing Good, so there’s only so much room before JC start just biting anyone who even looks at MY wrong. (NMJ says he’s proud of JC once and JC just starts crying and NMJ UnderstandsTM why MY won’t leave him alone)

But Yanli has to be the one to kill him because MY wouldn’t because he’s a filial son and probably hasn’t lost his hope he will be Loved, Jin Zixuan wouldn’t because he’s like the only one in the entire show not down with murder, Madam Jin is not about to give up the power and money that comes from being the wife of Jin Guangshan even if JZX would take care of her because Yanli clearly is willing to rip everyone apart who fucks with her family and unlike Jiang Cheng is willing to change the status quo, and if JGS dies on a hunt they’ll blame WWX so Yanli just poisons him slowly and he dies from ‘illness’. JZX takes power, Meng Yao is told he’s amazing twelve times a day because JZX can do busy work and argue against anyone but he cannot have a small talk conversation to save his life. Life continues peacefully, Jiang Cheng keeps kidnapping JZX’s advisor because he misses him. Meng Yao knows how to control literally every single great sect but he’s busy chasing down his nephews and helping Jiang Cheng avoid marriage offers to do anything.

Once Jin Guangshan died, LXC and MY both swooped in to have the Wen Remnants moved somewhere else to ‘civilize’ them (using LXC’s own words here) and WWX is very much caught between Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji arguing over who he’s going home with and he’s honestly never felt more Loved TM. WWX spends six months to break the rest of the tiger rally under the grumpy/watchful eye of NMJ who still isn’t happy anyone from the Wen’s is still alive but he’s weak to puppy eyes and also when he’s being strong armed by his sworn brothers, MY, and NHS (though he still keeps an eye on the actual cultivators, he’s pretty much forgotten the rest of the Wen Remnants exist he just cares about the ones who know how to use a sword). Wangxian happens, idk how I’m voting for a wild Jingyi another orphan decides that he wants to meet the Purple Angry Man and body slams into WWX’s legs trying to get to the Purple man and LWJ catches him and it’s a full on romantic moment of staring into each other’s eyes while Jiang Cheng makes disgusted noises and Meng Yao pats his hand and just tells him to accept it.

Or Meng Yao stays in Lotus Pier because Jiang Cheng has problems and Meng Yao loves a messy loudmouth aggressive bitch with a secret heart of gold. Also Jiang Cheng is the exact kind of Demi-aroace dummy to not realize Meng Yao has a crush on LXC and keeps sending him over to Cloud Recesses to help with trade or something and MY gets to hang out with his crush constantly.

MY is Jiang Cheng’s personal advisor since WWX is currently refusing to process his trauma and staying in a very traumatic place. MY does try to help but WWX doesn’t trust him and probably only half trusts him around JC, BUT MY is very good with kids and helps work with JC on how to slip WWX supplies while negotiating directly with Nie and Lan without Jin glaring over him this time, and Jin Zixuan is more than happy to help when he can because again he’s just like the only one with modern morals and wants Lotus Pier to be strong since if all the sects fall then well the fucking demons/ghosts they hunt will eat them. So WWX is slowly atleast not ready to kill him, Meng Yao finds out WWX already destroyed half the Tiger Tally and tries to get him to let NMJ and LXC help him destroy it further (because that ties the three sects closer and so WWX won’t just stab someone if someone isn’t happy about the Wen’s existing)

Yanli poisons Jin Guangshan again because I think that’s the best way for him to go, Meng Yao does grieve but also that lasts for three minutes before Jiang Cheng shows up with some children he found in Yunmeng and Meng Yao needs to explain to him again that just because the kid latches on doesn’t mean you can take them home. But with JGS out of the way it’s a lot easier to strong arm NMJ into letting the Lan take the remnants (JC and NMJ still aren’t happy about it but NMJ can’t fight the three other sects and JC is getting his brother back and he’ll take the Wen living if that means WWX is too) and WWX returns to Lotus Pier. The truth of the golden core comes out probably via WWX having a flashback or panic attack or something (or that one theory of Yanli knowing,,,) words happen, WWX storms off to find LWJ.

Meng Yao wonders why he likes messy cry babies but still helps out Jiang Cheng because they’re technically brother in laws and also because he really does care about him. Wangxian happens and now Jiang Cheng is really pissed but WWX also said he wasn’t going to just up and leave so they’re on a rotating system but honestly everyone’s just waiting for them to move permanently to Lotus Pier because Lan Wangji has this giant hole in his heart for kids who love Wei Wuxian and Lotus Pier is filled with kids who are Jiang and therefore are insane ans love WWX.

Personally I think this one is the least likely but it sounds very nice right?

[ushidoux]

He, Hercules - Ushijima x Reader

Summary: What is Ushijima if not strong? (~2.0k words)

Warnings: accident, temporary disability, implied depression, some suggestive themes, hurt/comfort

A/N: I have limited experience with athletic injuries and mental illness so bear with me. If there is anything you find inaccurate or insensitive in my depiction, don’t hesitate to pm me! <3

---

“Mr. Ushijima?”

You perk up when you hear the secretary’s voice call out your husband’s name, only realizing now that in your long semi-long wait you’d ended up dozing off, resting your head against his shoulder. Clearly, you must have been exhausted, because it takes you a moment to remember where you are, and why you’re here.

There are very few others in this small office aside from the single middle-aged man in the corner who you realize is staring quite hard at you, and you wonder briefly if it’s because you somehow looked inappropriate or acted inappropriately while you were asleep. There shouldn’t be anything very noteworthy about a young couple inside a therapy practice.

You glance at Ushijima who is barely moving despite the fact that his name was just pronounced. He’s as still as a statue and his expression is neutral as is typical of him, but you still perceive the lack of intensity behind his eyes, a constant reminder that no matter how much he acts as though he’s fine, he’s not.

Why else would you be here in the first place?

You nudge him gently.

“Love, they called your name. It’s time for your session,” you whisper into his ear.

He had been staring off at a fixed point across from him, but he does still respond to your nudges. When he rises, it’s done slowly, and he walks besides you with a slight limp in his left leg. He doesn’t wince with any step but the arm you hold onto as you walk with him through the hallway down to the provider’s office is stiff. You wonder if he resents how clingy you’ve gotten since his injury, handling him with kid gloves as though he were the most fragile of glass. You can’t help it. You’d almost lost him.

The office is open when you arrive, and a man who looks only a few years older than Wakatoshi is seated in a cream armchair, waiting, a measured smile on his face. Ushijima doesn’t smile back but he doesn’t frown either. 

“Welcome! Please come in and make yourself comfortable,” the man says without missing a beat, rising to shake his hand. He also shoots a glance at you, but before he can ask you to introduce yourself before politely shooing you out of the room (this is not couples’ therapy after all, even if it will help the two of you), you squeeze your husband’s hand before quickly exiting.

“I’m his partner, I’ll see myself out, thank you!”

You worry slightly about leaving him alone in this stranger’s care, but Ushijima is not a child and this isn’t the first day of kindergarten, he’s a man recovering from a life-altering injury and has finally agreed to go to therapy. 

You’re not sure how optimistic to be, but you’ve done an extensive amount of research and this particular therapist boasted credentialing in sports psychology, was highly recommended and had worked with a lot of current and former athletes alike. 

Of course, this would all be meaningless if Ushijima refused to talk, but as you started your car to pass the next hour at a nearby mall, you gave yourself a little bit of hope.

---

“Tell me about yourself,” is the first question the therapist asks, after offering not much more than his own name, and Ushijima is slightly annoyed by the question.

He does not want to be here in the first place, he doesn’t need to be here, and now he’s asked a question as vague and audacious as ‘tell me about yourself’ like he’s expected to pour out his feelings to this stranger from the very second he sits in this admittedly comfortable couch.

He pauses. He’s not sure exactly what he would say. 

He’s nearing 30. He’s married, no kids. If it’s not obvious, he’s from Japan. He plays volleyball professionally… well, played, up until recently. 

He frowns. That’s why he’s here. Because you don’t think he is okay, even if all of his injuries have essentially healed aside from this annoying limp that makes it obvious that he’s in some way not in optimal shape, broken, vulnerable. This  limp is the reason why he can no longer play even if he feels fine otherwise, and why he’s not exactly sure what to do next. 

But that’s beyond the point. The question is about himself.

What else can he say? How would others describe him?

His friends call him serious, just as the media describes him. Quiet and serious. Dedicated. Strong. 

Maybe he’s not that last thing anymore, but that too is beyond the point.

You think he’s sweet; you say this repeatedly. You tell him that he’s kind and considerate.

He thinks for a moment that maybe he was too kind. Kindness is what got him in this predicament in the first place, isn’t it?

A moment of compassion - a likely exhausted mother whose eyes leave her child for a split second to rummage through her purse, a little girl whose tiny legs take her just a bit too far out into an open intersection, a speeding car that shows no signs of stopping…

He remembers the exact moment he is no longer jogging but sprinting to take the child out of harm’s way, as well as the exact moment he hears his bones snap on impact, and he’s too shocked initially to feel pain, eyes frantically searching for the kid who now is standing on the opposite side of the street, looking at him in curiosity because the toddler is too young to understand what it means to see a body crumple. She’s unharmed, so he’s successful.

A woman screams and she sounds nothing like you. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing.

The car speeds on.

---

You sit in a food court, poking at some fries, but you’re not exactly hungry, just anxious. Is the session going okay? 

Even if the man is a professional at getting people to talk, Wakatoshi is a hard nut to crack. You could envision him sitting silently until the hour passed completely, before getting up to bow and exit stage left. It had taken you months to get him to agree to go to anything other than physical therapy.

You hope this is not an exercise in futility.

---

“I’m fine,” he grunted, just a couple days out of the hospital, once you’d started nagging him for weight-bearing on the leg that had just been operated on.

“Your leg was literally shattered!” You shouted. “You’re lucky they didn’t amputate!”

He gave you a mildly fatigued look. All he’d wanted to do was walk to the kitchen by himself, without crutches in his own house, and he’d barely made it a couple of steps before you were standing in the bedroom, looking all sorts of stressed and concerned. 

He figured your concern was temporary, so he attempted to quell his stubbornness. He had already been benched for the season, possibly to likely forever and pouring out his frustration on you wouldn’t be helpful.

“What do you need? I’ll get it for you.”

He frowned but he let you help him anyway.

---

“My name is Wakatoshi Ushijima. I moved here several years ago from Japan to play volleyball professionally. I was in a bad car accident a few months ago and my wife is concerned that I’m not adjusting well.”

The therapist offers a small smile again.

“Do you disagree with that assessment?”

Ushijima tilts his head slightly. He does disagree… he doesn’t? He’s not sure. He’s frustrated of course, who wouldn’t be, he had just been in the Olympics after all, but he’s fine. He’s strong.

He’s strong.

---

“We just wanted to thank you again.”

Wakatoshi glanced at the gifts the couple before them had brought,  a bouquet of flowers and stacks of cookies and pastries in boxes on the living room coffee table, before looking back at you. Your face remained polite and smiling but you were clearly uncomfortable from the way you were perched on the seat, nodding carefully as you listened to your visitors, your arms crossed over your midsection as you leaned forward in your chair.

He knew you wanted to be angry at them, well, her, the mother who looked at him pitifully initially then averted her eyes out of shame. But it wasn’t her fault but yet, it was her fault and still, it wasn’t. It was very complicated. No one was at fault. Her daughter was safe.

Everything was fine.

---

You’re back in your car again, ready to drive to pick up your husband from therapy. Things should get better from here on. 

Maybe he will no longer shut down like a brick wall when you suggest that now is a good time to start transitioning away from sports for the future. Maybe he’ll be less upset with small things like not being able to run as far, or lift as much or please you as much in the bedroom as he used to. 

They’re small things compared to losing his life.

---

“I would like to go back to playing but I’m told at every turn that it’s too dangerous, maybe even after a year of healing.”

The therapist nods, and scribbles something on a sheet of paper.

“How does that make you feel?”

The therapist notices even through Ushijima’s accented Polish that he’s naturally eloquent, but regardless he still lacks the words to appropriately talk about his feelings. 

His hands grip at his knees, the good and the bad one. The word ‘useless’ comes to mind but he can’t bring himself to say that to this stranger, even if these four walls come with the promise of understanding. 

For once, silence is uncomfortable for him, and the therapist is surprisingly good at staying quiet. They sit in silence for moments longer and surprisingly, Wakatoshi speaks up first.

“Weak,” he ekes out in a voice that is so small he barely recognizes it.

To that, the therapist leans just slightly forward, focusing his eyes on the man’s restricted range of motion and slightly hunched shoulders. It’s the posture of a man who’s normally stoic and confident, now made uncertain about the future.

“What’s wrong with weakness?” He says quickly, and Ushijima is somewhat stunned which then lends way to a small measure of anger.

Everything is wrong with being weak. Weakness was for other people. How could he protect himself, his livelihood, his team, you?

What is he if not strong?

---

“I love you.”

He says it less often than you do to him, but every time he does, he means every word. You shifted beneath him, weary from the lovemaking of just prior but still nevertheless craning your neck up to reach his lips. 

Your hands traveled down his shoulders and along the length of his bulky arms, playing with his biceps, drinking in the sight of his muscles flexing as he moved. He smiled and wrapped his arms tight around you, laying his head on your chest. 

“Aww, Toshi, you’ll crush me if you hold me so tight. You barely know your own strength,” you teased with a laugh, prompting him to loosen his grip ever so slightly, and lift up his head to show you the smallest of pouts.

“I love you more,” you added, giggling.

Pleased, he lay his head back down on the softness of your bosom, clinging to you more. He’d protect and take care of you forever.

---

You hold Ushijima’s hand tightly as you walked out of the building to your car, holding in your curiosity about the session the entire time. 

Would he go again?

He gives your hand a squeeze suddenly which surprises you, and when he turns to you, there’s a small upturn in the corner of his lips that approximates more of a smile than you’ve seen in recent weeks.

You’re elated enough that you immediately give him a hug, and maybe you’re a bit overzealous about it, but he stops and holds you close for just a moment.

“Thank you.”

There’s a lot in the thank you, and you shed a tear.

---

Strength is relative and inconstant, so our first task is to work on your definition of strength. 

But I would say, coming here in the first place is already evidence enough.

[scones-and-texting-and-murder]

Bookends

(This story was originally written for and published in the DeanCas Anthology back in 2018. )

Word Count: 2223 Rating: General ao3 link

Cas pulls as close to the door as he can, checking the rearview mirror to make sure he isn’t blocking traffic as he waits for Dean to get out of the car. Before heading inside, Dean ducks his head back in to smile at him. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

Instead of driving away, Cas stays there, watching until Dean pulls open the diner door. Leaning heavily on his cane, he shuffles more than walks, his bow-legged gait made stiff by the arthritis that wracks his joints. Cas waits until he’s safely inside, then pulls past the open handicapped space Dean stubbornly refuses to use, and finds an empty parking spot.

Cas’s car is boxy and utilitarian, and Dean often proclaims that he wouldn’t be caught dead behind the wheel of something so ugly. Cas plays along because giving up driving had been Dean’s toughest concession to age, but as his vision deteriorated and his reflexes slowed, it had become an unavoidable sacrifice. With replacement parts for the Impala harder and harder to come by, Dean had finally agreed to keep her stored safely away in their garage. Cas knew it pained him to see her shrouded under a tarp, her motor idle and useless, but Dean would rather enshrine her in pristine condition than risk one more run-in with a light pole or curb.

With his ugly car parked, Cas crosses the lot to join Dean inside. While he’s aged as well, aged to the point that nobody questions the two of them together, he’s been spared many of the maladies that Dean’s combat-wrecked body has endured, and he moves with relative ease. The best they can figure is that the grace he’d had on and off over the years left his body with a certain resilience to the passage of time. Cas can’t cure Dean as he once could, can’t ease the aches or slow the aging process, but he can use his own comparatively good health and mobility to take care of him.

Inside, Cas navigates past the hostess stand to find Dean at their usual booth, chatting with their usual waitress. The two of them go to this diner religiously each Sunday morning, where the pews are scuffed burgundy vinyl booths and the altar is the breakfast buffet with the generous senior discount. As always, Dean has maneuvered himself across the bench seat to make room for Cas to sit beside him. His cane rests against the wall in easy reach, the simple carved wooden handle belying the fact that the base unscrews to reveal a bayonet-like tip. It’s never been wielded as a weapon (although Dean uses it, still sheathed, to poke at aggressive pigeons who muscle in around their favorite park bench), but that potential made it “badass” enough to overcome Dean’s resistance to using it.

To Sam’s everlasting chagrin, Dean has kept all of his hair, and it’s turned a stunning silver. The crinkles around his eyes have deepened, meeting the roadmap of lines that cross his face. His shoulders are stooped, his joints are stiff, and Cas thinks he’s never been more beautiful. After so many seemingly certain ends, so many years assuming Dean would die young and bloodied, the fact that he’s living out a full, lengthy life is an unparallelled blessing. Cas marvels at the gift of days that have unfolded into decades, granting them time he never dreamed they’d have together here on earth.

As Cas settles into the booth, he smiles and greets their waitress.

“Two for the buffet?” she confirms as she pours their coffee. Cas doesn’t even have to check to know that she’ll leave Dean’s at a little more than half-full so he can lift it without the tremor in his hands sloshing it over the brim.

They drink their coffee quietly, simply enjoying the ritual of being here. Dean peers at the laminated card that lists the specials, even though he never orders off the menu.

“Shall I?” When Dean nods, Cas gets to his feet. “Any requests?”

“You know what I like,” Dean says, leaning over to swat at Cas’s butt.

Picking up two plates from the warmer, Cas slides them along the metal counter, filling them in tandem as he traverses the buffet. Pancakes are too difficult for Dean to get on a fork, but the crisp waffles are good. Bacon he can pick up and eat, and Cas uses the tongs to place precisely two strips on his plate. If Dean wants more, he can get up and get it himself.

Dean can argue with Cas’s choices, but they’d had a hell of a scare a few years back. Cas will never forget the look on Dean’s face when their phone rang in the middle of the night, alerting them that Sam had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. They’d rushed there themselves, Cas driving in silence, knowing that nothing short of seeing Sam with his own two eyes could reassure Dean. Thankfully, it had been a mild heart attack and, after spending a few days in the hospital, the discharge plan called for cardiac rehab and an appointment with a nutritionist. With Sam’s release imminent, Dean had relaxed enough to crow at the irony. “Don’t either of you try to tell me what to eat ever again. Mr. Organic Produce is the one lying in the hospital bed while my pork-rind-fueled ticker is going strong.”

Still pale, Sam’s brow furrowed with resignation. “I’m beginning to think you can’t die.”

Dean jabbed a finger in his direction. “You don’t get to go first. We have a deal.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam lifted the hand without the IV in a mock salute.

“That’s more like it,” Dean said. “Speaking of which, I need a snack.”

Cas helped him up and they walked to the elevator that would take them to the cafeteria. As they waited for it to arrive, Dean pulled Cas into a hug. Cas left a hand on his shoulder when they stepped apart again. “All right?”

Dean nodded, his green eyes shining with tears. “I’m glad you’re here.” Cas started to respond, to remind him that there was nowhere else he would be, but Dean cut him off. “I know you know. But I wanted to say it anyhow.”

Cas noticed a change after that. Dean was still the same stubborn mule Cas had fallen in love with, but he gradually became more willing to let Cas help. And somehow, Cas loved him even more for it. He loved seeing the slow-blossoming acceptance that came when Dean stopped seeing Cas’s help as a sign of weakness.

Now, standing in front of the steaming trays of food, Cas considers what else to add to their plates. He bypasses the cauldron of oatmeal (they eat that at home most mornings) and continues along the buffet. There’s a tremendous satisfaction in being allowed to care for this man who has done so much for so many and asked for so little in return. In fact, Dean has now embraced this new role so fully—no longer questioning what he deserves, or grudgingly accepting help, but full-on enjoyment of being doted on—that Cas has to be careful he doesn’t get lazy. There’s nothing Cas would rather do than settle Dean in front of a sunny window, snug in the recliner for Cas to wait on like a pampered cat, but he knows that sort of inactivity would do Dean’s joints and his heart no favors. So he watches Dean’s diet and insists on them taking slow walks after breakfast when his energy is highest.

Their neighborhood is a mix of young and old and everyone knows the two Mr. Winchesters who circle the block on days when the weather permits. The kids on bikes and scooters know to give them a wide berth, their parents warning them that the old men need the entire sidewalk, but they call out their hellos as they go by. They’re friendly with everyone except the woman who lives on the corner. Dean is convinced she’s a demon, but Cas suspects his distrust of her stems more from the fact that she seems immune to his charm. (Whatever the reason, he’s had to talk Dean out of chalking a devil’s trap inside her mailbox more than once.) They chat with their neighbors about the weather and the score of last night’s ballgame, and it’s so painfully normal that Cas sometimes feels his throat tighten up at the wonder of it all.

When Cas returns to their booth, Dean examines his plate. “They outta bacon?”

Cas cuts the waffle into manageable pieces and peels the wrapper from the muffin before sliding Dean’s plate over. “You know the deal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. “You just like to look at my ass when I get up.”

They eat in congenial silence with Dean methodically working his way around his plate, eating everything heartily, even the fruit. Sitting next to him, Cas can easily scoop up any bites that miss his mouth, plucking them from Dean’s lap or his shirt.

“You two good?” The waitress asks when she comes to refill their coffees. “Need anything?”

Dean swallows the bite of muffin he’s working on, and rests his hand on top of Cas’s. “I’ve got everything I need right here. An actual angel, this one.”

She nods agreeably. “I can almost see his halo.”

Cas has learned that an old man can say just about anything and receive an indulgent smile in return. When Dean references angels or demons or the apocalypse, people assume he’s speaking in metaphor and they’ll nod pleasantly. Sometimes he’ll do it purely for effect, telling rambling tales from their past for the sheer enjoyment of being able to speak openly. He can’t always keep the details straight, but Cas is there to remind him. Some days, though, he seems to lose where he is in time, and there’s nothing Cas can do for that. Cas has taken to keeping a watchful eye on him in the late afternoons when he likes to doze on the couch with their one-eyed black cat curled up on his chest. Cas stays close in case he wakes from his nap agitated, calling for Cas, wanting to know where Sam is. Cas helps him to sit up as the cat springs down and scurries away.

“Don’t go,” he says again and again, and Cas takes him in his arms, assuring Dean that he’s here and reminding him that Sam is safe at his own home. He holds him until Dean shakily dismisses it all as just a bad dream.

The unfairness of it overwhelms Cas, and each time he’s left filled with wrath. These final years should be spent in well-earned peace, but instead Dean seems cursed with reliving his most frightening memories, traumatized anew by old, familiar fears. If Dean’s mind is destined to slip, why can’t it be toward blissful forgetting? What Dean has endured goes beyond what any human should; to ask him to bear it again is nothing short of cruel. But it’s a torture chamber created in his own mind, and all Cas can do is sit helplessly by, doing his best to ground Dean and bring him back to the present.

Cas looks at Dean’s empty plate. “Did you want to get some more?”

“Nah.” He’s full and happy and it’s time for their walk.

The waitress arrives to clear their plates. As he does every week, Dean asks if she needs to see his ID for the senior discount. As she does every week, she pretends to consider it before leaving the check. “You boys take your time.”

“Tip her well,” Dean says, leaning in to supervise Cas as he signs the bill.

“I always do,” Cas assures him.

When they’re ready to leave, Cas stands next to the banquette, waiting for Dean to retrieve his cane and slide himself to the edge. Using a combination of the cane and Cas’s extended arm, Dean hoists himself upright, groaning a little. Cas keeps a firm hold on him until he’s steady on his feet. Dean still dresses in layers, but these days it’s because he gets chilled easily. He favors heavy knit cardigans and as long as Cas gets the zipper started for him he can tug it up or down as needed. Cas checks him for crumbs then together they walk through the other tables crowded with families. They continue by the hostess station where a woman is wiping down menus. “See you next week,” she calls as they pass.

Cas steps forward to push open the door, and stands holding it. “Watch your step,” he says as he always does, pointing toward the raised metal threshold of the doorway.

Using his cane to steady himself, Dean shuffles his way over it, then stops to lay his hand on Cas’s cheek. His knuckles are gnarled, the skin of his palm is dry and warm, and Cas feels the same flare of awe go through him as he has since the moment he first found this glorious soul in the depths of hell.

“I am the luckiest man who has ever lived,” Dean says.

Cas kisses his palm, then takes his arm to help him on his way.

[siriushxney]

⊱┊ easily !

pairing — sapnap x gn!reader

wordcount — 2k

warnings — angsty, arguing (happy ending)

song — easily | bruno major

note ! — this is my second time reposting, because tumblr hates my guts and decides to make things repeat/disappear so :|

nothing was easy about love. then again, if love didn’t have it’s bumps and bruises — could it truly be considered love? the act of loving someone is something that is both a blessing and a curse wrapped into one. you see their best, and you see their worst — you deal with, and take all the blows that they take.

and in with love — arguments flare.

some over stupid things, like who would do the dishes, if the other did the laundry, what you were having for diner — but some were harsher. words that neither meant, thrown at the other without care or thought behind them, and actions that despite being little, spoke thousands.

when love begins to bring stress from the arguments, it brings along doubt, anger, and fear. the nagging feeling at the back of your mind that is constantly telling you that you don’t mean anything to them, that you can be easily replaced, that quitting is a valid choice — distance makes an appearance between the two of you.

but when one pulled away, the other reached and pulled them back. it was what love was.

—

sapnap and you had always been an honest couple. sharing everything and anything, never scared to speak your mind, and not afraid of confrontation. but with the both of you being strong willed and blunt, things could get tangled and rough in a matter of seconds — and as of lately, things were rough more than they were enjoyable. fights happened daily, food was consumed in silence, and you had gone to sleep in the guest bedroom. the distance that was now between the two of you was easily notable — even his viewers had noticed something in him had shifted.

with your laptop sat one your lap, you typed away — the assignment that was due in merely a week adding to the already present stress. everything had seemed to be going wrong lately — the topic you were given to research happened to be one of the topics that you had not been quite able to grasp, you had somehow lost your favourite pair of shoes, and everything with sapnap.

you love him, that wasn't something you questioned — but the thoughts of if it was worth it with the direction that the two of you were heading in, plagued your mind. did you want to put yourself through the pain that would come eventually? or did you want to protect yourself from it to the best of your ability?

the words you typed appeared on the screen quickly, but just as fast as they appeared, you were quick to erase them. everything you had typed didn’t quite come out the way you wanted them to — but no matter how much you deleted and retyped them, nothing else came to mind. it almost reminded you of sapnap and your relationship.

after every fight, an apology would be said, but nothing would change. within the next twenty-four hours or less, another one - just like the previous - would take place. you were backspacing, and then rewriting the same thing, over, and over again.

with a frustrated sigh, you closed the laptop and pushed it aside to where your books laid. your hand came up to harshly rub at your sore and tired eyes, wishing that a calm and restful sleep would overcome you. but that was simply a figment of hope that your brain came up with. you had too much to do, to be resting.

the thump of your feet hitting the ground, the loud cracks and pops from stiff joints, and a small grunt filled the room. after sitting in one position for hours, you'd expect your body to be stiff.

“stupid professor, and his stupid assignments,” you huffed as you exited your room, turning your head quitioningly towards sapnap’s recording room, waiting and listening for any sign of him streaming. with no sudden shouts, curses, or screams, you assumed he wasn't — that meant either two things, one, he was in your shared room, or he was downstairs. you hoped it was the previous.

tiptoeing down the stairs, you attempted not to make a noise in the case that he was on the main floor, not wanting to face him after your most recent fight. but the universe seemed to be working against you, as you saw his frame laying on the couch with a movie playing quietly on the tv.

despite being as quiet as you possibly could have been, he had noticed your entrance — his head tilted in your direction before turning his attention back to the movie with a now present frown.

he’s such a child.

then again you were no better.

this game of he said, they said was annoying to you — but in this situation, you felt as if you were correct, just like how he felt like he was correct. neither of you would admit that the other was just as right as you were, both desperate to take a win over the other.

grabbing your keys from the counter top, you started for the front door — your shoes easily being slipped on before you grabbed for the door handle.

“where are you going?” no movie could be heard playing anymore, making it easy to hear sapnap’s voice — something that had been spoken with an emotion that you refused to believe was there — worry.

“I’m just going to the convenience store.”

a small thump, followed by quick footsteps towards your directions caused an unwanted smile to appear on your face. but as quick as it appeared, it was wiped off. sapnap came around the corner, grabbing his shoes and not bothering to put them on — simply holding them in his hands as he gave you a shooing movement.

“c’mon. I’ll come with,” sapnap pushed passed you, through the front door, and towards your car in a haste.

“... okay then.” you closed the door behind you as you stepped out, making sure to lock it before heading to the drivers side — sapnap already sat comfortably inside with his knees and head facing his window.

he was still going to be stubborn, huh?

—

the drive was silent — not that you expected anything else. the music wasn’t even playing loudly — merely soft background noise to keep the both of you from going more insane then you already were. the drive itself should’ve been only six minutes top, had turned into ten — every light being red rather than the preferable green.

your car lurched forward as you angrily slammed your foot on the brake at yet another red light — sapnap and you being abruptly launched forward before coming back and hitting the seat.

“jesus, calm down would you?”

“don’t even start with me,” you didn’t have to look at him to see the way his eyes furrowed and frown deepened.

“what the hell is your problem lately-”

“what the hell is my problem?! you — you're my problem lately, sapnap!” you whipped your head over to him, watching the immediate look of hurt cross his face before it contorted into one anger.

“you know I’m trying here — I thought that us going out somewhere we usually go to would help us, but apparently I was wrong!” sapnap through his hands up in rage. “you make everything so difficult! why can’t you for once in your life, just stop arguing with everything I say and do?!”

the red light still shone brightly — no sign of it changing. and with no cars other than your own on the road at this time of night, there was nothing other than the deep breathing, and the quiet music playing from your radio. neither of you said a word — both of you still trying to wrap your head around not only the others, but your own words.

words that you never meant to, or should’ve said.

you turned your head away from him, trying to hide the way your eyes gleamed with fresh tears — but when they tried to make their way down your face, you brought your palms up to your eyes and pushed. the pressure of your palms helped keep not only the tears, but your anger in.

“Y/N i’m-”

“please can we just not?”

the apology was on the tip of his tongue.

“what are we doing?”

sapnap could feel his mouth run dry, and his chest tighten.

“what?”

“I mean… what are we doing?” your words came out strained and low, the effects of yelling and being yelled at hitting you full force. “this- us — what are we doing here?”

he didn’t know how to respond — the answer for your question had never crossed his mind. to him, despite the arguing and yelling, him and you would never end — it was the two of you till the end. but with you questioning everything right in front of him, he couldn’t help but panic.

“I’m- we’re-” he tried to put words together, but nothing made sense. he wrote and rewrote a script in his head, pleading for something to make sense, or at least help him bring you out of the hole of doubt and questioning you’ve dug yourself into.

nothing comes easily — not skill, not life, not love. you had to work for everything you have, and you will fall, and get scraped, and fail — but things could always be improved, as long as you fought for it.

“we’re doing something that is right — we’re right,” his words were not enough to make you look at him, but he saw your head lift slightly. “we’re not easy — we’re messy, and mean, and for some reason, stupidly stubborn… but that doesn’t mean that we aren't right — arent perfect in our own way,” your head turned more towards him. “we’re not easy, and to be honest, we never will be. that’s just us. and right now, we're in a rocky part — but just because it won’t come easily, doesn't mean that the road we’re on won’t even out once again. you need to trust me, just like I need to trust you.”

a green light shone down onto the two of you, telling you to go — but just like before, no cars were around. it was just him and you.

“I love you Y/N — and don’t you ever forget or doubt that. I’m an asshole sometimes, but I’d never lie to you about that.”

you wished that the seatbelt that held you stills against your seat could vanish so you could tackle him with a hug — but your place on the road, and the now approaching car from behind stopped you from doing so. pushing lightly on the gas, you went through the green light, and pulled into the convenience store that you had been on your way to.

sapnap watched as you pulled yourself from the car quickly, the sense of ache and worry taking over his body as he pulled himself out of the car after you. “look, I’m sorry-” a body crashed into his own, nerely knocking him to the ground — harsh, shaking shoulders and wetness was felt against his chest.

“I’m so sorry — for everything,” you didn’t try to hide your sobs — with the heat of everything going on, you knew it was better to let everything out then to bottle it up. “and I love you so much, you don't even know — everything sucks without you by my side.”

he couldn't stop the tears that filled his own eyes — finally able to hold you again despite the circumstances and what it took to get here. burying his face into the side of your neck, he let his tears fall — the both of you standing, swaying slightly as you let everything go.

you don’t know how long you stayed in the position, but you didn’t care to keep track — your only focus being the boy pressed against you, holding you tightly to his chest, as he whispered soft words of love and apologies.

it wouldn’t come easily, but the least you could do was try.

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 23

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

It doesn’t feel real until she sees the flutter on the ultrasound, the grey and white pixels flashing erratically confirming a healthy ten-week pregnancy. The doctor gives them a due date of September 17th, and she explains to Mulder repeatedly that the due date is only an estimate, that the baby will most likely arrive sometime in the two weeks before or after that day. Nonetheless, he prints little numbers in the corner of each date on the calendar, counting down.

She is lucky to experience very little nausea, but the time saved clinging to the toilet is instead allocated to bursting into tears at every tiny inconvenience. Mulder comforts her with a confused expression when she cries because she can’t find a Tupperware lid that fits, or her latte has too much foam, or she realizes she can no longer see her toes. She cries because she’s crying, because she feels out of touch with her own body and thrown off by her own emotions. They marvel at the growth of her belly as well as her breasts, which are even more sensitive than they were before. Her libido kicks into overdrive at the same time that she becomes incredibly self conscious about her protruding belly, her fuller face, her swelling feet. This leads to more tears as she grapples with both wanting desperately to be touched and not wanting him to look at her.

He tells her each day how beautiful she is, her hair growing longer and thicker, her skin glowing, her rounding belly housing the perfect little life that they created together. When he’s home, he rubs her feet every night, fetches her countless glasses of water and then helps tow her out of the bed so she can pee ten times in the night. When he’s on the road with Monica, he calls three times a day, asks Missy and her mother to go by and check on her, calls in dinner to be delivered so she doesn't have to cook. As her due date nears, he stops going on out-of-town cases, needing to be close enough to be by her side immediately when she goes into labor. He will not risk missing the birth of his child.

The apartment becomes cramped with a bassinet, changing table, pack n play, and various other baby gadgets. They consider moving, but the idea is too overwhelming for Scully so they decide to stay put until the baby becomes mobile and they really need more space. Mulder breaks the lease on his apartment and moves his fish tank into the living room, putting the rest of his furniture in storage until they buy a house. Priscilla breaks in all the baby gear, sleeping in the car seat and jumping into the swing, covering the tiny onesies with her black fur and making Scully cry yet again. Mulder refuses to let her scoop the litter box, even though she insists it’s safe if she wears gloves and washes her hands afterward. Other tasks she’s forbidden to complete include cleaning the toilet, carrying in the groceries and hauling laundry to the washing machine. When he’s on the road, she misses him as much as she is relieved to be able to be independent, not much caring for being treated as though she’s made of glass.

For the majority of her pregnancy, Scully insists that she doesn’t want to know the sex of the baby, that she wants to be surprised. Mulder respects her decision, even though he would personally like to know, and they create two lists of potential baby names, Scully crossing off “Lisa Marie'' each time Mulder tries to add it to the “girl” column. When she reaches 39 weeks, her pelvis widening as the baby drops into the birth canal, she is so miserable that she has a change of heart, needing to feel connected to this thing that is destroying her body and stealing her sleep. They call the doctor together on a Thursday afternoon as Scully sits on the couch in tears, having woken that morning to find angry red stretch marks marring her previously lily-white belly. When Mulder relays the doctor’s message that the baby is a girl, she sobs harder, and he’s not sure whether it’s because she’s happy or disappointed.

She wakes him at 3:00 am on September 21st, the irregular Braxton-Hicks contractions she’s been feeling for weeks having taken up a predictable cadence, now ten minutes apart almost on the dot. He starts rushing around, scrambling for her hospital bag and his shoes, and now it is her turn to provide comfort, to let him know there’s plenty of time. She doesn’t want to go to the hospital until the contractions are five minutes apart, and so they wait. The progression to nine minutes, then eight, then seven is alarmingly fast, and by the time she agrees that they should head to the hospital she’s starting to feel pressure low in her pelvis. Mulder drives too fast, the streets thankfully still quiet in the early morning, and she is wheeled into labor and delivery with not enough time for an epidural, much to her lament.

Molly Katherine Mulder has blue eyes and a dark shock of nearly-black hair. She barely cries at her entrance to the world, instead searching the room with a curious gaze, squeezing her daddy’s finger with an impressively strong grip and latching like a pro. They are able to go home the following day, Scully wincing as she moves gingerly from the bed to the couch, rinsing her tender stitches with a bottle of warm water and bleeding through entire packages of overnight maxi pads in a day.

Mulder takes off work for two weeks and they spend blissful days curled up in bed with the baby nestled between them as Priscilla curiously sniffs around her, licking her hair with a rough tongue and making them laugh. Each time Scully wakes at night to nurse, Mulder insists she go back to sleep while he changes the baby and walks her around the quiet apartment until she is asleep, singing softly and lulling them both.

When Mulder returns to work, Scully insists that he get a full night's sleep and let her wake up with Molly, reasoning that she can take naps during the day. She does not, of course, take naps during the day. Instead she tries to keep the apartment clean, the clothes washed, the diapers taken out to the dumpster, the litter box scooped. She does too much, and he sees it each day as she grows more and more weary, more and more defeated, the bags under her eyes deepening in color and her mouth rarely hosting a smile. He begs her to let him do more, to ask less of herself, but she is stubborn and strong-willed, the very things he loves about her now keeping her from properly taking care of herself.

They struggle through sleep-deprived arguments over who left the breast milk out on the counter all night, why it matters if he changes the baby on the floor instead of the changing table, why Scully doesn’t want to supplement with formula so he can take some of the night feedings. Her doctor releases her as medically clear to have sex after six weeks and she cries as she tells him that she doesn’t feel ready, that she can’t imagine anything worse than sex right now, and he holds her as he tells her that he doesn’t care, that she should take as much time as she needs, that he can wait.

They struggle, and they thrive. Moments of absolute unadulterated joy are punctuated by intense despair and overwhelm. The gain of a family against the loss of a life where you could pick up and go, stay out until 2:00 am and make love in the middle of the day. They are happy, and they are stressed, and they face it together.

On a Saturday in December, Mulder wakes early and takes care of every conceivable task in the house; the laundry, the dishes, cleaning the bathroom, scooping the litter, buying the groceries. He checks every item off Scully’s to-do list and then takes Molly for a long drive, leaving Scully alone with nothing to do in hopes that she will rest for once. When they return from their excursion, he creeps into the quiet apartment with a sleeping baby in his arms and sets her in the bassinet by the couch. At first he thinks maybe Scully has gone out, but he finds her in bed asleep with soaking wet hair, Priscilla curled up behind her knees. He watches her for a bit, affection clutching at his chest, then changes into sweats and kicks Priscilla out so he can snuggle up behind Scully. It feels so infrequent that they just lay like this anymore; one of them is always about to get up with the baby, about to get ready for work, or doesn’t want to be touched after a tiny person has clung to them all day. He pulls in a deep breath, smelling her lavender bubble bath and feeling the rise and fall of her ribs against his chest. He doesn’t want to disturb her, but he can’t resist pressing a tiny kiss to the side of her neck.

“Mmmm,” she hums in response, twisting her body around so they are face to face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers.

“It’s okay. Where’s Molly?”

“She’s asleep in the living room.”

She sighs and snuggles closer to him, pressing her forehead into his chest and pushing one of her legs between his.

“This feels nice,” she says contentedly, and he brushes his hand softly up and down her back.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Tired. Frumpy. Like I haven’t put on real clothes or a stitch of makeup in three months,” she laments.

“Well, I’ll give you tired,” he says softly, “but I can’t agree on frumpy. I think you look very beautiful.”

She scoffs against his chest.

“You don’t have to placate me, Mulder. I know I’m a mess.”

“Maybe so, but you’re my mess,” he retorts, pushing his fingers into her hair to gently scratch her scalp.

She tilts her head up to look at him, appraising his face with a skeptical eye.

“Is this what you thought it was going to be like?” she asks, her tone open and vulnerable.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, “I guess I didn’t really know what to expect.”

She sighs. “I just wish I knew when I might start to feel like myself again,” she says sadly. “I can’t help but feel like you’re not getting what you signed up for.”

“What do you mean?” he asks with a concerned frown.

He sees her eyes growing glassy, dampening with impending tears. “I mean the woman you asked out in the autopsy bay isn’t the one you’re with now,” she whispers, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

“That’s not even a little bit true,” he implores, cradling the back of her head with his hand. “You are everything you were then, and more. I’m amazed by you every day.”

She closes her eyes, a tear rolling across the bridge of her nose. He feels his chest ache; the need to make her understand is overwhelming.

“Hey,” he says, pulling the blankets back, “come here.”

He pulls her into a sitting position and slides off the bed, towing her along with him to sit on the edge of the mattress. He kneels on the floor between her knees, his hands on her hips.

“If you think for one second that I want to be with anyone but you, you’re fucking insane. I don’t care if you wear giant milk-stained T-shirts and have spit up in your hair for the rest of our lives, Scully. You’re it for me, okay?”

She pulls in a shuddering breath and wipes at her eyes, but won’t look at him.

“Stay here,” he commands, and disappears into the bathroom for a moment. When he comes back, he returns to his post kneeling at her feet.

“We knew this was going to be hard,” he says tenderly, holding one of her hands in his. “You said it yourself before Molly was born, that it would be the hardest time in our lives, and that we’d be at our worst. And I’m telling you that if this is your worst, sign me up, okay? It hasn’t changed how I feel about you.”

He holds up his other hand, a diamond ring perched between his thumb and forefinger.

“If you’re not ready to say yes yet, that’s okay, but I need you to know that I still want to marry you, Scully. I’ll wait forever if that’s what you need, but there hasn’t been a single day since I asked that I haven’t still meant it.”

Her tears have stopped, though her eyes are still wet and the tip of her nose is red. She looks from him to the ring and back, her eyebrows stitched in contemplation.

“I didn’t hear you ask me a question,” she says quietly, and he picks up on the slightest lilt of playfulness in her voice, which makes him break out into a smile.

“Dana Katherine Scully, love of my life, mother of my child, will you marry me?”

She smiles then, and he thinks his heart may burst right out of his chest.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” she answers, and he takes her left hand, slipping the ring on her finger.

She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him repeatedly, soft pecks devolving into lingering smooches as he shifts up slightly, pushing her back gently to recline on the bed. He moves over her, kissing along her jaw and down her neck, not going any further, not wanting to rush her.

She brings her hands to his hips, letting the tips of her fingers slip under the waist of his sweatpants, and his cock stirs. It’s been so, so, long, and he wants her desperately, but not until she’s ready. She pushes her hand down the front of his pants, gripping him as he grows hard under her touch. It’s overwhelming in the best way; he feels like a teenager being touched for the first time.

“I wanna have sex,” she breathes into his ear, the words rushing out quickly as though she’s afraid she might change her mind if she waits too long to say them.

He pulls back to look at her. “Are you sure?” he asks, and she nods, bringing her palm to his cheek before glancing at the ring on her finger and smiling.

They move slowly, though still with a sense of urgency that a baby sleeping in the next room brings. He pushes her shirt up and she lets him take it off, then slips the yoga pants off her hips, leaving her in basic black cotton briefs. He sees the hesitancy in her eyes as he looks at her body, now softer than it was before Molly, curvy in different places, purple streaks running from below her belly button to disappear under her panties.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing her chest, her breasts, her belly, running his tongue along the grooves of her stretch marks. He loops his thumbs under the waist of her panties and tugs them down slowly, quickly undressing before he rejoins her in the bed.

“Tell me if anything hurts, okay?” he asks with a serious expression, and she nods, letting her legs fall open as he settles between them. He lines himself up with her entrance and pushes in achingly slowly, watching her face raptly. Her mouth opens slightly, and she takes in a sharp little breath. He’s about to ask her if it hurts when she closes her eyes and her mouth drops open further as she breathes out “oh,” in a way that he knows means pleasure, not pain. When he’s all the way in, their hip bones pressed together tightly, he stills and kisses her for a while, feeling like he could melt into a puddle for how good everything feels. His heart, his mind, his body, he is all wrapped up in her and it’s exactly where he wants to be.

He begins to move, and she responds with an arch of her back and a little gasp, her hands clutching at his shoulders. Little by little, he increases his pace until he knows he won’t last much longer.

“What do you need?” he asks, and she brings her hand to her breast.

He dips his head, flicking at the hardened bud of her nipple, and feels her clench around him. He plays with the level of pressure, licking and sucking, pleasantly surprised that she is enjoying it even as her breasts have taken on a purely functional role these last few months.

She pulls in a huge breath, arching her back and pressing her head into the mattress and he groans as he feels her tighten around him. She emits a single piercing cry when she comes, stifling it with an arm slung across her mouth. He pours into her, burying his face in her neck, clinging to her like a life raft. She is, in fact, all he needs to survive.

Resting half his weight on the mattress beside her, he stays inside as they both come down, panting and smiling, brushing hands over each other’s skin, reconnecting.

“Ah!” Molly yells from the living room, and Mulder laughs.

“You’re being summoned,” Scully says with a tender smile.

He withdraws from her, handing her his T-shirt to clean up while he slips on his sweatpants and retrieves Molly from her bassinet.

“Guess what, Goose?” he says, using his special nickname for her, “Mommy and Daddy are getting married.”

“AH!” She squeals, flapping her arms.

[helnjk]

She Used To Be Mine - R.W.

Ron Weasley x fem!reader

based on the song She Used To Be Mine from the musical Waitress & part of my showtunes fic list ! i’m sorry in advance for the ouchie

Word Count: 3k

Summary: when ron leaves to go on the run, she’s left a shell of the person she used to be. 

Warnings: there’s major angst (but maybe a happy ending? you’ll have to find out), injury, & mentions of the war/final battle 

lyrics are bolded & italicized

flashbacks are italicized

–

She is hard on herself

She is broken and won't ask for help

The field was quiet. It was as if time was frozen in their little bubble, not a breeze in the air nor a rustle in the leaves. Y/N hated it. The silence allowed her thoughts to wander in the direction she couldn’t bear to think about. 

–

The Burrow was alight with music and happy conversations. Bill and Fleur’s wedding was in full swing and the crowd had made the most of this opportunity to celebrate life and love, even in the midst of a war. 

Y/N could tell something was wrong with Ron. He hadn’t uttered a single word to her the entire night, only tightly gripping onto her hand. 

They were sat at one of the tables, empty save for them. The rest of their friends were mingling with the distant Weasley relatives, grabbing a drink, or dancing on the floor. The silence was unbearable for her, something in her mind nagging at her to say something, anything. 

To her surprise, Ron was the first to speak. 

“I need to talk to you,” He said. 

Y/N took a deep breath before turning to face him, “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, brilliant.” His reply was too quick, too immediate, and he realized his mistake right away, “I-erm. No actually, no it’s not.”

The pounding in her ears stopped her from hearing much else. The lively music and the chatter of the crowd faded around her, time had stopped. Her eyes blurred in and out of focus and her pulse beat almost unbearably in her neck. Through the fog, she could make out a few words here and there. 

“We can’t be together anymore.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s for the best.” 

This had come out of nowhere, everything had been fine leading up to that moment. Where had it all gone wrong? In the span of seconds, her entire world seemed to be crumbling in front of her. 

“I don’t understand,” She managed to choke out, her eyes searching for any sort of answer on his face, “Was it something that I did? Is there anything I can do?” 

Her voice grew more and more desperate, her body was flushed with heat. She could tell that Ron was uncomfortable, he was fidgeting in his seat and his eyes kept glancing towards the nearest exit, but she thought she deserved an answer. 

“Look, Y/N,” Ron began, “With everything going on right now–”

“Oh don’t give me that excuse,” Y/N snapped and immediately shut her mouth. She didn’t know what had gotten into her, but she refused to believe what he was saying. 

“It’s not an excuse!” He was agitated as well now, no longer antsy in his seat but face flushed with frustration, “I’ve got a job to do and I don’t want to–”

Whatever he was trying to say was drowned out by the arrival of Kingsley’s patronus. In between hearing his message and the chaos that ensued afterwards, Y/N had lost sight of Ron.

When the last of the Death Eaters had disapparated away and all that was left was silence, the searing pain of heartbreak overcame her and she was left an empty shell of herself. 

–

A soft grip on Y/N’s shoulder brought her out of her thoughts. 

“You alright?” Tonks asked, sending a concerned glance her way. 

Y/N shook her head in an attempt to clear it from any unwanted thoughts and sent a soft smile in the direction of her friend, “Yeah. I’m fine.” 

She could tell Tonks wanted to say something more but had decided against it, and she was thankful. She wasn’t in a mood to talk. Well, she hadn’t been in that kind of mood in a long time, and she could tell that other Order members were getting concerned. 

Most days she sat alone in her tiny flat, staring out the window. The hours would pass her by too slowly and she itched for something to take her mind off things. Most nights she spent pacing a hole into her floor because she couldn’t sleep. 

Not when all she thought about was how inadequate she had been for Ron to have left her like that. Like she didn’t matter to him at all. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for Y/N, the telltale crack of apparition sounded at the house they were in charge of staking-out. The pair of them sent glances at each other before grabbing their wands and breaking into a sprint in the direction of the sound. 

The moment the two of them crossed into the threshold, it was a flurry of spells and curses hurled in different directions. She could barely make out who was sending out what colorful jet of light in her direction, her mind had simply gone on autopilot. 

Y/N knew how intense this mission could get, but she had willingly (and almost forcefully) asserted that she would be the one to accompany Tonks. Anything to get out of her house and not have to think for just a moment. 

The next thing she knew, she was fading in and out of consciousness. She could vaguely make out a pair of strong arms carrying her and hear shouts of concern that sounded as if she was underwater. 

–

Molly Weasley nearly brought her whole house down with how loudly she had screamed when she saw Bill carrying an unconscious Y/N through the wards of her home, Tonks right at their side. 

“What happened?” She demanded, rushed towards them. 

No one said anything as the three of them struggled to bring her inside and onto the soft surface of the couch. When they were satisfied with the arrangement, Molly repeated her question. 

Tonks was the first to reply, “They were too many at the raid, it was overwhelming. I barely made it out with her, and I had to call Bill for back up.”

“We couldn’t bring her to Mungo’s, it was too risky. Who knows how many people You-Know-Who has on the inside.” Bill continued, and the Weasley matriarch nodded her head. 

The three of them collectively let out a breath, but they knew that they weren’t out of the woods just yet. 

If I'm honest I know I would give it all back 

For a chance to start over

And rewrite an ending or two

Ron knew he had made a mistake. Well, more than just one. 

First, he buggered the last conversation he had with Y/N and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see her again. Or if she would even look him in the eye if he did. He didn’t want to end things that way, but he felt like he had no choice. Keeping her close to him was effectively putting her in the line of fire, and he couldn’t bear to do that to her. Not when she meant so much to him. 

Then, he let that stupid locket mess with his head and his insecurities, and now he had no idea how to find his way back to Harry and Hermione. 

With a defeated sigh, he took a step forward and twisted to the right. The familiar sensation of apparition enveloped him and soon he found himself just outside the wards of the Burrow. 

“Ron?” Molly gasped, looking out the window to see her youngest son slowly trudging towards her. 

Then, her eyes subconsciously darted towards the stairs, as she knew that Y/N was just a few floors above, lying on Bill’s old bed. This was going to be interesting. 

“Oh Merlin what has that boy gotten himself into,” She muttered and moved towards the door. 

Before Ron could even raise his hand to grip the doorknob, it swung open to reveal Molly. His eyes searched hers tentatively for any sort of signs of anger or ill-will. He found none and his body sagged in relief. 

“Mum,” He choked out and immediately he was engulfed in one of her signature hugs. In that moment, everything seemed to crash down on him and he was wracked with sobs. 

He felt like a little boy again, clinging onto his mother for comfort, and she let him. She rubbed his back gently and kept her other arm wrapped tightly around him. 

When he had somewhat calmed down, he found himself on the couch with a warm mug of tea pressed into his hands. 

“Want to tell me what’s happened?” Molly asked, taking a seat next to her son, “Where are Harry and Hermione?” 

Through a few more tears and more cups of tea than necessary, Ron regaled what had happened to them on the run. Molly’s heart broke for her son and for the mistakes that he had made, but she knew that his intentions were in the right place. She could also tell that guilt was plaguing him for a completely different reason as well.

And so, after reassuring him that he would be able to find his way back to his two best friends, she decided to share the news of their house’s latest guest with him. 

“I have something to tell you as well, dear,” she began, “It has to do with Y/N.” 

The moment she finished retelling what had happened to her, Ron was out of his seat and was nearly sprinting up the stairs. The door to Bill’s old room creaked as he pushed it open, but it didn’t do much to stir any sort of reaction from the person inside. 

Ron’s eyes scanned over Y/N’s tiny figure, curled up at the corner of the bed. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he approached, his mind still not having processed what his mum had told him. The person he knew her to be–strong willed, witty, and confident–did not align with what he saw in front of him. 

And he vowed that he would do whatever it took to get her to be that person once again. To right his wrongs and rewrite how their story ended. 

–

The sun had just started to rise above the horizon and the other residents of the Burrow were not yet awake. Y/N stumbled midstep as she attempted to make her way into the bathroom. She thought that she was perfectly capable of bringing herself to wash and get ready for the day in the shared bathroom, but she was proven wrong. 

A small gasp escaped her lips as she felt her body falling. She was still recovering from whatever curse had been shot at her, therefore she wasn’t in full control of all her limbs yet. But she was stubborn, and she overexerted herself everyday. 

Before she could hit the ground and cause even more damage to herself, a pair of strong arms caught her. 

Ron’s bright blue eyes locked with hers and she felt her heart stutter. 

It had been almost a week since his unannounced arrival, and she hadn’t spoken a word to him. She could barely even look him in the eyes without wanting to burst into tears. 

Quickly, she gathered as much strength as she could muster and she stood, albeit shakily. No words were exchanged between the two of them, but Ron didn’t let go of her until she was safely in the bathroom. 

When the door closed behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was all too confusing, being so near him after all of this time. She didn’t know if she had it in her to actually have a conversation with him, not without bringing up feelings she worked so hard to repress. 

Still, when she finished washing up and opened the door to the bathroom, she was not as surprised to find Ron still standing there. 

“C’mon, I’ll help you to your room,” he spoke, holding out his arm. When she hesitated, he let at an almost inaudible sigh, “We don’t have to talk. I just want to make sure that you don’t have another incident like earlier.” 

Y/N closed her eyes for a brief moment, weighing her options. Ultimately, she knew that risking another fall was not something she wanted to do, so she gently took his arm. True to his word, Ron didn’t bother trying to speak with her, but on the inside, his heart was stuttering at being in such close proximity with her. 

And so began his habit of being her caretaker. 

Over the next few days, it was rare to see Y/N without Ron by her side. He was the support that she needed, both physically and emotionally, though she never spoke to him directly. Her communication came in gentle touches, squeezes of the arm when pain would shoot up her spine or hitches of the breath whenever the redressing of her wounds would sting a little too much. 

He made up for the silence on her end, whispering words of encouragement and comfort. 

“I’ve got you.” 

“You’re doing so great, love.” 

“Let me help you.” 

Little by little Y/N’s resolve began to crumble. 

One night, as he dropped her off at her room for bed, she caved. 

“Ron,” she said, watching his retreating figure. His whole body tensed before he slowly turned around. 

“Is everything alright?” he asked, eyebrows knitted in concern, “Are you hurting? What do you need me to do?”

Her heart cracked at the sight of the man in front of her, so selfless in his love and care for her, even if she had been so cold and distant in return, “I–I wanted to talk.” 

The simple sentence seemed to have broken whatever wall that stood between the two of them. 

Ron swallowed, “Right, right. Of course.”

“You can come inside, you know.” She cracked a smile in his direction. 

The moment he took a seat on one of the chairs in the room, Y/N had no clue what to say. It was as if everything that had plagued her mind for the past week had disappeared.

Before she could open her mouth, he spoke, “I wanted to apologize.”

“What?” 

He nervously fidgeted in his seat, “For–Well, for how things had ended between the two of us.” Another pause. “I didn’t say what I meant to say and everything kind of just ended so quickly, and you didn’t–you don’t–deserve that.” 

“Right.” Y/N nodded her head, her mind going on overdrive. 

“And,” he swallowed again, nervously, “When I heard about how you got hurt, I–I couldn’t imagine what it would be like not having you in my life. Being on the run, I would stay up all night hoping not to hear your name on the radio, and when I got home, it was like my worst nightmares were coming true.

“What are you trying to say, Ron?” She asked, meeting his eyes for the first time since he sat down, “I don’t understand.” 

“What I’m trying to say is that I love you, Y/N. And I want to fight for us, for our future together.” 

To fight just a little 

To bring back the fire in her eyes

Y/N was stood by the door frame, observing Ron as he packed and repacked his bag. Too much time had passed since he was last with Harry and Hermione, she knew that. It was time for him to try and find them, to go back on the run and make sure that they found whatever it was that they were looking for. 

Still, her heart ached at the thought of him leaving again. 

“Honestly, Ron, you’ve packed that bag enough times. You have what you need,” She teased, finally willing herself to enter the room. 

His head snapped up, not knowing that she had been standing there, “Just nervous. I don’t wanna forget something and not be able to come back.” 

She only hummed in response, wrapping her arms around his torso, savoring the feeling of his body pressed against hers. 

“I’m going to miss you.” She mumbled against the fabric of his shirt. 

Ron sighed and tightened his hold on her, “I’m going to miss you too.”

She leant back, making sure to look him in the eyes, “You better come back to me. Merlin knows I’d figure out a way to murder you in the afterlife if you don’t.”

The pair of them stared at each other for a second before bursting into laughter. He shook his head in disbelief at her statement, “Of course you would. And I promise I’ll come back to you, I just have a job to do.” 

Neither of them moved from their position. They stayed wrapped in each other’s arms for as long as they could, slightly swaying from side to side. It wasn’t said, but both knew that Ron would have to make his leave sooner or later. 

When the time finally came, he let out a breath and pulled away slightly. 

“I love you, Y/N.” He whispered. 

“I love you too.” 

Then, his lips pressed against hers softly and her eyes closed. This wasn’t just a kiss to them, it was a promise. A promise to fight for each other, to fight for their futures. A promise that they would see each other again and that they would live the lives they planned out together. 

–

It was chaos. 

The amount of relief and celebration that those who found themselves in the Great Hall after the Dark Lord’s fall felt was euphoric. People gathered together in groups, tears in their eyes, hugging and laughing and letting out sighs of relief. 

Y/N’s eyes nervously scanned the room for the familiar blue eyes she was desperate to find. She sat with the rest of the Weasleys, near the cot where Fred had laid, but he soon joined them in their vigil waiting for the last of their brood to arrive. 

“Y/N!” A voice yelled from across the room. 

She spun around to see Ron nearly sprinting towards her. A relieved laugh escaped her lips just as he reached her, tackling her into the biggest hug she had ever received. Unable to stop them, tears escaped her eyes as she gripped onto him, unbelievably grateful that she had this wonderful man in her arms again.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” She whispered as they released their grips on each other ever so slightly. 

“Me too.” 

And then his lips were on hers and they shared a passionate kiss. 

–

general taglist: @expectoevans​ @george-fabian-weasley​ @gxthsanrio​ @slytherinscribbles​ @harpyloon​

message to be added or removed!! 

[spicycreativity]

Fantasy au moceit fluff, for the ask thing. <3<3

Thank you for the request! And sorry it took so long to fill 😅

I went with a Mushishi fusion. The simplest explanation of Mushishi is that mushi are creatures somewhat analogous to fae/faeries and tend to cause chaos when they interact with humans. So it's Japanese fantasy, but it's still fantasy!

I could go on a whole rant about how Mushishi is such a great reflection of Japanese cultural Shintoism and how Janus as a character rejects that and Patton embraces it, which is a fun juxtaposition because Janus is the mushi-shi in this story, but I won't 😇

Anyway! It's a little under 2k, CW for very mild body/eye horror (Patton temporarily gets afflicted with frog traits that affect his skin and eyes)

The steep mountain path was neither well-worn nor clearly-marked, the ground a uniform carpet of deep green pine needles dotted here and there with pinecones. Still, it was a path Janus could tread with his remaining eye closed. A few wooden signs still stood, though they were mostly grown over with moss. Janus let them be. Very few visitors came to this tiny mountain village, at least by this particular path. He was more interested in the chorus of frog croaks that grew ever louder the closer he got to the village. He thought, though it was hard to be certain, wispy and ephemeral as they were, that the mushi were increasing in density, too. This place had always been a hotbed for mushi, even without Janus' presence to draw them near. It was unusual, he reflected, to hear this many frogs this high in the mountains. The croaks were now a maddening constant, enough to make him wish that he only had one working ear, instead of one eye.

He guarded that wish carefully, in case any mushi with the power to make it come true were nearby. 

He made it into the village unscathed, pausing when he realized that the croaking had stopped. For the most part. He looked around, rubbing his face against the sharp, familiar bite of the mountain wind, cooled further still by the nearby presence of a lake. Now, only one plaintive croak reached his ears. He tried not to let his heart sink, tried not to jump to conclusions, though he set off for the house where his sweetheart waited for him with an uncharacteristic urgency in his movements. 

The life of a mushi-shi did not foster close relationships, and Janus had long since closed off his heart to new connections. Growing close was a one-way journey to becoming hurt, as he could never stay anywhere for long. Yet somehow, on a trip to a lonely mountain village, Patton had slipped through his defenses. They couldn’t be together, not the way they wanted, but they had promised themselves to each other. It was an easy thing for Janus to promise not to love another. The challenge had been in entrusting Patton with his heart. But he had gotten there in the end. In the absence of a proper wedding ceremony, they had simply taken a scrap of the other’s clothing as a token. 

Janus didn’t bother to knock on the door when he arrived. Patton’s door was always unlocked, unbarricaded. To Janus’ dismay, the croaking did not stop upon his arrival inside, and several mushi danced in the corners where the walls met the ceiling. “Patton, love?”

“Don’t come closer!” Patton’s voice was high, tight with panic. “Just wait a second,” he added in a pleading tone. “I’m glad you’re back, but--”

“Having trouble with mushi?” Janus guessed. The singular frog croaks had stopped when Patton spoke. “Please, do keep worrying about how I’m going to react.” he tugged on the scrap of cloth tied to the straps of his woven backpack. It was old and tattered now, no longer smelled like Patton or bore the pattern it had before.

“It’s just…” Croak.

Janus considered. Whatever mushi had latched onto Patton, it was probably affecting his appearance, hence the hesitancy. “Come on, love, let me see. I’ll have you cured in no time.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Besides, it’s not like I’m a paragon of good looks, either. Maybe we’ll match for a bit.” This was only partially true in Janus’ mind. His own looks were inoffensive, but strangers tended to shy away from him, frightened by the piercing gold and slitted pupil of his remaining eye.

It was silent for a moment. Then came the shuffle-scrape of bare feet on wooden floors. Patton appeared at the end of the hall with his head angled downward. Even still, Janus could see the patches of mottled brown skin on his hands and cheeks. Frog skin. “We do match a little,” Patton said, forcing humor into his voice. He came closer and lifted his head to reveal that one of his eyes was now golden, with a horizontal pupil.

“Oh,” said Janus, careful not to tease. “That’s not so bad.” He cupped Patton’s face, gently running his thumb over a slightly damp patch of frog skin. “You’re still beautiful, love.”

“But you can cure it?” Patton asked.

“Of course.” Janus smiled a little. He hoped it was reassuring. “You’ve been poisoned by a kaeru mushi.”

“Poisoned?” Patton yelped, and a little nervous croak escaped his throat.

Janus patted his cheek. “If only you knew a deeply intelligent, highly skilled mush-shi who could take care of that for you.”

“If only,” Patton repeated, widening his eyes at Janus. The effect was somewhat dampened by his frog eye, but only somewhat. It was still enough to send a wave of fondness through Janus’ chest.

"Come on," Janus said, taking Patton by the hand. He led Patton to the kitchen and set his backpack on the ground with a light thump. The tight weave was strong, but it was beginning to get creaky with age, and Janus made a mental note to see about getting a replacement. "You can take it as a tea, although the flavor is more savory, like a soup." He opened up his backpack and began to dig through it. The paper-wrapped vials rustled and clicked beneath his fingers, and a few specimens brought back memories of his recent trip. "Here we go." He held up the vial and showed it to Patton. "It does take a while to brew. I hope you don't mind being stuck like that for a bit."

Patton extended a hand to help Janus up and pulled him into an embrace, mindful of the glass in Janus' hand. "I already feel better now that you're here."

"You know me," Janus said, nuzzling Patton's forehead. "I live to serve."

It was meant to be sarcasm, though Patton refused to take it as such. "You're so selfless," he said into Janus' chest.

"Patton, love, you are the first and only person to ever accuse me of that." It was true. Janus' bedside manner was objectively abhorrent, his patience for stupidity and stubbornness nonexistent. Most villages regarded him as a necessary evil, rather than a presence to be celebrated. He pulled away before Patton could get it into his head that Janus needed comforting. "Let's get going on the antidote, shall we?"

Patton nodded. "There's a patch of snow out back," he said. "I've been fishing, trying to make the most of it."

"Fish soup?" Janus asked, putting the pieces together.

Patton nodded. "You'll have some, won't you?" He made a point of looking Janus up and down, and even the golden frog eye did not diminish his look of somewhat paternal concern. "You work too hard."

"Again, Patton," Janus said, turning to examine the cooking pot, "you are the only person who's ever said that about me."

"I think I would know," Patton said definitively, taking Janus by the hand to lead him outside.

They held each other while they waited for the cure to steep properly, Janus wrapping his arms around Patton and holding him close. He rested his chin on Patton's shoulder and watched the mushi dance around them. He found it hard to regard them as anything other than vermin, little nuisances who made his life worse. The world was cruel and arbitrary and mushi were no more than a reflection of that, but he couldn't help but resent the situation at hand. Patton didn't deserve this.

As though reading his thoughts, Patton nuzzled Janus' cheek. "Are they here now?"

"The mushi?"

"Mm-hm."

"Yes." Janus pointed even though he knew Patton couldn't see them.

"Describe them to me?" A principle difference between the two of them: Patton treasured every living thing. He never resented the bears that sometimes stole his fish, he never resented the deer when they ate the flowers he'd worked so hard to cultivate. He cherished them. He cherished mushi, too. Even now, when the poison coursing through his body was turning him into one (though Janus had decided not to tell Patton that, thinking that there was no sense worrying him when the cure was at hand).

"They're moving around a lot," Janus said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Though he harbored no love for mushi, he loved Patton dearly. "There's one that looks like a little octopus." Patton was not very well traveled, though he had gone to the ocean once. "And a few that look like worms. They're all glowing."

"They sound so pretty," Patton said, covering Janus' hands with his own.

"I'll bring you back some candles next time I go out," Janus promised, the idea occurring to him in one lightning strike. "And some lanterns made of colored paper. You can string them up outside."

"Oh!" Patton spun around to pull Janus into a proper hug, and Janus was careful not to stare at the frog skin now slowly-advancing down his neck. "That would be lovely."

"Lanterns are better than mushi, anyway," Janus said, his resolve finally cracking a little, "because they're actually useful."

Patton only smiled and brushed a few stray strands of hair out of Janus' face. 

It was around evening when Janus deemed the cure properly steeped. Patton made him sit down so they could eat together, smiling all the while, and Janus found any protest he might have melting away in the face of Patton's innocent kindness. It wasn't like the cure could hurt him, after all.

It took effect when they were washing the dishes with water Patton had carried in from a nearby stream. He stopped what he was doing and touched his face, already turning to Janus for confirmation.

Janus nodded, privately satisfied to see both of Patton's eyes back to their rich, deep brown. "Back to normal."

"Thank you, love." Abandoning the dishes, Patton pulled Janus in for a hug. His hands were wet, but Janus couldn't couldn't bring himself to mind the icy droplets that crawled down his neck.

Janus, who was incurably given to teasing, finally let himself off the leash. "Oh, don't thank me; it was for my own benefit. People would laugh if they found out I was in love with a frog-man."

"Oh, you don't mean that," Patton said. He had known Janus far too long, long enough that Janus no longer had to beat back the urge to flee like a startled animal in the face of such intimate knowing.

"You're right," he said, and he meant it.

[writingwithacupoftea]

Of black cats and lessons to be learned

Summary: Someone is meddling with Y/N Shelby’s work at Shelby Company Limited and Tommy jumps to conclusions that he’ll later regret.

Word Count: 2242

A/N: I honestly still don’t know if I like this ending, but let me know what you think. Hope you enjoy it!!

The rain poured down outside the window of her office at Shelby Company Limited, and occasionally a large drop would bounce loudly off the glass. Normally Y/N would find the sound comforting, but today it was just downright fucking annoying. But as the door to said office bangs open, Y/N knows that the rain is going to be the least of her worries.

No one ever enters her office without knocking but Tommy.

And Tommy never lets the door bang unless he's pissed off.

Despite refusing to look up at her elder brother and boss, Y/N felt his glare on her as he stormed over. When Tommy slammed last week's accounts onto her desk, she slammed her pen down and glared right back at him. 

"What the fuck is this?" Tommy demanded. 

"Last week's accounts," Y/N deadpanned, not breaking eye contact. 

"This isn't the time for jokes, Y/N, this is serious. They're riddled with mistakes for the third week running. Mistakes that could be lethal to this company and people's view of us" 

"Well everything was correct when I handed it over to your secretary, I checked and double checked everything," as usual, Y/N added silently. "I keep telling you, my work is being meddled with!"  Whilst Y/N appeared calm, her blood was boiling. 

Tommy slowly took out a cigarette and lit it, in what she assumed was supposed to be an intimidating manner. It would be, to anyone but her. 

"I've been having dreams about a black cat. Someone is trying to steal my crown." He sighed. "For someone so intelligent, I'd have expected better from you, Y/N" The woman in question was stunned into silence. 

"Seriously, Tommy, me? I'd have expected better from you than to go around making accusations like that, both as your employee and as your sister.  I've supported you through everything. When everyone turned against you, I was there. And you have the nerve to stand here and say that I'm trying to overthrow you." Y/N's anger was starting to seep through into her words, and a tidal wave was sure to follow. "You know that I loved Grace when you married, but GOD you were completely blinded by a good fuck all those years ago, and do you know what?" Y/N leaned forwards, menacingly, "I think the same has happened again." 

With those few words, Tommy reached the end of his tether, slamming his hand onto the solid wood desk. "ENOUGH! If that's what you think of me, let's get the truth out in the open, eh? I think you've wanted this since the start. I think you've wormed your way around the company and the rest of this family and, blinded by your ambition -" 

"My ambition?!" "you've forgotten the one main obstacle in your way. Me. And I'll tell you something else: I’m not moving for anyone." 

A tense silence fell in the room.  Y/N, holding back her tears and refusing to show any signs of weakness, simply nodded. "That was quite the speech, Thomas. Rather hypocritical too, might I add, lecturing me on being blinded by ambition. But I'm not even going to try and defend myself against those ridiculous claims because, when it's too late, you'll realise just how wrong you were." Y/N's voice was icy cold, and she picked up her coat and bag. "I only have two things left to say to you. As your employee, I resign, you can sort this fucking mess out on your own this time. And as your sister, well, you're not my family anymore." With that, Y/N stormed past him, out of the building and let the rain disguise her tears. 

*** 

The only family member that Y/N had spoken to since the incident was Esme. She informed her sister-in-law that she was going to spend some time on the road with the Boswell's, a gypsy family who Y/N had become very well acquainted with, but they hadn't spoken since.  It wasn't running away, it was an attempt to break free. That's what Y/N kept telling herself anyway. 

Her time on the road had been exactly what she needed. The freedom, the open air, all the things that Y/N never realised that she had missed so much. Yet it was still tainted with memories of Tommy. Memories of happier times, when he would chase her around and play games and smile.  Y/N had accepted that the war had changed her older brother, but the day she stormed out he was completely unrecognisable.   

They used to always have each other's backs.  She always wanted to make her beloved brother proud, but never wanted to be 'just like Tommy', despite Arthur and John's endless teasing.  They were each other's rocks, the one reliable thing, and now that feeling of security had faded away like the smoke from his cigarettes. 

Y/N was destroyed by the incident in her office, even though she hid it well. Now, two months into her time on the road, she was ready to be busy again and so set out to find a new job. 

*** 

It had been four months since any of the family had seen or heard from Y/N. 

Tommy had discovered that, as usual, his sister's instincts had been right and there had been someone trying to bring the business down from the inside. And it was the secretary.  And she was part of another criminal gang who were rapidly expanding.  A black fucking cat if ever Tommy saw one. 

The traitor had had the nerve to tell him that the way to tear the company apart was to, quite simply, shatter the relationship between the two people who had the greatest minds and the strongest relationship: Y/N and Tommy. 

It was the truth and Tommy knew it, having already felt the impact of her absence dearly, both on the efficiency of the company and on himself.  But the it was too much for him to handle, and had let Arthur and John see to it that the secretary couldn't reveal any more truths to him. 

He had never realised how important his sister was to him, how loyal and how much he needed her.  With every day that passed without hearing of Y/N, Tommy became more and more anxious. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself and the rest of the family wouldn't forgive him either. 

But the day that Tommy did get news of his beloved little sister, he almost wished he hadn't. 

'A sister for a sister, seems fair enough, don't you think, Mr Shelby? We'll be in touch.' 

Along with the note came a bullet.  A bullet with Y/N's name etched into it, wrapped in her bloodied handkerchief. 

*** 

Sheffield had been the nearest city.  That was why Y/N chose to stop there. What she didn't realise is that it was a city rife with gangs. 

She had fallen in with another gang, the last thing that she wanted to do. 

And now she was locked in a cold, damp basement and, though she hated to admit it, Y/N wanted Tommy more than ever.  

Beaten and bruised, she felt like a little girl again with her desperate need to be enveloped in her older brother's arms once again.  But despite her wants and her needs, she had refused to break, even when she had been battered to the point of unconsciousness in her kidnapper's attempt to get information out of her. 

She would protect her family and their company until her last breath.  She would protect Tommy as he had protected her so many times in the past. 

But it wouldn't come to that, because Y/N Shelby was far too stubborn to die whilst being guarded by a man that couldn't even count to ten. And so, with this new found strength and resolve, she planned her escape. As much as she wanted her brother, she damn well refused to let him come riding in like her knight in shining armour... 

*** 

Days had passed since Tommy had received the note.  The Shelby clan had all reacted in their own ways, but no one was as torn up as Thomas Shelby.  He was drinking more, lashing out more, and no one knew when he was going to completely snap. 

The family had poured all of their time and energy into searching for their sister, and yet they still didn't have a single lead. All they knew was that the traitorous secretary hailed from Sheffield, however there was definitely more than one gang based there. 

But one day, a gloomy day where the rain poured down outside the Garrison, the people of Small Heath were able to stop living in fear of the leader of the Peaky Blinders' next outburst. 

Thin, trembling, black and blue, Y/N Shelby stumbled through the door to the pub, where her family were gathered. Crystal blue eyes locked with hers, widening in shock and relief. But that was the last thing she saw before letting the exhaustion take over her, and her body collapsed to the floor. 

*** 

The hours that followed were a blur for Tommy. Not caring that everyone was watching, he had scooped Y/N into his arms and refused to let her go as John had driven them to Tommy's house; even though it was only a few streets away, he didn't want her getting any colder than she already was. She was as pale as death, and Tommy was scared. 

Polly had come round, he remembered, to tend to Y/N's wounds and settle her down into his bed.  She had shooed him out of the way as he tried to stay in the room, not wanting to leave his sister's side now that he finally had her back. 

After she had gone, well, Tommy didn't know how long he sat by his sister's bedside.  It could've been minutes, or hours.  He couldn't remember the last time he had seen Y/N look so vulnerable. Since he had come back from France, she always seemed so strong. Maybe, Tommy mused, she really was too much like him sometimes.  In his dedication to the company, he'd started to forget that she was his little sister first and foremost, and not just his best employee. 

The next morning, Tommy was still so consumed with his guilt and worry that he didn't even notice when Y/N first woke up.  Yet at the small voice saying "Tom?", his attention moved completely to his little angel. 

"Hello, trouble," he said, a glimmer of a smile passing over his lips as his sister glanced quickly around the room and then straight back to him.  

"I made it," she sighed softly, tears finally beginning to pour down her cheeks. "I'm home." 

"Shhh now. You're here, you're safe, and I'm not gonna let those bastards touch you again." Tommy brought her hand, which he had been clasping tightly since the moment that Polly had finished, up to his lips, placing a soft kiss on the back of it. "And I am so, so sorry, sweetheart. You were right, you're always fucking right. If I'd just listened to you, you wouldn't be in this state now. I love you so much and I'm so sorry..." Tommy continued rambling quietly to himself, and Y/N was alarmed to feel his tears hitting her hand.  She was also amazed to hear the Thomas Shelby say the word 'sorry' - he usually said it through his actions, and never actually said it out loud.  But here he was, unable to stop whispering it to her. 

"Tom..." 

"Don't you dare fucking tell me that this isn't my fault." Y/N was brought to silence by the severity of his voice. "I failed you, Y/N/N." 

"You've taught me so much Tommy, and I love you more than anything, but speak to me like you did all those months ago and I will leave again. Maybe it's time the roles were reversed and you let your little sister teach you some things, yeah?" The siblings chuckled at that. Tommy knew that he couldn't cope with her leaving again. He just couldn't. His entire world had crumbled in the time that she had been away, but at the same time he knew that Y/N was right. Painfully, he added, he knew that she'd be right to get away from him if he ever became like that again.  

Y/N saw the tear tracks left on her brother's face and the look in his eyes that told her that he was scared that she was going to vanish right before his eyes. She knew that, as much as this conversation wasn't over, it could wait for another day, and she patted the space next to her on the bed. "Come on, you big old softie." 

"Oi, watch it." Tommy replied, sternly. However Y/N saw the teasing glint in her brother's eyes as he gently wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to his chest, and placed a kiss on the top of her head. 

As they lay there, the sun gently began to break through the clouds.

***

Both of them had a lot to learn, they knew that. But they'd do it together in their typical Y/N and Tommy way. 

And the first lesson that Y/N learnt was that when Tommy Shelby said that he wasn't going to let you out of his sight for a while, he really fucking meant it.