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gwilin-stay-winnin · 22 days

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Hiii. I wanted to share this excerpt from the latest chapter of Among the Many Lost Souls (which should be ready for publishing sometime between today and tomorrow). This is Sylvette's (or Sylvie's) backstory in a nutshell. It's <1k words. Trigger warning for allusions to sexual abuse (specifically, CSA), domestic abuse, and general violence. SYLVIE LORE, HERE WE COME

Sylvie remembered, very clearly, the first time a stranger touched her.

She couldn't have been older than three. One of the servants put her out in the hallway that day. They were angry with her over something she'd done; she'd long since forgotten what. There was rain bearing down on the tiny windowpanes a world above her. She couldn't see it, but she could hear it. Something sad swelled in her. Sylvie scraped at the wall with the talisman the servant had given to keep her busy as she began to sniffle. Someone tall knelt next to her before she could arrive at tears, however, and she neglected her makeshift toy to look. Her wet, little eyes were like two wilted, orange poppies reaching up to meet the stranger's smile.

"Do you want up?" he asked, and Sylvie's face lit up like a Fire Festival mage's fingertips. His own fingertips slipped under her legs, and he raised her up above his head. Sylvie could still see the rain running like a great, distorted curtain down that hand-wrought glass if she closed her eyes. She could still see the shapes she traced with her tiny finger, on the breathprints that appeared in front of her nose. The wispy cobwebs, the splintered wood, the cracked paint. All of it. The only image she conserved more clearly from that moment was the one she put together as the man lowered her into his arms.

His eyes. Hazy with sadness, like hers not a minute ago. And yet teeming with love.

He breathed in deep then, and pressed her head to his breast. His chest jerked as he fell into inconsolable sobbing. Sylvie was confused. She vaguely wondered if he was sad he couldn't see the rain up close, like she had. She wished she was tall and strong, like him, so she could lift him up to look. Meanwhile, she buried her nose in the soft wrinkles of his robes. He smelled nice. Deep, musky, sweet, she'd think, years later. Like a leather-bound book filled with more flowers than pages.

One of the servant's voices in the adjacent room made him start. Quickly, but gently, the stranger set Sylvie down. He must've glanced back at her three or four times before disappearing around the corner of the hallway.

Moments later, she heard someone else coming up the stairs. Those were footsteps Sylvie knew well. She began to strike the floor with the talisman as quietly and harshly as she could, leaving dreadful etches in the woodwork. His voice broke out like a roar. He gained ground. She trembled uncontrollably as he grabbed her arm and yanked her off the floor, chastising her for always ruining all the nice things he bought for her. Sylvie didn't often struggle against her father once they made it to her room.

But on that day, she did.

There came a point in time she thought it all so normal. Her father's visits became like the rain–sporadic, unknowable, uncontrollable occurrences she regarded with complete indifference, except when they occurred with an unusually intense violence. Similarly did all the servants, not to mention her mother, Lousine, concern themselves with what was unfolding under their roof. At least in her mother's case, Sylvie supposed, she couldn't be blamed for failing to protect her. She had her own screams to let out on the marriage bed.

For eighteen years was unthinking cruelty the routine within the jarl's longhouse, and for eighteen years did Lousine sit on the secret that would increase it tenfold, from the moment it got out.

She went to go talk to her during the evening, on her birthday. Sylvie cried a lot. Lousine, however, cried very little, even as her daughter begged her not to go tell her husband what they now both knew–even as Sylvie fell to her knees, pulled at her dress, and did everything to plead as fervently as she could without drawing the jarl's attention. But still Lousine left her.

The sepulchral silence of the hours that followed scared Sylvie worse than any of her father's doings ever had. Her mother was dead. She had to be. Sylvie spent the night curled up in bed, praying, though she'd never been very devout, that the Divines spare her the jarl's wrath. That she'd wake in the morning, and he'd be dead or gone, and she and her real father could leave it all behind to go live in High Rock together.

Instead, at first light, the jarl issued a decree.

Sylvie did not get the chance to speak to Florence as he was arrested in the merchant's square, nor as she felt, in the soles of her boots, the force with which he was beaten against the cobbles of the road leading to his house, nor as she heard the jarl declare this former thane of his a traitor of the highest degree, undeserving of any of the titles and properties he had so graciously been granted. These, he said, were now forfeit. Having seized all of his belongings, the guards bound, gagged, and threw Florence on the steps of his ruined home. In a final act of humiliation, the jarl handed his wife the torch. Sylvie heard every word he whispered into Lousine's ear then.

"Time to make your whore go up in smoke."

#tes #tes fic #tesblr #depictions #sosylvie

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heresathreebee · 2 years

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Leonard Bast | Howard’s End (Miniseries 2019) || Drunk Sex // Spanking

Reader Is Leonard's Wife; 2k words; NO BETA/ SELF- EDITED, Swearing, Domestic Argument, Victorian/ Edwardian Evangelical Values, Injury (minor), Spanking, Both Characters Are Sexually Repressed, Stripping, Half-Clothed Sex, Breeding Kink, Creampie

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Leonard has just come home from a very long and very exhausting day of work to find you anxiously biting your nails. His heavy gaze looks at you, then down in the sink with the broken dish, and then back to you. His silence is only making your nervousness worse.

"I am so, so sorry darling," you whisper as if speaking any louder will awaken a bear out of him.

His brow furrows and you can see him grinding his teeth. "It's… only a dish, love."

Although he doesn't know why, this scenario feels vaguely familiar. You aren't usually so clumsy, though, and why would you not just clean it up? Perhaps it only just happened.

Either way, your husband sighs and shoos you away gently. He takes every broken piece and discards them properly, wincing when he accidentally catches his thumb on a shard. In his state, it makes his already simmer temper flare.

"Damn it to hell," he growls and jams his bloody thumb into his mouth.

You let out a wispy gasp, having never heard such vulgarity fall from his mouth before. You itch at your wrist as you start to second guess yourself, but you press forward anyways. His head turns when he feels your skirts brushing his trousers.

"Honestly Lenny, I don't know what's come over me," you try apologizing again as he frees his thumb and inspects the wound.

"It's nothing, dear," he replies, but it's through gritted teeth and his back is still facing you. "Go add something to the fire. I'll… fix us some dinner."

Embarrassment fills your mind and you try to beat him to it. "No, no! Let me! I-I should have done it hours ago– what was I thinking?"

It seems your husband has had enough. He watches you scurry about gathering pots and water to boil. He plants himself squarely against the counter and towers over you in your workstation.

"What have you been doing all day, darling?" He throws a few logs and stokes the fire himself. "Dinner is going to take half the night, I won't have time to read my book."

"I know, love, I'm so sorry! I don't know what's come over me, I can't hold a single thought today I'm afraid." You got the pot boiling and beans going. "I think we have some cheese and bread left."

Leonard sighs and grabs the decanter by the door. He fills a glass of brandy and leans on the counter, not ready to leave off on your argument. You aren't acting like yourself. Not once since he's known you have you been so consistently absentminded.

You smooth wrinkles out of your skirts and reach out a timid hand to touch his shoulder. "Lenny…"

"Don't. Apologize again." Frustrated, he runs a hand over his face but the angry lines on his forehead don't disappear.

"I've upset you. You've every right to be angry with me, darling," you whisper and wrap your arms around his waist, sure he can feel you trembling. "I… I think you should…"

The words die on your tongue. You feel his body shift and peek open your eyes to find him looking down at you. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all, what were you ever thinking…

"What? You think I should what?"

You gulp and ignore the burning of your cheeks. "... I think you should punish me. Like before. I-I learned last time! I did… but perhaps I need another… lesson."

Your husband's face is stone. He doesn't like punishing you– you are not a child. And he's only ever done it once before, and silently swore never to do it again. The tears on your face (and his entirely innapropriate feelings of lust) left him riddled with guilt.

Leonard stands and gently pushes you off of him. "Alright. Get on the desk and lift your skirts."

He mistakes your lip bite for apprehension and instructs himself to be a little more gentle this time. He follows you and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, watching as you lay stomach first over his desk and lifting your many petticoats to your waist and waiting submissively. He unties the drawstring on your drawers and pulls them down to expose your derriere.

This draws a gasp from you, as it did the last time he disciplined you. Leonard is thankful for your turned back as a rogue blush spread across his face. He clears his throat and sees your muscles tense in anticipation.

"Just five this time, love," he says. "Will you count them?"

"Yes," you reply breathily and squirm.

Open palmed, Leonard reels back, pauses, and swings, aiming for your right cheek. The clap of skin against skin is louder than he intended, equal to the force he used before, and your body reacts with a jerk and a surprised wail. Your heel comes up as you try to cross your legs, before settling back into position and beginning the count.

"One…"

Leonard's face burns and a droplet of sweat trickles down his collar. The second hit occurs opposite with the same force and a milder reaction from you.

"Two," went your watery voice.

Almost finished, he tries to wish away the heat under his collar.

The next slap is half the strength of the last, and you groan but don't speak. "Count, darling."

"...th-three. You can do it harder, Lenny, I can take it."

Clenching his jaw, his hand unconsciously smoothes over your abused flesh. He feels faint and the throbbing in his trousers is torturous. Why did you ask for this? Why do you want him to punish you? The next swing is back to full force and you fucking moan from it.

All thought comes to a violent crashing halt as your husband realizes where he's heard that sound before. In your shared private bed chamber, under the cover of darkness, nothing but nightshirts between you as you fulfill your marriage duties. Where your kisses were ceaseless and breathless chuckles clandestine. You were enjoying this.

"Get up." Leonard pulls you up by your arm, not bothering with the final lash. You must know he's seen through your ruse as you hide your face under your hair which is coming loose from its pins. You're still holding your skirts up and he catches a glimpse of the hair gathered at the top of your legs– which he has only ever felt before and not seen. He quickly yanks your skirts down to cover your nudity and forces your head up.

Your chin warbles pathetically and you sob. "I am sorry my love, I-I… I think there is something wrong with me…"

He can't be too angry with you. Not with the tent created in his own clothes. The hand he used to hold your head up now strokes your cheek, encouraging you not to fear his wrath which has ebbed away quickly.

He clears his throat and struggles for words. "I think… it is merely a strange reaction, darling, not a flaw in your morality."

He holds you close and swallows a grunt when your corset presses against his stiffy. You are none the wiser to his condition, simply staring at his face looking for forgiveness– this time genuinely.

He asked hesitantly, "did your father not discipline you so?"

You shook your head, then explained, "He did spank me. Only… he made my siblings and I pick a switch from a tree, he never used his bare hands. And he never made me lift my skirts or bend over…"

Oh, Leonard thought. "Perhaps it is my fault then. I am truly sorry, my dear, I–"

"Lenny," you interject quietly, "I like it. I know, I know I'm not supposed to, but… I like when you put your hands on me. And…"

Your mouth moves as you flounder for words, "no one has ever looked at my nakedness the way you do."

So you had seen him– or at least you knew how he felt about it. And how could he not feel overcome with lust at the sight of you? His very own Aphrodite. He wanted to see more of your nakedness– was that so wrong? You are his wife, afterall.

Leonard squeezes you tighter and you hug him back just as enthusiastically. Your tears are drying on your cheeks and eyes hooded, a look you give him occasionally when he crawls into bed and wraps you in his arms.

The meaning behind it is slowly becoming clearer.

"Take off your dress," he commands, and slips out of your embrace.

You obey, glancing quickly between the fire, the windows, and him. Hungrily drinking in the visage of him, tall and proud and full of desire for you. You are loosening your corset when he pulls you along to the kitchen table, still in your boots, stockings, and chemise.

"I'm not finished," you protest weakly.

It dies in your throat as soon as his lips connect with yours, the taste of brandy on his tongue.

"I must have you. Now."

Leonard lifts you onto the ledge of the table and lays you down. You gasp into his open mouth as you feel him press up against you, this time fully aware of the hardened line in his trousers. Your arms around his neck keep him close and he shrugs out of his vest and pushes his trousers aside to free his manhood.

The hand on your hip keeps you still as he guides himself into you, stretching you to the point of burning. With his girth, he must rock a few times before fully seating himself inside you and the pain subsides as it often does into insurmountable pleasure.

"Lenny," you beg and feel his hips roll down, brushing against something outside you that sparks more arousal. Your fingers twist in his hair as he begins to thrust, shallow and gentle, the anchoring hand tight and likely to leave bruises on you in the morning.

He says your name fervently, thrusting a tiny bit deeper and massaging your insides with perfect precision. "I am going to put a child in you this time, I swear it."

He braces himself on his other hand and doubles his efforts, relishing in the moans that fall freely from your lips and the image of your pleasure which he has denied himself in past love making. You look the definition of dichotomy: angelic and impish, serene yet pained, as if he's giving you everything you wanted and you still want more. Your nails dig crescent shaped moons into his flesh and he loves it.

"Lenny!" Your husband cannot know how delectable he looks, hovering over you with a few loose curls dangling over his forehead.

And, oh, how he loves how sweet his name sounds coming from you now, never wants to stop hearing it. You hiss through your teeth as the other aspect of his maleness slaps against the tenderized meat of your derriere, creating a suction from the essence your body produces to accommodate and ease your love making. It is a feeling that has you clenching around the thick appendage invading your sacred cave.

"Faster, love." You beg and Leonard obliges, widening his stance and drilling into you at a different pace. You wrap your legs around his hips and nearly scream from the change in angle. "Yes! Just like that! Oh, God!"

Leonard cannot scold you for your blasphemy as he is too lost in pleasure. The punctuated ends of your moans, the rhythmic choking of your cunny, and the tingling warmth at the base of his spine draw him in and he rests his head against the lip of your corset and slams home with his other head pressed against your womb.

He growls as he feels himself pump his seed inside you. Your thighs shake violently at his sides and you sob as your own pleasure breaks you into pieces like a china dish. He holds his hips firmly against your sex as the last pump goes, inadvertantly causing you to slide in inch up the table.

Here. I could stay right here forever, he thought. The smell of your perfume mixes with your perspiration and fills his head with clouds of bliss. His softening cock slips out of your channel and he hears you giggle, lifting his head to inquire the matter.

"I think we burnt the beans," you reply with a great big smile.

And Leonard laughs with you, brushing debris from your forehead and determined to fill you again in the morning.

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Oh, to be a young lady married for love and discovering hedonistic pleasures together 🧡

#three bees writing #kinktober 2022 challenge #tppkinktober2022 #leonard bast smut #leonard bast x female reader #black reader insert #joseph quinn character fiction

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mimi-cee-hq · 3 years

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Laundry Days - Aran x f!reader

Summary: Three times you picked up his underwear and one time you missed doing it.

Genres, other tags: fluff, slice of life, humour, meet cute, domestic fluff, not suggestive lol, married under 25, neighbours to married lovers ;)

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: manga spoiler

This is for @neoheros & @coophi's 2021 Summer Haikyuu!! Writing contest. (Okay I'm pretty shy at first so it feels a little scary to tag you two but here's my piece.) I was going for the married under 25 prompt but ended up doing neighbours to lovers too. :D

Don't mind me spreading the underrated characters agenda as well. lol.

*****

A few articles of clothing spilled out of the dryer and onto your feet. Oops. Your neighbour must have forgotten them. You should've checked first.

Your own damp clothes sat inside the washing machine next to it, waiting for their turn to enter the dryer. It wasn't possible now.

You sighed, retrieving the phone from your pocket and scrolling until you saw the name of the neighbour who lived a floor below you.

Ojiro Aran.

You were sure this was the right person after a second look at your texting history. Who'd bring the garbage to the curb, where the lawnmower was kept, and keeping the duplex's stairway clear were some of the conversations you had with him.

You had yet to meet the guy, but he seemed amicable enough.

After shooting him a text, you thought to give him a call instead. Perhaps he'd think a phone call was strange. However, your clothes were damp and you shouldn't leave them for long. Was he even home?

You sighed. Crouched down, you returned the clothes on the floor back into the machine. A scarf, several socks, and a knit hat made their way back inside. But what was this?

Underwear. Men's underwear.

You scrunched your nose as you lifted it from the cold, tile floor. Was that a hole in it?

Click.

"Sorry I just saw your text!" a tall, dark-skinned man blurted out as soon as the door was unlocked.

"Oh! It's alright! I only texted you a few minutes ago!" you quickly explained, waving your hands in front of you.

You shouldn't have done that. The underwear was hanging from your hand.

"Ummm…" Aran scratched his cheek, eyes retreating from you.

"Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry!" you spat out, tossing the incriminating object to him. "It just fell out of the dryer when I opened it so I went to pick it up!"

Once in his hands, he recognized it as the one with the seam coming undone. "I… umm… should probably have thrown this one out."

"Umm… yeah… you probably should." Those words slipped off your tongue before you could catch them.

"I- I guess I'll go now," Aran said hastily.

He shut the door.

You let out a breath. That was awkward. Heat continued to linger in your body and you weren't sure who was more embarrassed by the encounter.

Wait. His clothes were still in the dryer. Did you dare ask him back?

The door slowly creaked open and Aran peeked his head into the room.

"I forgot something, didn't I?" Aran sheepishly asked.

"Yeah." The corners of your mouth lifted into a smile. "Yeah, you did."

"I'm Aran by the way."

"Y/n."

You never thought this would be how you'd meet your future husband.

*****

The office chair in your apartment was a comfortable spot for folding clothes. The webcam caught your face as you chatted with Aran whose image filled the monitor.

You smiled. Your husband was winding down after a long day with the team and decided to check up on you.

"I'm alright," you told Aran. "I miss you though."

"I literally just saw you yesterday!" he said. "I miss you too."

After that fateful yet awkward encounter with him in that laundry room two years ago, you had run into each other more frequently at the front doors of your duplex. Your classes ended at similar times four out of your five school days. You were surprised he even started a conversation with you. You wouldn't have been able to bear the embarrassment. Fast forward to a confession, a kiss and a rock-embedded ring, and you got a small, snowy wedding during winter break.

It was back to the books for you now, and you dreaded it. Chores seemed much better, easier. Plus doing them for your newly-wedded husband? You got giddy about that.

You quirked your brow, lifting a familiar piece of clothing from the basket.

"Hey, I thought you threw this one out," you mentioned to Aran, dangling his underwear in front of the camera.

"I did! That's, uh, probably a different one."

"Just how old are these?"

"Hey! Wait a moment! Are you folding clothes?"

You avoided the eyes on the screen. "Maybe."

"You have your paper due in a few days! I told you I was going to do it after flying back home."

"I know…"

Aran's eyes narrowed at you, a trademark expression of his. "You're procrastinating again, aren't you?" His tone implied disapproval.

"But I'm still being productive!"

"Y/n…"

"Okay, okay. I'll stop." Your foot pushed the basket away, sliding it across the floor. Maybe you could fold them after you hung up.

Aran must have read your mind. "Show me what the laundry bin looks like."

You groaned. He saw right through you. Complying, you removed the clipped webcam off the monitor and directed it at the pile of unfolded clothes.

"It better be like that when I get home."

"Alright," you said with a pout.

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Must he stop you from doing chores? They were a simple reminder you were married to him, as if the gold on your finger wasn't enough to show you.

You were his wife.

A smile snuck into your lips whenever that thought crossed your mind. The honeymoon phase was a peculiar, strange, lovely stage.

Yet it was fleeting.

*****

You groaned as you stood in the middle of the bathroom. Aran's white track pants hung off the counter, the red t-shirt he got for free from first year college laid on top, and of course his underwear, which likely went through hundreds of washes, remained on the floor.

Great.

You rubbed your temples, your headache getting worse by the minute. It was Saturday morning, and Aran, who was nowhere to be seen, had left his mess behind.

I'll clean it up later, he would tell you. You knew his mother had spoiled him, always picking up after him. You understood why he was like this, but why couldn't he just start doing it now?

"Do you have this problem?" you asked your friend through your wireless headset.

"What problem?" she asked.

"Does your husband always leave laundry around on the floor?" You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Aran never picks up after himself."

She laughed. You weren't sure if it was because you were a young, amateur wife or if she understood all too well.

Knowing her, probably a bit of both.

"Okay two things."

You listened.

"One, don't say always or never. That's lying."

"I'm not lying," you snapped back at her. You began to regret asking her.

"Are you sure he never picks it up and always leaves it on the floor?"

You left no comment.

"Exactly."

"Okay fine, but that still doesn't solve the problem. If only he just did it, it would solve everything–"

"Number two," she interrupted.

You groaned at her and she gave an amused snort in return.

"If you weren't picking up his underwear, it means he's dead."

You were aghast.

"You know I'm right."

Still aghast.

"What? No husband, no mess."

"I can't believe I asked you for advice."

"But it's true."

"Ugh," was all you could utter. She had several years more of marriage experience than you, yet you didn't want to acknowledge it.

You hung up the phone after you finished deciding today's outing with her, but you hadn't addressed the issue in front of you. Your head throbbed again.

Sighing, you picked up the underwear.

A few minutes later, the front door opened and you dipped your head into the hallway. Aran shuffled grocery bags through the door and into the kitchen. He yawned, placing the milk, eggs, and other items into the fridge.

A familiar coffee brand peeked out of a bag on the floor. Right. You didn't have your coffee yet because there wasn't any left.

You wrapped your arms around Aran and relaxed against his broad back.

"I can't put the food away like this," he said with a chuckle.

"You left your clothes in the bathroom again."

"Oh shoot!" He dropped a bag and started towards the bathroom but you tightened your grip on him.

"I put them away already," you told him. His body relaxed and he caressed your arm around his waist.

The honeymoon phase was a fleeting phase, novel tasks turned mundane, but your love for him grew deeper still.

*****

Aran was away again, this time at Tokyo in preparation for the Olympics. He eagerly called you during breaks, wishing to see his favourite person – although your hands were full as well.

"I miss you," he told you, his smile displayed on the screen.

"And I miss picking up your underwear," you told him with a smirk.

Like clockwork, he narrowed his eyes at you with a comeback. "Why don't you say you miss me like a normal person?"

"Because I'm your wife. I'm special," you told him as he rolled his eyes. "I wish I could be there though."

"You wouldn't be able to spend that much time with me anyway," he said. "Besides, one of us needs to stay home."

"I know." You smiled.

"I gotta go," he said as Atsumu yelled in the background. Aran blew a kiss at you.

You snorted. How cheesy. You returned the kiss anyway.

Hearing a mischievous squeal behind you, you told him, "I gotta go too."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

After you hung up, you turned around and sighed. A soggy wet diaper sagged on the floor and the little guy jumping in the crib giggled at you as if he did the funniest thing in the world.

You rolled your eyes and smiled before picking up the diaper.

"Alright kid. Let's put a diaper back on you and wash your sheets."

*****

I hope you liked it. This is a little different from what I usually write but I hope you still enjoyed it!

I blame Aran's current concern for giving me this idea along with the person who suggested I write Aran fluff. (As well as the seasoned wife I know who told her husband, "If I wasn't picking up your underwear, it means you're dead." lolll.)

I hope you stick around my blog to check out my other works! My current work in progress is a fake dating Suna series. I can't believe we're on chapter 10!

If anyone is interested, I have a Google form for my taglist.

#aran x reader #aran fluff #aran fanfic #ojiro aran x reader #ojiro aran #aran ojiro #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fanfic #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu fluff #C/R_HQ!CONTEST #hihqnetwork #animehorizons #angelwalker’s virtues #inarizaki #inarizaki x reader

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shijiujun · 3 years

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Lonely Dream | 孤梦

Summary: And when all is done and dusted, sometimes Lao Wen still gets those headaches of his, and the spots where Ah Xu had the nails driven in stil throb in pain on a cold, rainy day.

Some slice of life and domesticity for WenZhou as they enjoy more years than they expected to have initially, together.

Notes: OKAY so there are too many theories going out there for special ep ending, and nah not going there! So the concept of this is SOMEHOW Zhou Zishu saves Wen Kexing at the end of Ep 36, and they need to head into icy mountain cave for a WHILE but not forever. They head back down to Four Seasons Manor once Wen Kexing recovers.

Basically SHL ver. WenZhou, but with TYK ending (where WenZhou fight in the icy mountains for a bit after Wu Xi cures him and then head back down into the world of the living). No immortal lifespan, but hey, they get the rest of their normal lives together! So yeah, they can still eat normally, no snow and ice diet please.

Word Count: 4,500+

✨✨ Link on AO3 ✨✨

******

They visit Ah Xiang and Cao Weining’s graves once Wen Kexing’s year-long recovery in the frigid cold of the mountains is complete.

Zhou Zishu says that it is for Lao Wen’s recuperation, but he suspects Wen Kexing, the heartless bastard, knows that he has taken this year too, to finally stop hurting, to stop going through the bone-deep, heart-wrenching terror at the prospect of losing him.

Opening his eyes in the armoury a year ago, his five senses were returned to him, but at what price? Feeling Lao Wen’s cold hands against his, his stark, blinding white hair a horrifying contrast against his beautiful face, and the man almost leaving him.

Leaving him, once again.

Horror turned into anger, the words stuck in his throat, his chest so tight and heart slamming against the bones caging it, Zhou Zishu had regained all that he had lost-

-and then lost the most important thing, person, to him.

Someone he values above his own life, who had lied to him, who had so stupidly, stupidly gave himself up for him.

Zhou Zishu does not want to remember how he survived that day, how he spent minutes, hours, and days after, making sure Lao Wen continued to hang on to his very last breath.

In the past year, the cold he was constantly plagued with had nothing to do with the wintry landscape.

He knows he is pushing it a little — his eyes have rarely left Wen Kexing since they were moved to the mountains at Wu Xi and Senior Ye’s suggestions. Initially, Lao Wen slept and Zhou Zishu had no idea if he would ever wake up.

Before he would even open his eyes, the panic typically set in just like that, gripping him by the throat the moment he woke. Zhou Zishu would have to reach out for Lao Wen across him on the bed, the fear receding only when he heard and felt Lao Wen’s breaths under his fingertips.

For a long time, Zhou Zishu thought that he would be with Lao Wen in this state for the rest of his life. It was not all bad — as long as Lao Wen was alive, who cared if he spent the rest of his years guarding a sleeping Wen Kexing?

Who’s the lazy one now, Lao Wen, he thought plenty of times in the months after, his hands caressing at Wen Kexing’s cheek bones and pale face, which was of the same colour as his white hair.

Fortunately, fortunately… he managed to keep the person he wanted in the end.

They have been so focused on recuperating, stuck in the mountains and in that isolated environment, it was easy to distance themselves from everything that had and was happening outside.

Even though Wen Kexing did not mention a thing, Zhou Zishu knows that he spends some nights awake, looking out into a sky full of stars, quiet and pensive. He knows it, because he does the same.

For Jiu Xiao, for Han Ying, for Qing Luan.

For a young woman who called him Zishu-ge and Sickly Ghost, who threatened to fight him if he left Wen Kexing all alone. A beautiful young woman who should have gotten her happy ending on that tragic afternoon.

For a young man, who had a smile that could light up even the darkest of corners in a place like the Ghost Valley, who would have protected his to-be wife with everything he had.

The pain and grief that comes with losing Ah Xiang and Cao Weining is no easier to bear a year on.

===

Wen Kexing recalls the way she looked that day, all beautiful in her green and red bridal robes, finally able to live a life basking under the sunshine without anything holding her back. That was what he always wanted for her.

What a huge mistake that wedding was.

His whole life, aside from Ah Xu, has been a cycle of repeated mistakes, over and over again. If he had just put his foot down and insisted on not letting Mo Huaiyi in, if he had not just walked away in anger and instead stayed there, they would have stopped Xiao Cao’s death, and Ah Xiang’s after.

Why had he walked off? How did beautiful Ah Xiang, an Ah Xiang he was ready to give away, end up taking her last breath in his arms?

A sting on his right ear pulls him violently out of his depressed reverie, and he yells, “Ow- Ow, ow, ow, Ah Xu!”

“Don’t think that I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Zhou Zishu says, pulling Wen Kexing’s face close to him by the ear. “There is no point dwelling in the past. Life and death… when the time comes, no one can escape from it.”

Wen Kexing’s eyes sober a little, bitterness flashing across his face. Remnants of his hatred and resentment from more than a year ago, before he met Ah Xu.

“If I had just kept her with me-“

“We all make our choices,” Zhou Zishu says, his voice gentling as he lets Wen Kexing go, but the man does not move away.

“If she had to choose again, she would probably have chosen the same.”

In the cold, their hands find their way to each other, clasping warmly under their thick sleeves, the rims lined with fur.

They stare at the graves for a little longer. And while Wen Kexing has never believed in some higher power up there or the heavens-

-this time, with every ounce of his being, he prays and wishes that Ah Xiang and that pig will find their ways back to each other in the next life, no matter what.

Zhou Zishu’s hand squeezes around his, and Wen Kexing turns to see his Ah Xu’s warm smile and gaze.

“Shall we go home?”

Home. The place where they can live out the rest of their natural lives together.

“Let’s go home,” Wen Kexing agrees.

===

“Ah Xu, that is not the way you-“

Hearing Wen Kexing nag for the thousandth time, Zhou Zishu has finally had enough. Slamming the broad vegetable knife onto the wooden chopping board loudly, he turns and looks at the man next to him.

“I’m not the one who begged me to do this,” Zhou Zishu says, turning to walk away, “You make dinner. I told you it was a waste of time-“

Before he can finish his sentence, warmth engulfs his back, and something sharp snuggles into his shoulder bone. A familiar scent — jasmine, from the incense that Wen Kexing likes to use — wraps around him, hands trapping him in between the counter and the limpet attached to him.

Wen Kexing’s palms close over his hands, then guides them to pick up the knife again. Zhou Zishu stiffens, but does not move away. He lets Wen Kexing curl his own fingers properly over the cabbage, and chop at it neatly, over and over.

They have not yet spoken about this between them, despite laying in the same bed right next to each other night after night. The cave was hardly a luxurious abode and to save effort and space, Zhou Zishu fell asleep next to a comatose Wen Kexing for several months, wanting to ascertain that he was alive and breathing at any given moment.

After Wen Kexing woke, Zhou Zishu continued to sleep next to him, and Lao Wen never once brought it up in conversation.

Coming back to Four Seasons Manor, Wen Kexing naturally turned up in his room instead of the one he was staying at before, already asleep when Zhou Zishu returned to turn in.

This man is his soulmate, the person he would give everything up for no matter what it was. His lost shidi, but even before that, this man was someone who was willing to do everything he could for him. Who cared for him like no one else ever would again.

Beyond that? Zhou Zishu knows of his feelings, and is rather certain of Wen Kexing’s. He supposes that after pledging to save each other’s lives at the expense of their own repeatedly, some things just do not have to be articulated.

Zhou Zishu leans into the hold, relaxing entirely.

At this, it is Wen Kexing’s turn to be stunned at the reciprocation where he was expecting none before, but the man recovers quickly. He snuggles in even closer, the side of his face pressed right up against Zhou Zishu’s.

His Ah Xu remains still, as if unbothered, and Wen Kexing decides to try his luck.

“Ah Xu,” he angles his head slightly, his mouth brushing lightly over Zhou Zishu’s cheek as he murmurs straight into his ear.

Ah, there it is. Zhou Zishu freezes against him, now making to move his ear out of Wen Kexing’s reach.

“What?”

Wen Kexing smiles, amused and so, so fond.

His voice still low and sultry, he continues, “I think you’re right, you should let me cook instead. You’re murdering the cabbage.”

Zhou Zishu pauses for a good two seconds before turning to glare at Wen Kexing. Wen Kexing recognizes that look, and the warmth on Zhou Zishu��s back vanishes instantly just as he starts waving the knife at him.

“Wen Kexing, don’t you think you’re being ridiculous and childish-“

Laughter fills the kitchen, a sound that is incredibly melodious, immediately soothing all the uneasiness Zhou Zishu feels.

Outside, all twenty disciples try not to peek and look at their shifu and shishu being strange again. One of the younger ones, Xiao Man, cannot help but angle his head in the direction of the kitchen, and then says, “Da-shixiong, shifu is going after shishu with a knife! Is he going to be okay?”

Zhang Chengling sighs inwardly, then smiles and pats the boy on the head.

“That’s shifu’s way of showing how much he cares about shishu.”

Back in the kitchen, having heard that tiny quip from their youngest disciple, Wen Kexing finally stops in his tracks, turning around mid-escape to grab Zhou Zishu around the waist with a hand, and the other going to the hand that is holding onto the knife and stopping his Ah Xu from possibly murdering him.

He sets the knife aside, but his other hand does not move.

“What are you doing,” grumbles Zhou Zishu, looking away, his expression a little stern, as if telling Wen Kexing not to be such a nuisance.

This close, however, Wen Kexing can certainly see the light flush on Ah Xu’s cheekbones.

If Wen Kexing had to rank all the beautiful bones that Ah Xu has, it would probably be scapulas first, followed by his cheekbones.

Wen Kexing’s eyes dip a little lower.

He thinks collarbones may rank third.

“Ah Xu.”

“What?” sighs Zhou Zishu. “Let me go, the disciples need to finish the last set of practice-“

He is cut off when Wen Kexing swoops downwards, and catches his lips in his.

Zhou Zishu’s eyes go wide, but before he can do anything like move away and out of Wen Kexing’s firm hold, the man circles his waist with both arms, effectively trapping him and bringing him closer.

Wen Kexing’s body temperature tends to run on the colder side these days, a side effect of him having been brought back from the brink of death.

Right now, however, Zhou Zishu can feel nothing else but the scalding heat. His hands move up, intending to push Wen Kexing away, but they end up clutching tight around the man’s broad shoulders.

He does not stop the kiss, letting Wen Kexing’s lips roam as they like.

Outside, an unfortunate Chengling who sees this finds his eyes going wide.

“Erm,” he clears his throat quite loudly, gaining all the disciples’ attention. “Let’s head outside to finish our practice.”

He ushers everyone out, while wondering how the hell he hadn’t seen this coming.

Everything makes so much sense now.

===

Four Seasons Manor grows, and Zhang Chengling along with Bi Xingming end up taking over some classes and teaching of their own.

Wen Kexing does not want to admit it, but it seems that when he asked Ah Xu if he was a servant here, the man actually meant it. His little Chengling, who is not so little anymore, still comes to him to ask for tips or begs him to give some pointers to the other disciples, but most of the time, Wen Kexing is cooking.

He makes breakfast, is involved in lunch, and definitely ends up cooking a feast every dinner. Thankfully, Bi Xingming is unlike his da-shixiong and shifu as he actually has some kitchen sense, but Wen Kexing has truly been demoted to servant in this manor.

A servant that ends up in his master’s bed every night, Wen Kexing thinks then, and feels better about it immediately.

“Shishu, let me help you bring these out,” Bi Xingming says, stepping into the kitchen just as he’s done with the last dish.

“Mnn,” Wen Kexing hums in assent without looking up from his soup, tasting it one last time.

At the very least, these days, Zhou Zishu is able to actually, actually taste the food he lovingly cooks.

“Perfect,” he nods. “Is your shifu not up yet? It’s almost lunch time.”

“Ah…” Bi Xingming blinks, “You said not to disturb him until he wakes up, and he hasn’t left the room since morning.”

Wen Kexing frowns slightly. Sure, he worked Ah Xu over thoroughly last night, but not to the extent that he would need to sleep in for this long. Worry niggling at him, he gets Bi Xingming to start lunch with the other disciples first without waiting for them, and heads in the direction of their room.

The last time Zhou Zishu slept in so late, it was the night he confessed his past to Wen Kexing, of how he caused the deaths of everyone in Four Seasons Manor. He was deathly ill then and emotionally wrung out — things that Wen Kexing loathes to see on Zhou Zishu.

“Ah Xu?” Wen Kexing calls, sliding the door open gently.

The lump under the covers is the same as when he left it this morning. Wen Kexing takes quick strides and goes over, sitting down on the bed next to Ah Xu.

“Ah Xu?” he calls again, his voice soft as he reaches out for Zhou Zishu’s face.

His lips are pale, eyebrows furrowed and perspiring at the forehead.

“Ah Xu, are you ill? What’s wrong?”

Zhou Zishu’s skin is of normal temperature, much to Wen Kexing’s relief. His brain runs through a a million scenarios, none of them good and just as he’s about to yell for Chengling, something clicks in his head.

He does yell for their Chengling in the end, but for a hot bath instead with a pack of herbs and medicine from the stash Wu Xi gave them before he headed back home with Jing Beiyuan.

“Is shifu okay?” he asks, worried.

“He will be,” Wen Kexing says, lifting Zhou Zishu out from under the covers and heading for the bath. “Don’t worry, I’ll watch him. You continue training with the other disciples, otherwise when Ah Xu wakes up he’s going to scold all of you again.”

As Zhou Zishu soaks in the steaming medicinal bath, Wen Kexing sits right next to him, pillowing his head on his arms, which are sitting on the rim of the wooden tub and stares at him.

A few years have passed since the days when Wen Kexing despaired at Zhou Zishu dying in a short few years and the peace they have now makes it easy to not think about the past. He forgets sometimes that despite being healed, despite him giving his life force to Ah Xu, the man’s body has been to hell and back with the nails.

And forcing them out of his body forcefully while he mistakenly believed that Wen Kexing was dead, wanting to take revenge for him-

For the rest of their time together, Wen Kexing knows he will forever be guilt-ridden at this. If only he had just told Ah Xu, if only he didn’t make another stupid decision, there would have been no need for the armoury. No need for self-sacrificial plays, no need for lost time.

That Zhou Zishu would love him still and be with him, that is nothing short of a miracle.

On days like these, when the weather turns just the slightest bit wet and cold, his body starts to hurt, especially the points where he kept the nails in. All seven of them, the stupid man.

Wen Kexing inches forward and presses a kiss to the man’s temple.

For this life and every life after this one, Wen Kexing swears he will always be good to Zhou Zishu.

===

He loves and hates Wen Kexing’s hair, even after several years have passed. They are nearing the ten-year mark since leaving the mountains, and Zhou Zishu has slept next to this man every single day after, but whenever Wen Kexing shows up, Zhou Zishu has to admit that his breath is always taken away.

Wen Kexing looks ethereally gorgeous with those white strands, his features standing out even more clearly, not that Zhou Zishu would ever tell him that lest it goes to his head. However, it is a reminder that his silly, stupid shidi and now husband would dare to sacrifice his own life for his without telling him.

It is a constant reminder that he lost him, even if momentarily.

“Ah Xu, why are you are staring at me like that? You’re going to make me shy. Did you miss me? I was only gone for two days,” Wen Kexing says unabashedly during dinner.

At once, coughs and chokes go around the table, and the clanking of dropped chopsticks on the table echo through the dining hall.

Zhou Zishu takes a deep breath to compose himself and resists the urge to fight with the man over dinner. It would be a waste of food, not to mention a futile argument seeing that Wen Kexing has not changed at all since the first time they met. As long as he does not break out into poetry-

“Ah Xu, I missed you too. It is so fortunate that your heart is akin to mine-“

At that, everyone immediately stands from the table and excuses themselves, stumbling over one another as they parrot that they are full and do not want to have anymore.

It is an open secret that they are together — not because they are hiding it, but simply because they find no need to verbalize what they are to others — and if it was another couple that was stuck in this situation, he would possibly find it amusing, but Wen Kexing is incorrigible and has been for years.

Zhou Zishu finds that while he loves the man and is utterly devoted to him, is willing to die for him, at times like these maybe they should have both just stayed dead.

“Wen Kexing, have you had enough?”

He reaches out, intending to pinch at Wen Kexing as a lesson, but the man catches his hand within his deft fingers and brings it upwards so his hand is cupping one side of his face. Wen Kexing turns his head a little to press his lips to the open palm, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“I missed you,” Wen Kexing repeats. “It’s strange how it has only been two days, but I miss you like I’ve never missed anything else before.”

The impending reprimand dies on his lips.

Fine, just this once.

Zhou Zishu sighs and pinches at Wen Kexing’s cheek instead.

“Ow, ow! Ah Xu, Ah Xu, this face is a work of the heavens, how can you trample on it like this?!”

Zhou Zishu’s eyes are once again drawn to Wen Kexing’s white locks, and he unconsciously reaches out.

As if knowing what Zhou Zishu is thinking about, Wen Kexing grabs for the hand again, interlacing their fingers together.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before I faked my death, and then not telling you at the end, before I….” Wen Kexing says, swallowing with difficulty. “Ah Xu, if I could change it, I would. But at the end, if I was given the same choice, I would have chosen the same.”

It hurts to think about that morning, seeing Wen Kexing’s hair all white and almost lifeless, his hands dropping from his.

“I know,” Zhou Zishu breathes, hiding his face in Wen Kexing’s shoulder. “I know.”

===

Zhou Zishu hears of the supposed ambush on Four Seasons Manor while he has half a day’s journey left before he gets home.

The unrest in jianghu truly never ends; their fight with the Scorpions, with Tian Chuang, with Prince Jin and Zhao Jing was rewarded with peace for a few years, but people never say contented for long. Old sects are wiped out and new ones emerge. Most of them know not to mess with Four Seasons Manor as his and Wen Kexing’s reputations indeed precede themselves, but it is unavoidable, perhaps, for some newer and ambitious ones to mistakenly think they can take both of them on.

Well, they must have made sure Zhou Zishu was not in the manor before striking, as if Wen Kexing could not take all of them on himself.

He arrives in the nick of time in the heat of battle, although a quick glance shows that Four Seasons Manor is still holding up pretty well, with Zhang Chengling and Bi Xingming leading the rest of the disciples.

And there he is, Wen Kexing, all regal in his red embroidered robes, and his white hair pinned up neatly. Every movement from his sharp and deadly fan strikes true. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly, his eyes revealing a thirst for blood that Zhou Zishu hasn’t seen in a while.

He shivers at the want that hits him, even though it is not the time and place for it.

Zhou Zishu lands opportunely behind Wen Kexing and parries a blow that was coming straight for Wen Kexing back.

The both of them exchange a glance, and wordlessly, delve right back into the fight.

When the dust settles a few hours later, Zhou Zishu makes sure injured disciples are looked at while others clean up the mess. His attention finally freed up so he can focus solely on Wen Kexing, Zhou Zishu turns, only to see his husband a distance away from him, supporting himself against a wall.

He recognizes the signs of Wen Kexing’s brain-splitting headaches immediately, and rushes over.

“Lao Wen!”

“Shishu!”

Zhou Zishu catches Wen Kexing just as he collapses, his legs giving out under him. His fingers immediately search for Wen Kexing’s pulse.

This is an all-too familiar scene, but Zhou Zishu cannot remember when this last happened. His body growing cold at the implications, all the fears are now suddenly dredged up from the trenches of trauma sustained at a point in time long ago.

“Go get Physician Yao,” Zhou Zishu snaps at whichever disciple is standing closest to them, before picking Wen Kexing up.

Zhang Chengling turns up in their room before the physician does, and whatever fear he is experiencing right now abates slightly.

Before the manor started to grow, there was only the three of them. If anyone understands what he is feeling right now, it would be Chengling.

“Shifu…” he says, trailing off as he kneels down next to the bed and looks at Wen Kexing. “Shishu hasn’t had this in years, what happened?”

“Maybe… I don’t know,” Zhou Zishu exhales heavily. “He could be just.. too tired.”

They watch over him until the physician arrives. Zhou Zishu refuses to be chased out, and the tightness in his chest only disappears once she rolls her eyes at him after testing Wen Kexing’s pulse.

“The both of you are not young anymore,” Physician Yao almost scoffs. “And the injuries and illnesses that the both of you share combined can fill up a list a mile long. He hasn’t exerted himself like this in a long while, suddenly letting it all out in a fight like that, of course there are bound to be side effects. Stop looking at him as if he’s about to die.”

Zhou Zishu is about to thank her, when a weak rasp comes from the bed, “… been there, done that.”

Relief floods him at the sound of Wen Kexing’s voice, and immediately after, anger burns hot through him as the man’s words sink in, “Wen Kexing!”

Physician Yao retreats, knowing by now not to give instructions to them both when they get like this. Instead, speaking to any of their disciples would be much more reliable.

===

Later, after all has quietened down for certain, the stench of blood fading somewhat, Wen Kexing blinks languidly, not wanting to move at all, or do anything.

If he was to die in this position right now, he would have zero complaints.

Zhou Zishu pats at the back of his head gently as Wen Kexing lies almost half on him, his ear pressed over Zhou Zishu’s heart, comforted by the strong beat. Years later, the both of them approaching the big five-o, and Wen Kexing is still like a child sometimes.

Well, he’s making up for lost time.

He is greedy for more years with Ah Xu, in this life and every single life after. A hundred, a thousand years and more. Every little bit, he wants to spend with Ah Xu.

“Ah Xu,” he murmurs, and feels the vibration of the man’s response through his chest, “Before, I could not have what I wanted. I could not play when I wanted to, there was no one to teach me martial arts when I wanted to learn and the things I wanted I could not afford.”

“The person I wanted to keep, I was too late.”

This conversation seems so far away now, but is as clear to the both of them as if it happened just yesterday. That rainy, storming night.

A night of despair and hopelessness.

Zhou Zishu huffs in amusement.

“And now?” he asks.

Wen Kexing looks up, and cheekily responds, “Well, the martial arts part aside, Ah Xu, you pay for everything now, so I can afford everything! And in terms of play… you would know best how well I play now with-“

He’s cut off with a warning look from Zhou Zishu, although the man does not attempt to jostle him, still worried about his earlier headache and injuries sustained from the fight.

Wen Kexing loves this man, to the depths of hell and back.

“And… the person I want to keep, is right here with me.”

Zhou Zishu’s answering smile lights up every fibre of being.

They have forever to look forward to.

***

#tian ya ke #faraway wanderers #shan he ling #word of honor #wenzhou #wen kexing #zhou zishu #shl fic #hahaha yeah #technically spoilers but all the eps are out now so #whatever hahahaha #read at your own risk

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straightlikewetspaghetti · 3 years

Text

The Voice Inside My Head

Pairings: Poppy x MC (Bea Hughes)

Warnings: angst, mature language, mental illness, self-harm, domestic violence, rejection

Word count: 1901

"Kiss me."

Bea nearly choked on hearing those words from Poppy, who had not once turned or spoken in her direction since the beginning of the film. Now illuminated by the glow of the giant projector and with a dreamy expression on her face, she could easily command her to jump into the abyss and she would do so with pleasure.

"Yes, Princess," she replied, taking her face in her hands and greedily began to kiss her lips.

Princess? How long has it been since he called you that?

Ignoring the voice in the back of her head, Poppy gave herself fully to the magic of the kiss. Her face quickly began to burn as the other girl's curious hands began a slow roaming of her body, never crossing boundaries she didn't want to. Bea had always respected her, even if calling each other names was on their daily agenda.

The windows of Bea's car began to slowly steam up as the heat between them began to turn into a pure flame of desire, and Poppy's quiet whimpers echoed through the small space of the vehicle, turning Bea on even more. The blonde made herself as comfortable as she could in her seat and slid her hands into the girl's thick hair, which was begging for it.

Bea purred approvingly as she felt Poppy gently massage her scalp as she gave herself over to the skin of her neck. With her mouth, she felt the blonde's pulse quicken, just like her own, and if it weren't for her ribcage, her heart could have easily jumped for a walk.

Harder...

Poppy's body began to grow impatient as Bea made no further move, but continued to caress every easily accessible parts of her body with care. Otherwise she would have let her do it, but the thoughts swirling in the back of her head were starting to overwhelm her.

Make her punish you. Let her do what you deserve.

The blonde tightened the hands she held in Bea's hair, only for the girl to hiss and look at her questioningly. The blood-red blushing Poppy didn't even look at her, just to the side panting heavily, though the brunette didn't really do anything to that effect.

She could feel her adoring gaze on her.

Look at her Poppy. She's so vulnerable, so susceptible to your charm and grace, she doesn't even expect what a broken person you are inside.

T-that's not true.

No? And how many times did you hurt her before you agreed to go on that date with her? How many people have you hurt to realize that somewhere in your rotten depths you can feel something warm?

"Stop it," Poppy whispered unknowingly, but Bea, absorbed in trying to show how much she adored her, didn't even hear it.

You will hurt her. You WILL destroy her.

No, no, stop...

Just like you destroyed your family.

"Stop it! Just stop!" Poppy's body shuddered, tears hiding behind her eyelids that shouldn't have been there. Bea jumped away from her like she was on fire, pure terror mixed with shock on her face. She had no idea what had happened, but Poppy herself looked like someone who didn't know what was going on either.

"Jesus Christ Pops, I'm sorry!" Bea nervously began to adjust Poppy's clothing handling her like an egg so that the blonde wouldn't take it as any attempt to continue their little game. The brunette fingers trembled as she tried to fasten the buttons of her blouse.

Can't you see it? She hasn't even done anything wrong, yet she's the one apologizing to you because YOU are emotionally unstable. She is perfect, too perfect for someone as damaged as you. It's not her who doesn't deserve you Queen Bee, it's you who doesn't deserve her.

"Would you just shut up!"

Poppy was already almost panting from the strange fury bubbling up inside her that she could no longer contain within herself. Her scream was so loud that several people in the cars next to her turned toward them and began watching with interest. The blonde didn't even pay attention, her gaze still fixed on the brunette, whose face was full of so many mixed feelings that it was hard to determine what was really in her head.

The blonde sighed, letting half of the unnecessary rage float away and began to see more soberly with her eyes. What she began to notice was not at all to her liking, the pain she saw on the other's face was far more unbearable than the voice sitting in her head.

"Bea I..."

"It doesn't matter," escaped the brunette briefly. Turning around in her seat, she turned the key in the ignition as if nothing ever happened. "I'll take you home."

Poppy dug her long nails into her hand.

She always did this when she was mad at herself. However, now she was quickly losing control. Her brow furrowed as she stared blankly at the road in front of them, and her grip tightened, her nails slowly beginning to cut through her skin. Her breathing became labored, she knew another panic attack was coming. She clenched her jaw, feeling her body begin to tremble.

When she opened her eyes again, she no longer saw the road, but that cursed corridor from which it all began. Whenever she walked along it, it somehow magically got longer, only painfully delaying what was at the end. Instinctively, she looked to the side, towards the wall on which the pictures were hanging, and again she felt as if she were that little helpless girl from many years ago.

"Mommy?" her frightened voice echoed down the hallway as she again heard the thunder coming from outside, where a powerful storm was raging. Clutching her beloved teddy bear more tightly in her hands, she hurried toward the ajar door, from which raised voices began to ring out.

Before she could get there, her dad came out of the room looking shaken. He walked slowly to his daughter and squatted down, ruffling her hair. Poppy, however, did not return the smile when she saw tears in her dad's eyes.

"Remember I will always love you my little princess," were the last words she heard from him that day, the next and many more to come, because as he rose from his knees and grabbed the handle of the front door, his silhouette dissolved into a heavy wall of rain disappearing from her life once and for all.

Shortly after he disappeared, her drunken mother darted out of the room and ran towards the front door on wobbly legs. Instead of opening it, she simply banged on it violently and began sobbing, even louder than the raging thunder. "Art you coward!" her mother screamed towards the door, hitting it with an open fist every now and then. Poppy didn't even have to get close to her to smell the stench of strong alcohol. "You fucking coward..."

"M-mommy?" she said horrified at the state her mother was in. She immediately regretted it when her mother's glowing fury gaze fell on her and she started walking towards her. Poppy hugged her teddy bear tightly, trying to draw any comfort from it, and closed her eyes.

It didn't take Ana long to reach her daughter. She grabbed her firmly by the arm and began shrugging, out of control of her emotions. "This is all your fault," her screams were more terrible than the storm outside, her breath nearly parching Poppy's nostrils, who instinctively turned away from her mother. "You destroyed this family."

You were still so young, you couldn't understand that it was never your fault.

She drew in air heavily as she felt Bea's hand slip into her own, loosening it. It felt like ages had passed, but in fact her mind had locked her into the past for only a few minutes. With a scowl, she looked towards the brunette, who thankfully had her eyes on the road the whole time, her thumb gently caressing the skin of her palm.

The rest of the journey passed in pleasant silence, if that' s the way to put it. Poppy leaned against the window, mindlessly watching the trees fly by, and Bea kept a hand on her palm whenever she could, non-invasively trying to reassure her. In no time, Poppy was sitting on the couch at Bea's house, who had left her alone with herself for a while.

The blonde looked around the room, a little uneasy as she'd been here a few times before but had never paid attention to the scenery. She usually didn't have time for that when all she was thinking about was how much she wanted the brunette's touch on her.

"-- Sinclair is out, there is no option for her to stay here tonight."

A familiar voice reached her ears. She wasn't surprised that Zoey wasn't happy about her presence. The very fact that she had let her on her property was quite a surprise to her. She rose from the couch and wandered into the room where the two girls were discussing.

"Excuse me Bea, but Chlo called, there's some sort of accident at the sorority house and I need to get back. Thanks for today."

Lying is your second nature, but doing it in good faith? Impressive...

"I never expected to live the day when I'd hear a thank you from Sinclair," Zoey muttered, and despite her hostility, a spark of respect flashed in her eyes. "However, that doesn't change the fact that you're not welcome here, and I won't hide that," the girl crossed her arms over her chest looking down on Poppy.

"Sure, fine, I understand," she didn't have the strength to argue, besides deep down she knew the girl was right about that. "I'll go now."

"I can give you a ride!" Bea jumped in front of her briskly like a Golden Retriever pup, earning only a snort from Zoey, but Poppy just shook her head with a weak smile.

Before she left she rose on her tiptoes and placed one of the softest kisses of her life on Bea's cheek. Her lips stayed there for a moment longer than they should have, but Zoey's exaggerated grunt brought her back to gray reality. She left the building without looking back.

The night was chilly, so with every gust of wind Poppy covered herself tighter with the jacket Bea had wrapped her in when she wasn't even paying attention. Walking alone along the trees, she had the feeling that something was watching her and was about to jump out of the bushes at her in any moment. She quickened her step when she heard a rustle coming from around the corner.

She almost screamed when, to her terror, an actually tall figure emerged from the darkness. she cursed herself and Chlo in her mind for every horror she had made her watch. To her surprise, however, horror turned to confusion.

"Hello my little princess."

That voice...

"D-dad?"

#I felt a little angsty #don't mind me #poppy min sinclair #poppy fic #poppy x mc #bea hughes #queen b #queen b choices #choicesfic #choices #playchoices

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queen-of-deans-booty · 3 years

Text

Your Perfect Little Bubble

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: ~1.5k

Warnings: fluff, dad!sam fluff, minor angst

Request by anon: What about a Sam x reader where Sam and R are sleeping and their young child comes in because of a nightmare and wakes up reader wanting to sleep with their parents. With the lines “ ok, just don’t wake daddy up.” And Sam replies “Too late” Just domestic fluff! There just needs to be more Dad!Sam

Summary: Your little boy has a nightmare in the middle of the night and tells you about it.

nose kisses (2020 card) and child au (2021 card) for @spnfluffbingo

family for @spntfwbingo

domestic au for @spngenrebingo

Author’s Note: I know this was requested a long time ago. Sorry this is just now coming out. This is unbeta’d and all mistakes are mine. If you have any requests, please send them in!

Having kids was never something you saw for yourself until you met Sam. Being truly happy with your life was never possible for you until you met Sam. You never saw having the things you have now until you met Sam. Everything happened when you met him, and you owe him your life--to try and pay back everything he gave to you. Ten years ago, if someone asked you what you would be doing with your life, it would certainly not be this.

Your eccentric five-year-old baby boy is full of life and is curious about everything. He has an eye for the good, to see what others can’t. When you found out you were pregnant, you refused to raise him the way John did with his boys. John shut his kids out unless he needed them, and even then, it was touch-and-go. Not with Dylan, no, you wanted to be different than the rest.

Dean has always said hunters aren't kids, but you’re doing a pretty damn good job at allowing your baby boy be a kid for as long as he can. He knows what’s out there because you decided to have the talk with him in the form of stories. Instead of just shoving him into the life and forcing him to deal with it like John did, you tell stories of vampires, djinns, angels, demons, and everything in between. With stories, you can show him it’s not that scary, and with hunter parents like Sam and Dean, it’s not.

The Bunker isn’t an ideal place to raise a child, but Dylan made sure to turn this place into his own personal playground. The two rooms you merged to make his playroom is just covered with toys. Whenever he had a birthday, Sam, Dean, and even Castiel would spoil him with lots of presents, so the Bunker is just littered with them.

You don’t mind much since it makes him so happy to get gifts. He’s not spoiled in a bad way--he always says please and thank you, and he is very grateful for what he gets. You don’t think you could have raised a better son, and there are still thirteen more years to go. You let Dylan play in his playroom after dinner, so when you enter the room to get him, a smile grows on your face.

He fell asleep while playing with the present Jack gave him--Marvelous Marvin the Talking Teddy. He also has one, and they play a lot together with them. You think it’s sweet how much your son grew to love Jack. They are close in age, so it makes sense that they would get along the best.

You walk over to your little man and pick him up gently, careful not to wake him up. His head rolls to rest on your chest, and you carry him to his room. He decorated it all on his own with the help of his father. There are stars and planets painted on the wall since he loves Toy Story and Buzz Lightyear and everything that has to do with space. You lay him in his bed and tuck him up, kissing him on the head when you’re finished.

Sam and Dean had just gotten back from a tough hunt, so to give your husband some time to settle into bed and go to sleep, you figured you would clean Dylan’s playroom first. If you were to go to bed now, and Sam was only half-asleep, he would wake as soon as you got into the bed. Years of being a hunter made him accustomed to being a light sleeper.

You tidy up Dylan’s playroom, putting the toys where they belong. Inside the room is a little table in the corner that is used for arts and crafts that he loves using. Today, him and Jack were painting some of the Toy Story characters. Your son’s paintings aren’t that great with Jack not that far behind him, but they had fun while doing it. You take the pictures and hang them in the designated spot that’s used to hang all the pictures that Dylan makes. Once they dry, he picks his favorite ones and you throw the rest of them away. The ones he picks go into a big photo album that he can look through when he’s older.

Once the room is cleaner, you head back to your shared room with Sam. You can hear his soft snores from his side of the bed, so you know he is fast asleep. You’re quiet as you change into your pajamas, and you slide into bed gently. Sam turns over so he's facing you, and in his sleep, he reaches out for you. You cuddle into his side, acting as the “little spoon”. His big arms wrap around your waist as his head buries itself into the crook of your neck.

If you could stay like this forever, you would. Immediately, you drift off to sleep knowing everyone inside the Bunker is safe and sound. You’re not sure when you wake up next, but you know it’s not morning. It’s not your alarm telling you that you two needed to get up to do your morning run. It’s not the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen that Jack loves to make since he barely sleeps. No, something much more innocent and vulnerable wakes you.

“Mommy,” Dylan whispers, shaking your shoulder.

“What is it, baby? Are you okay?” you whisper and turn on the lamp next to your bed on the lowest setting so it doesn’t wake Sam up.

“I had a nightmare.”

“Come here,” you say and pat the area between you and Sam.

Sam had managed to scoot as far as possible away from you during the night, so there is plenty of room for Dylan to crawl in without waking his father. He settles in next to you, and you push his long hair away from his face. He is growing more to look like Sam every single day. He refuses to cut his hair claiming he wants to look like Daddy.

“Tell me about your nightmare, sweetheart. Just don’t wake Daddy up.”

“Too late,” Sam grumbles and flips to face you two. “What’s going on?”

“Dylan had a nightmare. He was just going to tell me about it.”

“Alright, buddy, we’re all ears. We’re listening,” Sam yawns.

“I had a nightmare about you and Daddy. You were killed by a monster and you left me all alone,” Dylan sighs.

You look at Sam knowingly, and that little story causes him to become more alert. You’re not a hunter anymore--not since you found out you were pregnant. You’re a stay-at-home mom while Sam and Dean go out and fight the monsters. You help when you can from the Bunker, but you don’t go out anymore. This isn’t your department anymore, so Sam takes over. He grabs Dylan by the waist and plops him on his elated legs so that he’s resting his back on them.

“Listen, Dylan, your mom and I aren’t going to die. I know it’s scary, okay? Believe me, I was once your age thinking the same thing about my dad. It was scary for me not knowing if he was ever going to come home, but it doesn’t have to be like that for you. Your uncle and I will always make it home to you and your mom. You have Uncle Jack and Cas here to protect you. They’re angels, so if I’m ever hurt, they can fix me right up. You won’t ever have to be alone.”

“Your daddy’s right, baby. Monsters are scary, okay? Monsters can hurt a lot of people, but your daddy and your uncle go out and kill the bad people so that the good people can be happy. Just like in your stories,” you add with a smile.

“Okay,” he nods, believing every word you and Sam say.

“You want to show your mom what we’ve been working on?” Sam asks with a smile, and that seems to brighten up your son.

“Yeah!”

He and Sam have been working on a secret handshake that only the two of them know. It puts a smile on your face to know that your son has this to fall back on. When he’s scared or alone, he can think back to times like these to feel better. When they are done, Dylan squeals in happiness when Sam bear-hugs him.

“That’s pretty cool,” you beam.

“Are you feeling much better?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Dylan smiles widely.

“Do you want to sleep in here with us?” you ask.

Dylan nods, and Sam puts him back where he was before. Dylan snuggles underneath the blanket and passes the fuck out. When you know he is fast asleep, you look at Sam with a loving smile.

“We did a good job with this one,” you say.

“We should have another one,” Sam whispers.

“I’d love nothing more.”

You lean closer to him and rub your nose against him to give him some Eskimo kisses before kissing him on the lips. It’s slow and sensual, but nothing short of loving. You pull away and cuddle into him with Dylan in between you two.

Your perfect little family all wrapped up in a perfect little bow.

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#spnfluffbingo #spntfwbingo #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fiction #sam winchester fan fiction #sam winchester fanfic #sam winchester fan fic #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #supernatural fluff #spn #spn fic #spn fanfiction #spn fluff

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namjoonchronicles · 3 years

Text

closure |nj

↳ pairing namjoon, reader

↳ genre fluff, domestic, established relationship, melodrama

↳ words 3,775k

↳ summary some stories aren't meant to be understood, they're just written to be heard.

↳ warning depression; major death of side character, suicide

↳ song 'feel something' by clairo, 'to love someone else' by avery lynch, 'chernobyl' by alec bailey

Truly, the nights are filled with unspoken stories. When he took your hand in his and looked deep into your eye with those soft concerned gaze, you were home. He cupped your chin, curled a strand of your hair behind your ear and studied your entire face.

“What’s that look?” his voice swam in your semi-consciousness, “I know that look. That look pains me, takes me to the edge, makes me curl my toes, that look…”

Your eyes flutter wondrously at his lashes, his Cupid’s bow and supple lips, along with a stricken smile you asked him quizzically, “I am alright, you have nothing to worry about…”

Namjoon thumbed your cheek and it traced down to your smile line, the curve at the edge of your lips, and you know he felt the trembles as you forced the smile. Namjoon’s eyes trail up to meet yours again, he starts chewing the insides of his cheek, hollowing them.

“You are faking the smile,” and he softens when he sees your eyes gleaming with tears. Upon this, he collected your head into his arms and cushioned by his chest. He passes a long lingering kiss atop of your head, cradling your head while your arms are low on his hip, trying to barely hold on. At the time, he felt like a pillar, holding you together in all your ruins. His stature, the scent of his aftershave, the makings of his shirts and the smell of his skin— it all rushed over your senses like a tsunami. The kind of comfort he was, such a calming presence for a cyclone-bearing human you were.

Rush of emotions. It builds up.

And up.

And overflows.

You are an enigma Namjoon is scrambling to find out. A tough shell of a crab, with walls built high and thick. Like a lost traveler with a single map that’s ever changing in its path, ever evolving— you were that map. The verandah's wooden panel wet from the late afternoon rain, the hammock under the small roof at the edge, lay static in its place until Namjoon put his enormous weight on it. One leg dangling out, arm spread and waiting for you to grab them. He bracketed your waist and lifted you from the floor and into his lap like a child. He has a bottle of soda by the side, its lid snapped open. Laying your back on his hard, defined pectoral chest, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulder somewhat lifted a bit. Namjoon knows, and he knows this without you saying a word— he knows that you had been fighting many battles alone, and with yourself. The battles had wrung you out, strewn you in and silenced you. Constantly, insistently the world is demanding a piece of you to give out. At this place and time, it seemed incredibly impossible to be at complete peace. You could almost give in— tempted to lay in defeat. You gave it your all, and they gave you nothing.

“It’ll hurt for awhile, but it will get better,” you suddenly broke the silence. Namjoon hummed back, either confused or surprised at the sudden remark. You turned sideways and up, to look at the view of his jaw. He tips his head back, drinking down the soda in his left hand. The thin fabrics of his sleeveless tanks, left almost nothing to the imagination. He tutted his tongue in response to what you said.

“That’s a nice saying…” his voice dropped an octave lower when he is relaxing like this with you. You were the few humans in the world he would appreciate silence with. You switched to face him, him between your legs as you sat up with a big gaping smile on your face, disbelieved.

“You’re the one who told me that…” emphasizing on him. You filled the gaps between his legs with your own, sandwiched as you sat opposed to him. Your toes next to his head and him grinning like he kept a secret from the world. After much struggle to get comfortable, you said,

“You told me that when my grandmother passed away that night in January… I remember it clearly, just like it was yesterday…

I was in the elevator with her lifeless body on the casket and not a drop of tears left my eye…

I started wondering if there was something wrong with me…”

Namjoon wrapped his palm over your ankles— the ankles you hated so much because you think they are unappealing, he thumbs the protruding bone affectionately, brought it to his stomach and started massaging it with his free hand. All the while you were reminiscing.

“And you told me that I was so hurt, I couldn’t cry. How I am used to fabricating my pain for the sake of others… that when I was expected to cry, I couldn’t. And wouldn’t. How I took being strong quite literally…” Your voice slowed down, your eyes casted to the view of his fingers, nimbling over your skin.

“And today, the same thing happened… but today, I chose not to be too strong,” you held your breath for a moment, and exhaled shakily. The emotions aren’t all gone; the remnants are still here, clinging on you like a stubborn stain on the wall left by the old frames that were no longer there. Coiling around you like a shadow at every hint of bright light. The guilt was paralyzing you to the point of tears.

“A friend of mine was taken today…” you painted a smile on your face but Namjoon didn’t etch one, one bit. His fingers stopped massaging briefly, before it continued.

“You’ve met him once, if you remembered, his name is Hoseok,” you wiped a single drop of tear, “He was a firm owner, a lawyer. We met at the convention…”

“... back in 2015.” Namjoon finished your sentences.

At the 2015 International Pharmaceutical Convention, 7 years ago...

Flourishing, the crowd of intelligent people came in with a big proud smile, wearing lanyards of their company. Blazers, heels, jewelries, research posters, new pharmaceutical breakthroughs, projects and investors circles. The big pharma are divided in sections.

Walking toward the condiments vendor for a quick refreshment, you were approached by a man. Tall, his face turned away from your view as he was speaking to another colleague. He hijacked your turn to access the vendors, unknowingly, and you weren’t exactly the kind to speak up when a stranger does this to you, so you backed away a little and forced out a smile, gazing down at your toes.

“Hey, I think I know your name…” this mysterious figure suddenly says, “Still letting others go first before you, huh?” In such a friendly tone, your mind began racing to decipher his voice and face when you shot your gaze up to meet his. The same disarming smile, perfectly lined teeth and just the right amount of cologne, wafted around your nose— was a face familiar from the years back.

“Hoseok? Jung Hoseok?” he mentions his name after a long pause from you.

You were tongue-tied, mind-riddled from such a sudden meeting. You were unprepared and it must have shown all over your face the way he hisses away, wearing a lopsided smile and gruffly saying, “Don’t be like that… Do you really not know me? Have I mistook you for someone else?” He suddenly shifted his weight to another foot, crossed his arm and placed his forefinger under his chin, gazing at the corner of the massive hall, thinking.

“Ankles, and that old wristwatch, it’s definitely you…” his pondering face switches to a cheerful smile in a matter of seconds and you could not have been even more right that this was your old friend whom you hadn’t contacted in years. All the way back in college.

“Oh my, it’s you…!” You gasped, trying to recover from the embarrassing delay, “Wow, you look amazing… How are you! How have you been?”

Hoseok exchanged your late recalling with a burst of laughter of his own.

“I own a firm now,” you heard him say. It was the first thing he said, and it showed just how much pride he took in it. Which was fair. Back then he was struggling to find his footing, trying to find a job and getting rejected at interviews— it was you whom he shared those stories with. Over late night coffee, late night conversations and texts; he talks about his days, sharing with you his strange humors. You were glad that he finally found what he liked to do; at least that's what you assumed he liked because you clearly remembered that he had different interests.

“So what about the photography business? Your freelance job?” you hesitantly asked.

You could see how his smile and whole stature faltered briefly at the mention of it. You knew that his family was against it— was against anything that isn’t bringing back money— passion or not, it wasn’t something his family wanted him to do. Besides, his father’s firm needs managing, and what other way to continue the business if not having a son that is doing law as well.

“Folded,” his cheeks puffed and deflated, “Sold everything including the antique camera, the analogues, the films… everything.”

Your heart thudded strangely. You knew just how much he loved photography. It was the reason why you both got close back then. Your passion to everything artistic and his passion to capture everything beautiful. You remember so well, how his face lights up at the mention of photography, how he was so willing to teach you how to use the cameras you’ve never seen, and how he shares all his work with you, including the new one he was currently working on. You had access to all of his digital work and manuscript. And it was unfortunate that all these had to go away, leaving nothing to the memory. Nothing to hold close. It probably killed him as well. But what could he have done?

“How about you?” the conversation now shifts to your side. You twisted the ring around your ring finger and showed it to him.

“Awesome!” He gleams. So delighted.

“He is here somewhere, I don’t know where he went… but he should find me in a few minutes,” you looked around.

“You were getting something from the vendor?” Hoseok asked, but you shook your head. You don’t feel like drinking now.

Hoseok gradually finds out how your life is, where you’ve worked and places you’ve been.

“And you met Namjoon at work?”

“Pretty much, he is in the investors group. We met once, talking about a big pharma project and he was one of the champions supporting the good cause, so I owed him a lot,” you shrugged as to say, the rest is history.

“So he made you marry him to pay up all your emotional debts?” Hoseok jokes.

“Not exactly but… you know how I am. I can be very difficult to convince, especially when I am so comfortable with the lifestyles I already have. I dread to be a housewife so when he understood that, everything else falls into place,” you added and caught a tall figure walking along the hallway, dashing in his slick back hair, lanyards dangling.

Blazers flailing, white dress shirt and slacks make up the shapes of his defined abs and thighs. He walks with his head hanging slightly downwards as if he was trying not to catch anyone’s attention but was failing. Everyone turned their head towards him the moment he stepped inside the hall.

He stopped midway and tugged his left sleeve back. His Patek Phillipe Nautilus shimmering handsomely under the spotlight as he studied the time. He lifts his eyes up to scan the room through his brows and pursed lips, wondering where his wife was at the promised time.

You raised your arm slightly and the smoldering figure of a man twitches a big smile and a small bite on his lower lip, making his way to you. Completely aware about the man that was nearby you as he plants a chaste, enveloping kiss on your lips.

“This is Namjoon, Kim Namjoon…” You placed your hand on the small of his back and he reached out to Hoseok first for a handshake, again, his wristwatch peeking out when he covers the handshake with the left hand.

“Sweetheart, this is Hoseok, Jung Hoseok. He is a lawyer…” you introduced them both and Hoseok handed him his name card. Namjoon waits for you to further elaborate how you seemed so friendly with this man. And you can’t say that Hoseok was in-fact your old best friend whom you cut connections with because you’ve had feelings for him when he was in love with someone else. So you say, “An old friend.”

You sighed in relief when Namjoon didn’t catch the extended pause, but you can’t help thinking that he might question more later in the ride home. But for now, Namjoon’s bright smile seems to captivate the whole room’s attention. Small talks, and brief discussion about the direction of the convention and what he thinks about it, comes naturally. But he makes sure you don’t feel left out by the conversation by constantly adding your pharma company name in the picture.

“Had it not been my darling, the company would have gone downhill with their outdated scheduling methods and utter refusal to accept reformations according to modernization,” Namjoon added, and while he says so, so professionally and with full alluring prospects of a seasoned business man, his hand was trailing down the curve of your ass and gently squeezing them— out of Hoseok’s sight. Had you been a terrible pretender, you would have moaned out of context. You can thank your overflowing control for that. You were also cursing his name in the back of your mind and he will have an earful of it when you get home later.

“She single-handedly save the multi-billionaire company from their biggest downfall from the company’s incompetent leader,” Hoseok added, “Also they had a lot of legal issues at the time. I was in-charge of the corporate files before they shifted to joint-venture with Daehan Pharmaceuticals… it was a mess already. Corruption, bribes and unreliable auditing data.”

“Wait…” you intruded, “You were in the pharma that long? So we could have met?”

Hoseok gave you a lopsided smile and nodded. He further explained how he kept sending his colleagues to do site visits because he wants to avoid seeing you. This is where Namjoon begins to realise that you guys might be more than just friends because he asked,

“Why is that?”

Hoseok began his answer with a shrug of his shoulder and pursing his lips. After a brief thought, he admits, “Because at the time, we weren’t talking anymore. She would know why,” He opens his mouth to say more, but glancing down at your wedding ring, he didn’t.

If Hoseok remembered clearly, he was talking to you about a girl he had been pursuing. It was the first time he ever revealed something like that, all along you knew each other. You were studying for your final year and had been bludgeoned with assignments. There wasn’t a right time to tell you until one day on April 17th, he said he was finally going to ask this girl if she would be his girlfriend. A little info on her was that she was in a toxic relationship she was trying to get out from. She didn’t ask Hoseok to wait, but Hoseok was so in love with her, he didn’t mind how long it would take. She requested for time and space. Another man claimed her as his girlfriend when she didn’t say yes or no. Another two were also after her. Her ex boyfriend returned after months of leaving her. Just at the same time Hoseok was allowing her in his life.

When he shared you that information, you felt so betrayed somehow. He was always preaching about how being single is the best way to live and he turned around and did things like this. Pursuing a relationship. You were stubborn, you had egos you wanted to defend. Everything regarding relationships, you refuse to acknowledge. And any slight differences in your opinions were enough to break a relationship, even a strong friendship like you and Hoseok shared at the time. You once confessed to Hoseok that you liked him and he couldn’t return the same feelings. So you accused him of loving someone else and he denied that. When this happened, you felt like you were lied to. Because Hoseok, at the time that you two knew each other, was already having eyes on someone else, treating you as a placeholder, sharing emotions until the girl was eventually available for him.

Then he dropped you.

Things would have been different if he just told the truth. That he was indeed in love with someone when you confessed to him. Things would be much easier and it wouldn’t have gone deeper than it was. You would have walked away, unhurt and without knowing each other at a depth that you’d have to crawl out from. But Hoseok didn’t want to lose you. For some reason, he kept the friendship despite being unable to return your feelings, fabricating attention and giving hopes that he might one day change his feelings. Had you walked out earlier, you wouldn’t have resorted to deleting all contacts with him. His Instagram account, all his numbers, his pictures, galleries. The assignments he helped you with, the emotional support, the ice cream dates and late night phone calls. You would take it all away.

You deleted him from your life, only for him to tiptoe around the same company as yours— afraid of being known but unsure of what he did wrong. You decided that you would punish him that way. By leaving him with no answers of why you left.

“Will you be joining the closing ceremony dinner at Hyatt?” Namjoon politely asked. Noticing that the conversation had run down.

“Perhaps I will. I have to keep the firm going for the wife and kids to eat,” Hoseok perked up, and it was the first time he ever revealed about his marital status all through the conversation.

“Oh, you married her?” the delight in your voice was sincere, you are so happy for him. But his answers weren’t what you expected.

“No I didn’t. She left me for someone else, she was never honest with me, and I was only hearing the things I wanted to hear,” Hoseok rubs his knuckle and politely excused himself when he saw Namjoon was approached by an entourage of bodyguards that guide you and your husband to the next section of the convention. No numbers were exchanged to insinuate a rekindled relationship. It’s like you both understood that you could never return to what you were before. You both are leading different lives now, with different people and different phases. But you hoped he knew just how much he meant to you back then.

Hoseok walked away with a lightened shoulders. Now that he has seen you face-to-face and sure of what life you’re living, he felt a little at ease and a little envious. In the car you once rode with him, this broken-down Honda Civic, divorce papers were scattered on the front seat. The top-most letter being the child custody granted to his wife. His firm is also on the verge of bankruptcy and he was laid off from his contract with the pharma, this convention being the last one he will ever attend. After you left his life, he was burdened with one bad luck after the other. And he was at his last strand of hope when he came to the building. He saw you gracefully presenting on the stage about the medication you have been working on, like how he always wished to see. You were so cool, so engaging, so intelligent in your presence. Namjoon is the ultimate husband you wished for, and of course, you would concede for a man that was at your level. Knowing you as long as he did, you will not settle for less and that’s final. No discussion.

Life is good for you.

Inserting his car keys inside the keyhole, telling himself that, “That’s the price of breaking a pure heart.”

Empty bottle of soda laying on the wooden panel. Your tear-stained face, sleeping on your side under the starry night sky, while Namjoon watched you intently. He covers you with a blanket and lets you sleep. He walked inside the house, and vanished to his home office. In it, he fetches his phone and turns on his table lamp, making a call that was immediately taken.

“I want you to find the burial information on a lawyer Jung Hoseok and send some condolences bouquet,” he instructed with a low voice. The short voice call felt heavy but necessary. Hoseok’s passing was detrimental to his wife’s mental and emotional health— it was important for him and her to get the closure they both needed.

Judging from her frail figure, she won’t be able to attend the funeral. Cremation was planned as requested by Hoseok. His children will not be attending, neither is his wife. The last thing Hoseok wanted was his funeral attended by the people that was the reason for his passing. For years, he had been battling depression and anxiety. It has been a long, lonely fight.

Namjoon watches the silhouette of you, standing against the setting sun, in your all-black attire and hair tied in a bun, hugging yourself. Wind blowing the strands of your hair back at every strike. Your diamond ring twinkling at the light it reflects. The sound of traffic in the distance, honks and vehicles throttling far away.

“The funeral ended gracefully…” Namjoon broke the silence.

You dropped your head and tutted your tongue, smiling weakly.

“It’s not your fault, darling…” your husband’s footsteps padded through the wooden floors to where you were.

“Then why does it hurt so bad? Why does it still hurt so Goddamn much?!” you shrieked.

Namjoon collected you in his arms, so you would rest your head on his sturdy chest, and he whispered, barely audibly heard by you,

“Because when you love, you love with everything you have. I know that much.”

It was then he realized that one is only allowed the closure they deserved;

And, no closure is also a closure.

↳ author’s note it's been awhile, i feel like i've been waiting for my personal life to overflow before i could write something. this is just an excuse to use 'that' picture of namjoon for the banner of a story. how are you? i've recently cut contacts with someone i hold dearly in my life. upon the break, it gave me back the emotions i used to have when i am writing. all this while, i have wasted my feeling, my elaborated word choices on someone who hardly appreciate it. with him gone, i started to think clearer and see things for what they are. i am no longer shrouded by dark grey clouds of uncertainty as i was with him. it was a difficult shift, but i feel better now that he is gone from my life. i dropped a tear or two not because of the love i used to feel for him, but because i felt incapable of being loved the way i yearned. this is the second day after i broke all connection with the said man/boy/creature. i feel liberated after the whole story was written. i needed him killed in my mind. so i wrote it just that. i've returned to where i was before, and i feel absolutely fine.

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missfangirll · 2 years

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Crossroads

Fandom: Thousand Autumns Rating: General Relationship: Yan Wushi / Shen Qiao Tags: Modern AU, Getting Back Together, Relationship Negotiation Words: 3440 Summary: Yan Wushi and Shen Qiao have to work on their relationhip if they want to move forward together. A sequel to "and when the rain stops, you're there" by terracottawarrior, probably won't make much sense without reading that one first. (You should read it anyway, it's fantastic. 😍)

Read on AO3

This is my first time writing for Thousand Autumns, the first modern AU and the first real sequel to someone else's work, so I guess I can cross out a few things on my list now 😁 The fic just wouldn't leave me alone, so I finally caved and continued the story... It doesn't do the original much justice, but have it anyway 😁

- - - - -

When his phone starts buzzing on his desk, Shen Qiao startles out of his daydreaming, staring at the unknown number on the screen.

It has to be him, he thinks, only his friends have that number, and no one else would call on a Wednesday morning at quarter past eleven. He has been thinking about Yan Wushi the whole day, not getting any work done in his hazed state, catching himself staring at a wall more than once.

Last night has been a blur, a dream, something not even his wildest fantasies could have conjured.

Yan Wushi has come back to him, handsome and wild and so amazing, and he still wants... Here Shen Qiao’s thoughts falter a bit. What does Yan Wushi want, though, what does he expect? He has said something about becoming deserving of Shen Qiao, but... How exactly is their second chance supposed to look like?

They can’t go back to the life they built together, or that Shen Qiao thought they built together, not with everything that happened since... since that day. They have both changed, and it remains to be seen if they still fit together, if they can build something new from the ashes.

He takes a deep breath and presses the button on his phone.

“...Hello?”

“Ah Qiao…” The voice is a bit hoarse from sleep and sounds distorted through the speakers, but there is no doubt about who is at the other end. Nobody else calls him that, and the nickname sends a shiver down Shen Qiao’s spine.

“...Yan Wushi? You’re finally awake,” he says with a huffed laugh, the giddiness in his chest almost too much to bear.

“Mm,” comes the mumbled reply, then a stifled yawn. “Good morning, Ah Qiao.”

He has to inhale deeply at the sound, trying to calm his racing heart. It is so unbelievably endearing to hear Yan Wushi like that again, to share that domestic moment with him, that Shen Qiao has to close his eyes so he doesn’t start crying.

Yan Wushi hums contentedly, then says, “Ah Qiao, let’s have dinner together. When do you get off work?”

He doesn’t ask if Shen Qiao wants to have dinner, doesn’t seem to consider that he might have other plans – but, if Shen Qiao is honest with himself, he doesn’t have to. There is nothing in the world that would keep Shen Qiao from spending time with Yan Wushi, and the older man seems to be very aware of that fact.

It should feel condescending, even scary, really, to be seen so clearly with nowhere to hide, but it makes Shen Qiao happy beyond reason. He has missed this, to be known so completely by someone and know them in return.

His heart beating wildly, he tries to pull his thoughts back together. “How long are you staying?”

“As long as you want me to.”

“Yan Wushi, be serious. Where do you live now?”

A pause, then, “I am serious, Ah Qiao. I always am, with you.” Shen Qiao has to swallow hard at that. He doesn’t know how to react, but Yan Wushi has already continued. “You already know,” he says with the hint of a smile in his voice, “last night you stayed at my humble domicile.”

Shen Qiao has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “You can’t live in a hotel room.”

The other chuckles. “Well, I spent the last three years working abroad. Just came back a few days ago and haven’t had the chance to find an apartment yet, so yes, everything I own right now is in this hotel room.”

Shen Qiao has to firmly pull his thoughts away from the scenarios that revelation conjures, and so he blurts, “Alright, dinner. I get off work at 6, I’ll text you the address. See you then!”

The other chuckles again. “Sounds fantastic.” A pause. “Ah Qiao?”

“Mh?”

“I love you.”

His face flaming, Shen Qiao hastily ends the call, tossing his phone on the desk.

What the hell is Yan Wushi thinking?

Shen Qiao can't deny he's been desperate to hear that sentence from him again, even when they were still together the other was more prone to showing affection than sounding it out loud, but... Hearing this is doing dangerous things to Shen Qiao’s heart, and he wonders why Yan Wushi said it like this, without prompting or prelude, and why he said it now.

- - - - -

Yan Wushi puts his phone aside, smiling broadly. He did anticipate this reaction and thus isn’t particularly perturbed by it. Shen Qiao is easily flustered, has always been, and he probably didn’t hear these words in a while. Or at least, that’s what Yan Wushi hopes, selfish as that might be. He has loved Shen Qiao from the start, even though he was too proud to admit it and too stubborn to say it, but he did, and the revelation, when it hit him later, left him paralysed for a week in the face of what he had lost.

Or thrown away, rather, which he is acutely aware of. It’s his fault, everything Shen Qiao went through in the last decade is his doing, and there is nothing he wouldn’t do to make it right again. Starting with telling him how loved he is every minute of the day.

Still smiling, he repeats the words silently, feeling their weight on his tongue, and makes to get up from his bed to take a quick shower.

- - - - -

Exactly two minutes past six, Shen Qiao steps out of the elevator at the ground floor of his office building. He is on his way to the main entry to hail a taxi, when he startles at the sound of his name.

“Ah Qiao!”

Whirling around, his heart skips a beat as he sees Yan Wushi standing there, leaning on the wall next to the elevators, tall and handsome, a cocky grin on his face. He is wearing tight black jeans and a dark grey silk shirt, his black hair styled elegantly and shining.

Shen Qiao loves him so much he can’t breathe.

He returns the smile, waiting as the other approaches him. Yan Wushi doesn’t offer his arm, nor does he expect a hug, well aware of Shen Qiao’s aversion to public display of affection. So he just falls in step next to him, matching his pace, still smiling.

“I thought you might need a ride, since you tried to hail a cab yesterday to get home.”

Shen Qiao hums in agreement. He doesn’t ask how Yan Wushi knows where he works now, or how he guessed which exit Shen Qiao would take in order to wait there. He’s long stopped wondering how exactly the other obtains information and thus just smiles back at him.

“I don’t have a car,” he confirms, “haven’t needed one in a while. Where did you park?”

As they talk, Yan Wushi steers them towards the visitors’ parking lot and to his car – a giant white BMW, a rental, Shen Qiao notices –, where he holds the door open for his passenger.

The car ride passes in silence, although it has nothing of the awkward air it did last night. It is relaxing, Shen Qiao thinks, to just watch endless rows of buildings flurry past his window. It takes his mind off other things, questions and doubts and insecurities he isn’t quite able to quell, so for now he is glad to focus on the whirl of glass and metal before his eyes.

Soon they reach the restaurant Shen Qiao had chosen earlier, a small Korean place with excellent service and delicious food. As he parks the car, Yan Wushi glances over to the passenger seat, searching for Shen Qiao’s eyes. He hesitates for a moment, then smiles softly. Leaning over, he cups Shen Qiao’s cheek, meeting him in a deep kiss.

When they part, Yan Wushi pulls back a fraction, still smiling, but Shen Qiao sees something flicker in that smile, some unspoken fear, some uncertainty the other won’t voice. It is the same fear he feels when he looks at Yan Wushi, and it makes his heart ache that they have lost so much, have lost that effortless intimacy with each other. He hopes, more than anything, that it is not lost forever.

Inside, they are led to a table in a window corner, the waiter lighting a candle before he leaves them to look at the menu. Shen Qiao is quick to choose his favourite, and so he takes the opportunity to secretly watch the man opposite him, still immersed in the variety of dishes the place offers. His hair is longer than Shen Qiao remembers, he has it tucked behind his ears. There still is that one silver streak of which Shen Qiao was never quite sure if it was real, and in his left ear he wears a small ring. He looks up just as Shen Qiao’s gaze wanders over his face, expressive storm-grey eyes meeting his.

Yan Wushi winks at him, smiling. “Have you decided yet, Ah Qiao?”

Shen Qiao hums, then adds, “I come here often. It’s better than eating alone in my apartment, and you know how bad my cooking is.”

Yan Wushi stills, and Shen Qiao knows he understood the reminder that there still is a lot left unsaid. When they were together, Yan Wushi always cooked for them, elaborate and extravagant dishes as was his style, but always mindful of Shen Qiao’s favourites and preferences. Shen Qiao had made some attempts at actually learning to cook later, but given up every time as the memories of them doing it together overwhelmed him.

Yan Wushi is looking at him with a complicated expression, taking a deep breath. “I can’t take it back, Ah Qiao,” he says solemnly, “I can only apologise, as much as you need me to, and try to make up for it.”

He looks as if he wants to add something, but the waiter chooses this moment to materialise at their table, startling Shen Qiao. After taking their orders, he glides away just as noiselessly.

The sombre moment is gone, and Shen Qiao busies himself fiddling with the menu, when Yan Wushi asks, “You said you come here often? But this place isn’t really close to your office, is it? Do you live around here?”

Shen Qiao smiles at the unsubtle approach to change the topic. “I don’t, not really, but my old job was just around the corner. I came here during lunch breaks, and even after changing jobs, the habit stayed.” He shrugs slightly. “I like the food here, and as I said, better than eating my own cooking.”

Yan Wushi snickers. “Then it’s good that I’m back, so I can cook for you every day, huh?”

They both freeze as the meaning of that casual statement sinks in, and Shen Qiao can’t help but search the other’s eyes, for what he doesn’t quite know, maybe a hint that all of this is a joke, I was just kidding, Ah Qiao.

He smiles weakly, fighting the tears welling up. “It’s good that you’re back,” he says hoarsely. “I missed you.”

“Ah Qiao, I’m so–”

He is again interrupted by the waiter, bringing their drinks this time, a non-alcoholic cocktail for Yan Wushi and iced tea for Shen Qiao, and when he leaves again, the mood is awkward once more.

Taking a breath, Shen Qiao begins, “Yan Wushi,” at the same time as the other says, “Ah Qiao,” and they both stop. With a nod, Yan Wushi indicates for him to go first.

“Yan Wushi,” he says carefully, “you don’t have to apologise all the time.” He swallows. “I mean, I won’t stop you if you want to, but you don’t have to for my sake, because –”

“Ah Qiao.”

At the gentle interruption, Shen Qiao stops his rambling and clamps his mouth shut.

“Ah Qiao,” the other says again, “I will apologise until you believe I mean it.” Shen Qiao inhales to protest, but stills as a hand closes over his, intertwining their fingers. Yan Wushi looks intently at him as he continues, something soft in his storm-coloured eyes. “I am truly sorry, for vanishing on you, for causing you so much grief. If I could, I would go back in time and kick myself for being such an idiot, but I can’t. So I will tell you I am sorry until you believe it.”

Shen Qiao inhales a shuddering breath. “I do believe you, that’s not it,” he says, “it’s just...” He worries his bottom lip, unsure how to voice his thoughts, when the grip on his hand tightens, a wordless encouragement. “It’s just, all that, the grief, the hurt, the apologies... that’s... that’s all about the past. I want.. I want this to be about the future, so...” He trails off, not able to finish the sentence.

Yan Wushi gently pulls at his hand until it is in front of his face, then presses a kiss to his knuckles. Leaning in, he presses his forehead against the back of Shen Qiao’s fingers. Slowly, enunciating every word with care, he says, “I want that too, Ah Qiao. So much.” A shuddering inhale, then a kiss to his fingers. “And I’ll do anything. Anything, Ah Qiao.” Another kiss, then a third, before Shen Qiao removes his hand, folding his fingers in front of him.

“Alright,” he says, “alright, then, um.. Tell me about where you went abroad.”

Yan Wushi beams at him and begins to talk, his tale only briefly interrupted when their food arrives. It’s as delicious as it always is, and Shen Qiao watches Yan Wushi silently as he listens, taking in the familiar grand gestures accompanying the tale, the way his eyes sparkle with excitement, how he keeps brushing a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear, exactly like he used to, how he still leans forward in his seat when he talks; stories of adventures and journeys, eager to share his experience with Shen Qiao. There is something new in it, though, a quiet hope, a silent question in the pauses every so often, a wordless offer: Do you like it, Ah Qiao, will you come with me next time? It is endearing to see, and Shen Qiao feels a rush of giddy excitement when he thinks about the paths that lie before them.

Shen Qiao tries his best to hold up a conversation, but after he answers yet another question with a shrug, it occurs to him that he doesn’t have much to talk about himself. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about his life in the past decade, it’s just that... It had kind of stopped, if he’s honest with himself, the day the other left, as if someone had pressed ‘pause’ on the remote, and only released it two days ago when he heard his name called over the sound of pouring rain.

Yan Wushi notices his silence, of course he does, and looks at him for a moment, a soft expression in his eyes, before he flashes him a grin and almost jumps up from his chair to approach the bar. Shen Qiao is too slow to react, has just barely processed what the other is doing when he is already back, having paid for both of them, offering a hand with a cheeky grin.

“Come,” he says, not bothering to explain what he is planning, and Shen Qiao finds himself helpless against the other’s pull. Nodding wordlessly, he takes the offered hand and gets to his feet.

They leave the restaurant and Yan Wushi steers them past the parking lot, leaving the main road to follow a narrow winded path. Shen Qiao is tempted to ask how on earth the other knows that this way leads to the river, but then he remembers who he is following and shrugs inwardly. It would be more surprising if Yan Wushi hadn’t researched the place in advance, really.

He chuckles slightly at the thought and the other turns to face him, raising an eyebrow with a questioning hum. Shen Qiao lifts one shoulder in a light shrug.

“I just thought that you haven’t changed at all.”

He means it lightly, but feels the other go very still at the words, halting his steps. He stops as well to look at Yan Wushi, only to see a haunted expression cross over his face. They have stopped their walk to look at each other, their hands still intertwined. The moon is behind Shen Qiao, illuminating the other’s features in a silvery glow, caressing his sharp cheekbones and highlighting the streak of white in his hair. He looks breathtaking like this, but there is a vulnerability in his gaze, a wounded expression Shen Qiao has never seen before. Before he can say anything, Yan Wushi lets go of his hand and turns away, facing the moonlit river instead.

A humourless chuckle escapes him, more a sob than a laugh, and he brushes a hand over his eyes. “Ah, Ah Qiao,” he says quietly, voice sounding tight, “but you have. You changed, so much, and I...” He trails off and Shen Qiao realises how that casual remark must have sounded. He hastens to explain, to reassure the other.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I –”

“But that’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it,” Yan Wushi asks, his voice cracking, “that I...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just staring over the water, watching shimmering silver flitting over the rippling surface.

Shen Qiao takes a deep breath to calm his racing heart, trying to bring his frantic thoughts in order. This moment feels delicate, like a turning point, a crossroad. It is a bit, he thinks, like they have met at an intersection of paths, both walking from different directions, and now have to decide if they will continue on their respective ways, or change course and travel together. Changing course, he realises, requires both of them to choose the new path, and with a start he realises another thing.

“Yan Wushi,” he begins, tentatively, cautiously, still trying to bring his thoughts in order, “we can’t continue like we did when... Before we....” Trailing off, he gestures helplessly, realising too late the other can’t see him with his back turned. With a hand on his shoulder he makes to gently turn Yan Wushi around, when he almost freezes, seeing the wetness in the other’s eyes.

Yan Wushi’s breath hitches in what probably was supposed to be a huff, then he averts his eyes. “If you don’t want to continue this, Shen Qiao, then say it and be done with it. No need to talk around it.” He almost spits out the words, and Shen Qiao can’t help but notice that he didn’t use his nickname.

Shaking his head, he says softly, “You misunderstood, I said we can’t continue what we had ten years ago.” He inhales deeply. “Yan Wushi, you broke my heart that day, and although I forgive you, I can’t forget that.” Yan Wushi has his eyes closed, flinching with each word like under a punch. Shen Qiao reaches for his hand, then continues. “I can’t, and won’t, continue to live in the past, like I did in the last decade, because all that brought me is heartache and grief. I want to be with you, and I want a future with you. I don’t... I don’t want what we had, I want what we will have.”

Yan Wushi is silent for a while, doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, his eyes closed, one hand loosely in Shen Qiao’s. Then, eventually, he inhales, a shuddery breath that catches slightly, opening his eyes. His gaze is heavy as it searches for Shen Qiao’s, full of love and grief and guilt.

Shen Qiao tightens his fingers. “What I said about you having not changed,” he tries to clarify, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just...” A deep breath. “I guess I was glad to see that so much of what I love about you is still there.” He gives the other a wry smile and it’s worth to see Yan Wushi’s face light up. He takes a step closer, then another, wrapping his arms around Shen Qiao, enveloping him in a tight embrace. Shen Qiao relaxes into the hug, leaning his cheek against a shoulder, closing his eyes.

They will figure it out, he thinks, one step at a time. The road lies there before them, wide and open and full of sunshine, and he is excited to see what will await them on their journey.

#thousand autumns #qq #qianqiu #千秋 #shen qiao #yan wushi #yanshen #modern au #my writing

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freifraufischer · 3 years

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An interesting sports/politics observation:

I’ve been following the dumpster fire at USAG for quite some time now and became deeply interested in following the sport of gymnastics in more than a 4 year fan way around the time that the Larry Nassar scandal broke.

The post mortem on the US women’s gymnastics team results in Tokyo was honestly starting around Olympic trials in June. The US women have never traveled much internationally for decades so they compete less than other international gymnasts. The argument has been that the travel takes away from valuable training time. What was little became none because of COVID and the bankruptcy filing of USAG to deal with the lawsuits arising from the abuse scandal.

It was known that the US women were also being domestically over scored by judges at home. Domestic overscoring is not unique to the US but most countries that have it also complete internationally so their athletes have a real sense of how international judges will evaluate their routines. There have been alarm bells for at least three years that the US women were not going to get credit for elements and face deductions in international competition that they weren’t facing at home. Just this year one of them was literally used in a pictorial example of a international judging document for something that should be deducted--the fact that current athletes are used this way is a whole other horrible kettle of fish. I should add that the discovery that routines that were being scored highly in the US would fail at the olympics isn’t even new. Famously the reigning world champion missed out on the all around final at the 2012 games because she wasn’t given credit for connections and series that were overlooked at home.

Now the job of bringing domestic meet scoring into line is on the national team staff and the job of advising and strategizing is that of the “High Performance Director” for the women’s program. This is the job that was held (under the title National Team Coordinator) by Martha Karolyi with an iron fist before 2016. She was replaced (after fits and starts) by a man named Tom Forrester. Forrester’s defining qualities for the job have been that he is nice. Literally the bar was that low. He has demonstrated a rather alarming lack of knowledge about what international judges deduct for (after Junior World Championships he expressed surprise that they deducted for dance elements--something that happened again in Tokyo to US gymnasts), did not understand the Olympic selection criteria for individuals, and appeared to have a very very faulty understanding of the rights of athletes with an ongoing abuse complaint (more on that later).

He was relatively removed from the culture of high level elite coaching for the last few decades and the athletes considered him nice. The last time he had been deeply involved in senior US gymnastics politics was the mid 1990s when several of his gymnasts were passed over for the 1996 Olympic Team because injured athletes were petitioned on to the team over those that competed at trials. Mind you this was a time when the Olympic team had 7 members and the people petitioned on were the 1992 Olympic Silver Medalist Shannon Miller and 1995 National Champion Dominique Moceanu. It would have been literally insane not to have them on the Olympic team. But it has become apparent that Tom Forrester felt a great injustice was done to his athletes and the the worst part of US gymnastics team management was that Martha Karolyi picked favorites.

This year he denied the petition of a former world champion to Olympic trials (she likely wouldn’t have made the team but her exclusion is... questionable) and after the fact justified it by saying she had failed to meet a criteria for the petition that he never told her existed. At trials the team was chosen (by a committee that he had essentially full control over) took the top all around finishers in order of how they did at trials (as he would have liked them to have done in 1996). This was in willful defiance that the format of the olympics now demands not all arounders but strategic use of team building for the best score possible. The US did not bring the highest potential scoring team to the olympics because of one man’s wounded pride from 25 years ago.

And before you might be tempted to tell yourself he did this because he wanted to support the athletes let me tell you about the fact that he allowed a coach that was under investigation for abuse to come to a camp where one of the athletes that had filed the complaint against her was also in attendance. His wife, who has a history of unhinged social media rants, claimed he didn’t have the authority to send home an athletes chosen coach. In reality Louie Hernandez had the legal right not to have to be there with her. That coach would later be banned for longer than anyone else has ever been banned in USAG history.

So in June anyone following the details of this knew that Tom’s strategy was entirely “we have Simone and so we will win.” Because that kind of pressure and stress couldn’t possibly have any terrible consequences on an athlete. Spoiler: It did.

People within the sport were warning about this before Simone Biles lost herself in the air during that vault in Tokyo. The fact that we were all lucky not to watch one of the greatest athletes of a generation break her neck can not be overstated. It was so scary that one of the most famously bitter angry and terrible human beings of Gymnastics that has been saying awful things about Biles for years kept telling Russian media that she made the right decision to pull out. That was pigs flying territory.

Forrester left the athletes to face the press alone after the final.

So with that backdrop I want to give this observation: Dominque Moceanu, an olympic gold medalist who has an abuse story so horrific with villains so cartonishly evil that if it was written as fiction the author would be told it was over the top, wrote a book about the culture of abuse in in the sport and USAG in 2008. She was called insane, living on another planet, and apparently sent hundreds of emails by those within the sport that she was ungrateful for what her abusers had done for her (emails that she has apparently kept and I’m telling you I’d love to read more then the few I’ve seen). Moceanu was a figure out of greek legend, Cassandra doomed to tell the truth and be called mad (and attention seeking). In light of the fall of the Karolyis and the Nassar scandal Moceanu has become a more respected figure as someone that has been speaking out about abuse for a long time. She has also been someone that other victims went to over the decades to talk to before they could come forward. A weight that no one should have to bear.

I had been joking that the only way people would start to trust USAG was honestly trying to reform was if they put someone like Moceanu in charge (Aly Raisman’s name is floated but even she points out that she’s not qualified). Moceanu is. But the old guard of the sport have spent two decades telling people that Moceanu is crazy. I didn’t think she’d take the job and I didn’t think USAG would ever hire her.

But here is the interesting thing .... her social media presence radically changed character in the last three months. Starting around the time of US Nationals and continuing though trials and the olympics between posts supporting team USA athletes and raising a voice to support Simone Biles and the need for a cultural change in the sport were digs at Tom Forrester and about the need for transparency in that job.

And this: “Would someone be kind enough to notify me if the U.S. women’s high performance coordinator position opens up? Asking for a friend.” (x) At the same time (literally the same day as one of those tweets) she launched a youtube channel that is essentially a political fluff piece about her as a change agent in gymnastics coaching.

She’s auditioning for that job.

There are a bunch of other interesting elements of her online behavior and some other telling notes about things she’s said ... but it’s interesting to notice something like that unfold.

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winterhawk-olympic-bang · 3 years

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Writer’s Workshop: How To End Your Story

How To End Your Story

Guest Poster: Flawedamythyst

We’re in the final furlong before the deadline for the first draft now, so it feels like a good time to talk about endings, and how to bring your story together to create a satisfactory one.

Have a read and then head over to the Discord Server where we have a channel for you to take part in a discussion based on the post, with chances to share your own ideas too.

How To End Your Story

There are traditionally six types of endings for a story:

Resolved ending - one with no lingering questions or loose ends. (Most murder mysteries and romances fall into this category.)

Unresolved ending - the kind of ending that leaves the reader with more questions than answers. (Usually for books that are part of a series. A lot of the HP books have endings like this.)

Expanded ending - expands the world of the story beyond the events of the narrative itself, with a time jump forward or a change in PoV.

Unexpected ending - a twist ending that the reader doesn’t see coming, but that should seem inevitable in hindsight.

Ambiguous ending - one that’s open to interpretation. Unlike an unresolved one, it leaves things to be interpreted by the reader so they have to decide themselves how it goes.

Tied ending - that brings the story full circle, and ends exactly where it began. Often the case for ‘Hero’s Journey’ type stories, where the hero ends up back home at the end.

You can read more about them here: https://boords.com/storytelling/how-to-end-a-story or here: https://www.masterclass.com/articles/ways-to-end-your-story but also in multiple other articles online just by Googling ‘Six Ways To End A Story’.

But, of course, they don’t really tell you how to work out which one your story needs, or how to write one of them without falling into any of the traps that ends with an unsatisfying ending.

Motivation

Of course, often the hardest bit with an ending is actually getting there. Losing motivation is so easy, especially when you’re writing something super-long. I know lots of people get motivation by posting as they go and using comments/kudos as a spur, or even just by talking about it on Tumblr or other places and letting other people’s excitement buoy them up, but a Bang event like WHOB doesn’t allow for that.

I’m going to talk a bit about ways to motivate yourself when you’re having to keep things secret from all but a handful of people, but bear in mind that this is something that really is very individual. Everyone writes for different reasons, and so everyone’s path to staying motivated is different.

For me, I think it comes down to focusing on why am I writing this story to start with? Any time I feel myself flagging, I think back to that reason and re-capture the original feeling I had about it. Often there’s a couple of different reasons.

For example, when I was writing Look What The Cat Dragged In, my motivations when I wrote the first line were:

I want all of fandom to share with me the image of the Winter Soldier waking Clint up to threaten him while gently cradling a kitten in his hands, and

I was writing it as a present for @kangofu-cb.

So, if I flagged at all, I was able to either reread that moment with Bucky holding the kitten and think ‘wow, I really do thing people will enjoy this mental image’, or I was able to think ‘I want my friend to have a nice thing’, and that helped me drive on and push through.

A lot of my personal motivations come down to ‘I want to share this scene/witty one-liner/visual of Clint pole dancing while dressed as Captain America with people’, so often just rereading what I’ve already done is really motivating for me, plus it also gives me the chance to see just how much I’ve already done, and what I would be dooming to be unfinished if I just walked away without pushing through.

You might well have different motivations though, which are equally valid. Maybe you started a fic for this event because you wanted to get a shiny badge, or to do something that your friends were doing, or you wanted to prove to yourself that you could write something longer than usual or outside of your usual wheelhouse. It may feel harder now than it did when you had that first idea, but that doesn’t change why you wanted to do it, and it’s actually easier now than it was when you started, because you’ve already done some of it.

And, if none of those motivations work for you, there’s always spite. ‘Oh, my brain gremlins think I can’t finish this? Fuck those guys, I’m going to prove those assholes so very, very wrong’ is completely how I powered through to finish my first ever novel-length fic, a million years and several fandoms ago.

Resolution vs Ending

So, let’s move on to the ending itself.

There are two parts to writing an ending: there’s the plot resolution and how that all gets tied up, and there’s the actual ending of the fic - the last scene, and the last place the reader sees the characters.

Sometimes the resolution happens only at the very end of a story and so those are the same thing, but I tend to think that makes things feel a bit abrupt. Especially for fics, which tend to be more character-driven than mainstream media and so need a wind down on how the characters react to the end of the plot for the reader. (This isn’t always true, of course, some plots do tie up neatly in the final scene. Every story is different and you’re the person best placed to judge what’s needed in your fic.)

So when you’re thinking about the ending, think about both parts. ‘How does this plot resolve itself?’ and ‘where do I want to leave these characters in the readers’ mind’s eye?’

Plotting a Story Resolution

You may well have already got a resolution worked out as part of your planning, but what if that ending doesn’t seem to fit any more, or you realise just as you get to it that you forgot to think about an ending at all and have no idea where to go?

First of all, don’t panic! If the rest of the story is there, you’ll be able to pull together the strands to create the best ending. Trust the bones of your story.

When I’m facing a blank page and no real idea of how I’m getting from the Depths of Despair moment to the happy ending, the first thing I do is reread the whole story in case that sparks a fantastic, fully-formed idea to appear on how to tie it all up. Mostly that doesn’t work, which is always disappointing, but it’s still a good place to start, because you have the whole run of the fic fresh in your head to plan from.

The next thing I do is make a list of all the things that I know definitely need to happen for the plot to be done. These don’t need to be in any particular order at this point and they don’t need to link up, you just need a list of what needs to go into the framework, however minor. ‘Clint wears Bucky’s hoodie and Bucky is smitten’ is a totally valid plot point to include, or even ‘include mention of recurring joke about muffins’. If you know something needs to be resolved but you don’t know how yet, just putting ‘resolve plot point with badgers’ is fine. Hopefully once you’ve started thinking through all the different bits, you’ll work out what’s going to happen to the badgers, and it’ll make sure you know it needs to be included somewhere.

If you have a beta/cheer reader who can help, it’s also super helpful to ask them what they would expect from the ending based on what they’ve read so far, or what elements from earlier in the story they think will be coming back/will turn out to be foreshadowing. Sometimes you’ll find you’ve written the clues to your ending into the earlier bits without really noticing, and you can throw them down on the list to be included as well.

Once you have everything you know needs to be included, you can shift them around into a rough order you think they need to go in, and start filling in the gaps. For example, if ‘Clint gets injured’ is there, you can add in ‘Bucky tends to his wounds’ as the obvious next step and maybe that would be a good time to throw in a muffin joke, and then Clint might need to borrow a hoodie if his shirt has blood on it, so you can tick those bits off as well.

It gets easier to see where the gaps are once you have it written out, even if it’s only things that you already knew would need to happen. Having it down in black and white helps your brain to move pieces around like a jigsaw puzzle, and start extrapolating on what comes in the gaps between.

Make The Ending Fit The Story

Think about what kind of story it’s been so far, and make sure that the ending you come up with fits in with it.

You’ll know the general feeling that you wanted for the fic when you started writing, so that will give you a solid idea on how the ending needs to go. (Often for me this feeling is ‘schmoopy and loved up’, because I’m a softie. A lot of what I’m doing when I’m writing a fic is just clearing out of the way any obstacles that are going to get in the way of my characters being schmoopy and loved up. When there’s nothing left in the way, that’s when I know it’s the end of the story.)

You also need to keep the tone and pacing of your fic the same, and make sure that your ending matches up so it all feels like it fits together. This includes keeping the pace the same as it had been, no matter how tempting it is to rush through so you can get the thing finished already, or slow right down so you can add in a few thousand more words.

Along with sticking to the tone you’ve set for the fic, try not to genre-shift - if you’ve written an action-packed zombie apocalypse fic, resolving the plot with domestic schmoop isn’t a great idea. The reader is invested in the style of story that you’ve written so far, so pulling the rug out on them will only give them whiplash, a vague sense of dissatisfaction or a persistent nagging feeling that zombies are about to attack.

Unless you’ve written a domestic schmoop zombie AU of course, in which case I would read the hell out of it. ‘Curtain!fic but sometimes the undead interrupt’ sounds like a lot of fun.

And finally, make sure you maintain your characterisation. If the ending you want involves your character doing something wildly out-of-character, then that’s not the right ending. (I like to call this an Endgame!Steve ending. No, I’m not over that.) Even if your audience is invested in your story enough to overlook the incongruence, they will be having to overlook it rather than feeling fully invested in the journey you’ve created.

Chekov’s Gun

The most satisfying endings are the ones that tie up most, if not all, of the loose ends, and provide an emotional pay-off equivalent to the build-up. If you’ve been talking about something big that might or might not happen, and then it doesn’t, it’s narratively frustrating. In the same way, if you drop something big in that doesn’t really fit with what went before, it’s going to make the story feel unbalanced.

Obviously that doesn’t mean you can’t have a surprise or twist ending but even if the reader is surprised by something happening, they still want to feel like they’re reading the same story. They need to look back with hindsight of knowing the twist and see how it fits in, and not how it stands out.

A good rule to follow is the Chekov’s Gun rule: If there’s a gun on the table in the first act, someone needs to shoot it in the second act. If you’ve been teasing something, make sure the pay-off is there.

And, of course, if someone’s going to be firing a gun at the end, go back and make sure it gets mentioned earlier in the story. It doesn’t need to be a heavy-handed anvil, but if you can drop in casual hints about guns earlier in the story, the whole thing feels more cohesive and thought out. No one needs to know that you only put those hints in after you’d finished the whole thing.

Loose Ends

Something I always like to do when I’m plotting exactly how the ending is going to go, is to go back through the whole fic and make a list of anything that feels like it could be a loose end if it didn’t get resolved. (If I’m having a problem working out my ending, often this happens at the same time as writing down all my ending plot points, as I described above.)

Some of those are obvious, like ‘Bucky and Clint need to kiss’, but some are less so. Did Clint think about how much he just wants to be done with all the drama so he can snuggle with his dog? Maybe throw in some Lucky cuddles somewhere in the finale so he gets the emotional pay-off. Has Bucky mentioned really want to punch a bad guy in particular in the face? Give him a chance to smack that asshole around a bit. Has there been a minor relationship drama along the way, like someone leaving their socks lying around? Have them either make a point of putting them away, or the other person just rolling their eyes and accepting it as a part of being with them.

It’s also important to think about where your secondary characters are going to end up, and if it feels like they’ve had an arc that needs resolving. Has there been another pairing with a bit of screen time or some background drama? Give them a chance to make out/make up. Has the bad guy done something that affected one of the other Avengers? Let them have a slice of revenge along the way.

For example, in my plan for Be All You Can Be, one of the original characters I introduced as other soldiers doing Basic Training, Havelka, didn’t turn up again after he’d been kicked back a level to another training unit. When I reread that, it became clear that he needed to prove himself somehow or his arc would be a depressing downward slope partially instigated by Clint and Bucky, so I brought him back at the end to do some First Aid and gave him a line or two to point to how his future was going to go, so the reader knew he was going to be okay.

You don’t have to completely resolve everything of course, and sometimes it is nice to leave a couple of things up to the reader’s imagination, but it’s nice for the reader if there’s a sense of things being tied up in a little bow.

Ending

So, you’ve resolved your plot, how are you going to handle the actual final ending?

Depending on how your story has gone, you might not need much after the resolution, or you may need several epilogue-y type scenes just to make sure everything is wrapped up.

Take a moment to think about what feeling you want the reader to take away from the fic. If it’s a romance, do you want to end with a warm fuzz of ‘aw cute’? If it’s been an angsty dig down into Clint or Bucky’s mental health issues, do you want a sense of optimism or catharsis? If there’s been a lot of action and drama, do you want a bit of peace and quiet for your characters to signal it’s all over with?

The best way to end any story is with a sense of hope, even if you’ve not gone for a completely happy ending, or have left yourself open for a sequel with some unresolved plot points. You want the reader to feel at least in some way uplifted. After all, regardless of whatever else has gone before, that’s the emotion they’ll have when they get faced with the Kudos button and the Comment box, so you need them in a good mood, right?

When you know what kind of feeling you want your ending to have, that will give you a major clue as to what the characters should be doing in the final scene.

One thing that can work well is bringing back something from the first scene or two and twisting it to be part of the ending. For example, at the beginning of Be All You Can Be Clint uses the song Make A Man Out Of You from Mulan as a way to torture Bucky, and then at the end, they watch the movie together while snuggling.

You do have to be careful not to be too heavy handed with that, and it doesn’t work in every fic, but I do like the feeling of ‘things coming full circle’ that you can get from doing it.

Afterglow vs. Too Much Ending

I always think that good stories come with a certain amount of ‘afterglow’: Just a scene or two to round things out and give a pointer towards the future.

For example, in general, I don’t like stories that end with a first kiss, which is one of several reasons I usually find Hollywood romcoms unsatisfying. It feels like too much of a beginning, and leaves too many questions open about how things are actually going to go for the couple in question. As part of a complete ending, it feels more satisfying to have an ‘epilogue’-y type scene afterwards that will give you a sense of how things went from there, even if it’s just a couple of paragraphs about them planning their first date.

I’m sure we can all think of other times we’ve read or watched something and had a moment of ‘oh, was that it?’ after the last sentence/when the credits rolled. Abrupt endings without a bit of afterglow can leave the reader blinking a little and wondering where their damn cuddles are.

That said, you also don’t want to go too far in the opposite direction. If the plot is over, there’s no need to keep going with multiple scenes of fluff or porn that doesn’t really add anything. We don’t need to see their whole lives mapped out, and it can get fairly dull once the tension of the plot is over. Ask yourself if the three chapters of them having sex on every flat surface in their apartment is actually necessary, or if some of them can be cut and used as one-shot sequel/missing scene fics.

In general if it’s not adding to either the narrative or emotional arcs, try to cap it at a scene or two. Just enough to feel like you’ve had a bit of post-climactic afterglow, but not so much that it’s starting to drag.

In Conclusion…

Ending a fic is, in so many ways, the most satisfying part of writing. You got right the way through your plot to the end! You did all the writing! Your characters made it through to their happy/sad/ambiguous endings! You deserve all the gold stars!

You just want your reader to feel the same way, by making sure the ending fits with what came before, ties up all the ends that need tying up, and leaves them with a deep glow of whatever feeling you want the overall story to convey.

And then you just need to do the editing, but that’s a workshop for another day...

#winterhawk olympic bang #WHOB #winterhawk #writer workshops #writer workshop: endings #guest post #flawedamythyst

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scullydubois · 3 years

Text

memory-bound: a revival one-shot

Set between Rm9sbG93ZXJz & My Struggle IV, Scully moves back into the Unremarkable House after her smart home burns down and returns to an age-old ritual: coloring her hair.

T, 1.8k, fluff/domestic fluff, read on ao3 here.

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Lamp light casts shadows on the wall as Scully unpacks in a place she never thought she’d find herself again: the master bedroom she and Mulder shared for almost a decade. She lays her remaining clothes on the tribal-patterned bedspread and smirks at how little the room has changed. She expected to be put up in the guest room and was perfectly fine with that. They had rarely gotten any use out of it--she figured an inhabitant would do it some good. Imagine her shock, then, when Mulder told her he hadn’t slept in “their” room since she left. That the room was all hers.

It shouldn’t have surprised her that after a decade of a bed, he returned to what he knew upon losing what he had known. He swapped the couch he slept on for seven years for a Barcalounger. An old man needs his amenities, he joked while showing her its heat and massage functions. And she felt a gnawing in the pit of her stomach, the mark of a fool.

She salvaged what she could from the fire, but most of her Bethesda things were ruined. That soulless smart house was never worth its automated thermostat system, let alone any of its other data mines disguised as gizmos. Mulder hated it--hated it, like, wouldn’t step foot in it, and if she’s being honest, that was the only selling point for her: the shelter it offered from his incessant search for truth & his unsatisfiable conscience. This was back when she felt like that was something she needed to get away from, of course. She had wanted to settle somewhere and mean it. Now, she realizes they were settled all along.

She rests a pile of folded clothes in the crook of her arm and pulls open her old dresser. She envisioned cobwebs--maybe even a whole family of spiders--in there, but instead, a ratty New York Knicks t-shirt greets her. And a Spaceship Earth one under that, and a Wile E. Coyote one under that. Her holy trinity of Mulder t-shirts. She refused to take them when she left, though he insisted. And in protest, he hadn’t worn them. She knows this instinctively, though the lack of laundry scent confirms it. They’ve been waiting in this drawer all along, captives to Mulder’s fantasy that one day she would open it again.

Scully squeezes her eyes shut, slips the pile in next to the shirts, slams the drawer, and grabs her toiletries bag off the bed, striding into the bathroom. She can’t dwell...she can’t. She’s learned by now that regret is a state of mind that freezes her up, and there’s no being frozen, not any more.

Unzipping the bag, she lines her various products along the counter. Age-defying this, anti-aging that...sunscreen is really the only thing that’s done her any good. That, and hair dye. She keeps the others around for show.

Speaking of...she pokes at her roots, scouring the mirror for signs that yes, she could theoretically be a grandma--and she can’t say for certain that she isn’t--but to her knowledge, she’s not, and as long as no one calls her Grandma, she won’t accept the title.

She won’t accept the gray hairs, either. One day, sure, but not yet. Mulder’s not even gone gray yet, and he has years on her. She’s told him that he would look great, and that the silver fox nickname would be nothing short of perfection, but he swears that he just hasn’t lost his “natural luster” yet, that he’ll embrace the gray when (if!) it comes.

Scully’s not been so lucky, though it doesn’t show. She’s been coloring her hair every three weeks since she was twenty-eight to keep the ravishing red. She’ll never forget when Mulder realized it wasn’t her natural color...the way his eyes widened as he moved between her legs…

It’s not as if he didn’t know; her mousy auburn had been on full display when they first met, and yet he’d gotten so used to seeing her as she is that it slipped his mind that she hadn’t always been that way. And once they moved in together--in this very bathroom, actually--he loved to help her with the coloring process, was as fascinated by it as the prospect of alien-human hybrids.

She chooses the tube of Rock it Like a Redhead dye from her product line-up, looks at her reflection. It’s been five--no, six--nearing seven--years since she performed this ritual in this room. She glances down, and sure enough, the tile still bears a rust-colored stain from one of her sessions gone wrong. It makes her smile...she has a history here. They have a history here.

She sighs. For old time’s sake, she might as well...she’s found herself thinking that a lot lately.

Her old robe--her usual attire for the occasion--fell victim to the fire, but she’s got a good substitute in mind. She pads back into the bedroom and plucks the Wile E. Coyote shirt from the drawer. It’s black, hopefully that will hide any stains. Her slacks are too damn expensive to risk an accident, so she briefly considers stripping to her panties before settling on a pair of gym shorts.

Her get-up in place, she grabs a few clips from her bag and pins her hair up in four sections. This is one of the reasons she got her chop; her long hair was sexy, but it was a bitch trying to cover all those layers. Plus, Mulder is fond of “the Scully shag” as he calls it, though she corrects him every time (it’s not a shag Mulder, it’s a bob!). It reminds him of their firsts, she imagines. It’s almost as if the longer her hair got, the further apart they drifted. And once they were okay again, it was imperative that she bear her neck to him...show him the place where his lips should land.

She decides to stand in the shower (water off, of course) so any mess can be rinsed away. She wonders, suddenly, if the square mirror they used to keep is still suctioned to the glass interior. It’ll be hard to do this alone if it’s not.

She peeks in, and it’s not there, and that must be the only thing in this house Mulder has moved. Figures. She slips off her shoes and grabs the applicator and dye tube. She’ll do the best she can, then use the bathroom mirror to make any touch-ups.

Scully steps into the shower. Its characteristic lemon scent is gone, and that makes her sad. It used to be a welcome change from the antiseptic hospital smell she dealt with all day. Wielding her tools, she starts at her roots, spreading the dye along her scalp with expert precision. Surely this counts as a workout--it takes a lot of energy to hold your arms over your head for this long. Will her Fitbit calculate how many calories she’s burning, she wonders?

She’s just started a new strand when a gentle rap echoes through the wall.

“Scully?” Mulder’s voice rings from outside the bedroom. She pulled the door slightly shut when she entered.

“Come in!” she calls. “In the bathroom.”

She hears footsteps in the adjacent room, then a hesitant breath as Mulder pauses at the doorway. “Are you decent?”

Scully looks down at herself. What a picture. “I’m in a Wile E. Coyote t-shirt and gym shorts. Does that answer your question?”

Mulder shuffles in, smirking at the sight of her through the open shower door. “What are you doing?”

She points to the crown of her head--which is already well within his field of vision--so she’s not sure why he needed to ask the question.

“Well, I see that,” Mulder concedes, “but I mean, why are you hunched over in here like you’re hoping to grow a third arm?”

Scully shrugs. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

“That’s just as lame as ‘boys will be boys,’ and you know it,” he counters, remembering a spirited lecture she once gave him on the misogynist undertones of the phrase. Scully smirks. They had that conversation years ago...post-William, pre-Bahamas. She’s surprised that it stuck with him.

She tilts her chin in a way that makes Mulder certain she’d have her hands on her hips if they weren’t occupied. “What do you suggest?” she challenges.

“Let me help you,” he proposes before she can launch a protest. His sneaker’s rubber sole meets the shower tile as he slips in beside her. The wall is cold against her elbow as she scoots back to make room for him.

“I’m fine. I’ve been doing this on my own for years, and I was long before you.”

“But now you have me,” he professes. “Here. Right now,” he clarifies, not meaning to label their as-yet undefined relationship status.

Their eyes meet, and Scully’s hit with the last time the two of them were in here--her legs around his waist, his hands sliding through her hair, droplets that couldn’t be placed as shower water, sweat, or tears. Her spine straightens against the very wall where she was pinned. Times change, yet they don’t. History repeats itself in a slightly different key.

“When I was younger, I did this because I liked the color,” she tells him, finishing a section and lowering her hands. “Now, I do it out of necessity. It’s sad, Mulder.” She juts her lower lip out in a faux pout. “We’re getting old.”

He would hug her, but he’d mess up her hair and it would be a whole thing. “Hey, I’ll be pushing your wheelchair with my wheelchair, remember?” he says, taking her slip into sentimentality as permission.

Scully nods, the delicate memories of years past bringing a slight frown to her face.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asks, raising to her tiptoes, then lowering again. Her eyes twinkle.

“Of course.”

She offers him the tube of dye, looks up at him with a smile.

“Can you get right here?” She points to a spot right above her temple, one she could definitely reach herself if she wanted to.

Mulder admires her. His woman, back in his old t-shirt and all. He plants his lips on her temple, breathing her in. No matter what she says about aging or being old, he’ll never believe her. She is as she was back then: the only semblance of peace he’s ever known.

He pulls away to meet her gaze, his voice warm and smooth. “Is that about where you want it?”

Scully grins. “Yes, that’s perfect.”

#this might be the only revival fic i ever write & i really enjoyed it #a chance to reflect and take a trip down memory lane <3 #the x-files #txf #txf fic #mine #todayinfic

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fxcking-anon · 4 years

Note

hi! request, spencer xfem!reader? reader works at the bau but spencer isn’t there (mutual crush or beginning of relationship) so she swings by his apartment to see he has a stomach flue so she helps and takes care of him? fluff?

Chicken Soup

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff

TW: None :)

Word Count: 1,925

A/N: I’m so so very sorry for how long this took. I ruptured my appendix right after I got this request then started classes again and all of a sudden it was October! But it’s done now and we are on the road to being on top of our shit again! Woo! (I may or may not have posted this during math class too oops)

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Spencer had given you a key to his apartment a few months ago. After Penelope was shot, you really struggled being alone in your apartment. So, you found yourself knocking on Spencer’s door after a long case. More often than not, you stayed the night. Over time, you’d brought a few things to keep there for when you did sleep over. While Spencer was no Derek Morgan, protector-of-all, kicking-doors-in-and-taking-names, he knew how to distract you from the darkness you both saw on a daily basis. And on the worst nights, he held you after your nightmares.

You had tried to return the key once you could finally be alone again. Spencer refused, insisting you were welcome to come and go as you pleased. So you did, often bearing gifts as you walked through the door. Sometimes coffee, a home cooked meal, or maybe a movie.

The two of you had always been close. You had a habit of befriending the misfits and bringing them out of their shells. It also helped that people seemed to find you easy to talk to. You can’t name how many times an acquaintance has spilled their soul to you just because you “seem really approachable”.

And yet, after months of spending most of your days off together and you having a key to his apartment, it took nearly the entire BAU team, excluding Hotch, holding an intervention of sorts to force you two to address the fact that you clearly liked each other and what you were currently doing, was dating.

That led to an awkward evening back at his apartment, trying to talk things through. You knew Spencer didn’t exactly have a lot of experience with relationships and honestly, you didn’t have a lot of experience with healthy ones. After an excruciating half hour of awkward silence and “well, what do you think?” back and forth, Spencer just took your face in his hands and kissed you.

You’d been officially together since then. Over the past few weeks, the two of you had established a little routine at work. He usually beat you there on nights you didn’t stay with him. He’d grab you both coffee and leave yours at your desk with a little drawing on a sticky note. The little creatures he drew were odd looking and sometimes a bit scary, but you still found yourself storing the sticky notes away in one of the drawers in your desk.

Today, you were running late after an accident on the freeway put you much further behind schedule than you would’ve liked. As you stepped out of the elevator on the sixth floor, you scanned the room for his mop of curly hair, coming up empty.

“Spence isn’t with you?” JJ asked, looking concerned as she hoisted the case files she was carrying higher into her arms.

“No, I stayed home last night because I had to finish some laundry I was putting off. Is he not here?” you tried to ignore the surge of panic that began to flow through you. While it was highly unlikely anything had happened to him, he’d been held captive before. In your line of work, it wasn’t completely off the table. You and JJ locked eyes, slight worry laced in both of your eyes.

“Hotch hasn’t heard from him, I just figured you had,” she said.

“No, I’ll call him now.”

You beelined for the empty conference room before calling your boyfriend. “Y/N?” Spencer croaked, picking up on the fourth ring.

You quickly realized he was sick. After hanging up and reassuring Spencer you’d be there as fast as you could, ignoring his protests that you need to be at work, you found yourself in Hotch’s office.

“Look, we don’t have a case and if we get one, I can be back here, ready to go in twenty minutes flat. It’s just, he doesn’t take care of himself as it is and he’s likely downplaying how sick he really is-” you started off, rambling off excuses.

“Y/L/N,” Hotch said, cutting you off. “It’s fine. Just take your paperwork with you. I’ll have Garcia call you if we get a case, okay?”

“Thank you so much, Sir,” you said, heading back to your desk to grab your things. You didn’t need to take the day off to go take care of your sick boyfriend. However, your boyfriend was rarely sick. In the time that you’ve known him, you’d never seen him sick. Ever. You attributed it to his heightened awareness of the spread of germs and his commitment to handwashing.

----------

On your way back to Spencer’s apartment, you made a quick pit stop at the local grocery store, picking up a few ingredients for your normal go to comfort foods.

You set the bags down when you reached his apartment door, fishing your key out of your bag. You opened the door to find a full sink and no sign of Spencer. You set the groceries on the counter before peeking into his bedroom.

Spencer was dead asleep, curled into the fetal position under his comforter and an additional three throw blankets. His hair was damp and matted on his forehead. There was a tense look on his sleeping face, brows furrowed and frowning. You stepped into the room, moving to situate yourself next to him on the bed. Gently, you brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead. “Y/N?” Spencer mumbled out, not yet opening his eyes. You leaned down to place a soft peck on his forehead, causing him to open his eyes. “I told you not to come,” he said sleepily, trying his best to sound stern.

“As if I wouldn’t. How are you feeling, baby?” you asked, voice still hushed.

“I have a fever. It’s probably the flu. Which means you’re going to get sick too,” he started, propping himself up on his elbows and pulling himself out of your gentle grasp.

You rolled your eyes before climbing all the way onto the bed and guiding him to rest back on your chest. “If I can handle kicking ass on a daily basis, I can handle a measly little cold. Now shut up and let me take care of you.”

Spencer huffed under his breath before settling his head on your chest, right over your heart. You could feel him relax as he listened to the steady pace of your heartbeat, drifting off to a more peaceful sleep. His eyebrows relaxed as you stroked his hair.

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You weren’t sure how long you were asleep when you woke up, checking Spencer’s bedside clock to see it had only been about two hours. Instinctively, you checked your phone, making sure you hadn’t missed any calls from Hotch. By some miracle, you had no new notifications. Maybe just this once, the universe would give you a day to take care of your sick boyfriend without having to race off to play hero.

Spencer was fast asleep, his breathing even and slow. You smiled to yourself before slipping out of his bed and resting his hand back against the pillows. You could lay there all day as he slept, but you knew you needed to start cooking now so he’d have something to eat when he finally emerged from his slumber.

Your mother had always made homemade soup when you were sick. It was cheesy as hell, but it was what you knew. So you got to work cutting up the vegetables you brought from the store as you popped the chicken in the over. You hummed to yourself as you cooked, dancing around aimlessly and singing into the butcher knife in your hand.

“Should I be concerned that you use knives as microphones?” Spencer asked, shuffling from his room, wrapped in a blanket. You froze, striking an Elvis pose with your knife as you smiled at him. His voice was less groggy now and he seemed to be a little more awake.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” you imitated Elvis, giggling a bit as you returned to chopping vegetables. “And listen, a girl has to make do with whatever makeshift mic she can find,” you teased, “Are you hungry?”

Spencer scrunched his face just enough for you to sense he still didn’t have an appetite. Regardless, he needed to eat. “I don’t need to be a genius to tell you how important it is that you get nutrients into your body-”

“Yeah, yeah” he grumbled, making his way to a cabinet behind you. He grabbed a sleeve of saltines from the middle shelf before hoisting himself onto the counter next to where you were slicing. “What are you making? It smells good.”

“Chicken soup,”

He hummed in acknowledgement, placing a cracker in his mouth. You smiled to yourself as the two of you sat in silence, you cutting up some celery and him munching on a cracker. You didn’t often get much domestic time together. With your work schedules, you didn’t have a lot of free time to begin with. Mostly, you’d do something quiet and low energy. It was hard to remember the last time you got to just be in each other’s presence while you did normal people things.

“What are you smiling around?” Spencer asked, looking at you inquisitively.

You looked up at him, breaking into a bigger smile. “It’s nice, getting to just be with you on a weekday, making lunch. I’d rather you weren’t sick, of course, but we haven’t had a day off in forever.”

He grinned back at you, taking a moment to brush a strand of hair that escaped your bun behind your ear. “I love you,” he said plainly, making you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

You’d both said I love you before, but you still felt the same butterflies as the first time he said it. You could’ve stayed like that for the rest of time, reveling in his gaze. However, the oven beeped, letting you know the chicken was done.

“I have to get that,” you whispered out, hating to remove your face from his light touch.

You pulled the chicken from the oven before shooing Spencer out of the kitchen and back into bed, convincing him to get some more rest as you finished the soup.

----------

As you lounged on the sofa with Spencer’s head in your lap later that evening, it dawned on you that Hotch never texted. You actually got a real day off. You stroked Spencer’s hair softly, twirling some of his little curls between your fingers. “What’s that song?” Spencer asked, shifting to look up at you. You furrowed your eyebrows at him, clearly confused. “You’ve been humming something, I don’t recognize it,” he said.

You stopped for a moment, realizing it was the same song your mom used to sing you when you were sick. “I’m not actually sure what it’s called,” you admitted, “My mom used to sing it to me when I was sick. I don’t remember the words anymore, just the melody.”

Spencer nodded in agreement, still staring up at you.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing, I just love you, that’s all.”

“I love you more.”

He leaned up to give you a quick kiss, his lips far less chapped after you spent the day pumping him full of liquids and hot soup. He laid back on your lap, tuning back into the silly cartoon on the television screen. Your hands found their way back into his hair again, sighing contently.

#criminal minds #mgg #spencer reid #reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #matthewgraygubler

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ibijau · 3 years

Note

11 with chengxuan please? i hc that jc has a really nice singing voice

Singing together/catching them singing softly to themselves as they cook/do the dishes.

a prequel of this modern AU where Yanli and Wei Wuxian are missing after an accident that left Jin Zixuan disabled

warning for internalised ableism, and also just general ableism mentions

When Jin Ling is five, Zixuan starts working again.

It is not his choice, though he easily convinces himself that it is. His mother is right after all, he can’t go on forever staying at home doing nothing. Sure he’s taking care of Jin Ling, and still dealing with the aftermath of that day, but he can’t do just that, not when he’s clearly well enough to try doing more. His mother doesn’t want him to become a recluse, and she doesn’t want him to get completely out of touch with his father’s company… and she’s right of course.

It’s easier for everyone when she’s right.

Zixuan’s father is a little less enthusiastic about easing his son back into the family business. As he bluntly explains, there’s just not much that Zixuan can do. Going back to his old job isn’t an option. The accounting department, which Zixuan used to be in charge of, has now been given to Meng Yao who is doing very well there, helping the company make a steady profit. Not only that, but Jin Guangshan explains to his son that Meng Yao has uncovered an embezzlement plot that Zixuan apparently accidentally allowed to fester. Wen Ning has been arrested for stealing money in favour of his sister’s charity, and Jin Guangshan explains he had to use all of his influence to protect Zixuan from being dragged into this.

After something like this, it’s obvious Zixuan can no longer be trusted to lead a team. It’s also better if he doesn’t handle anything to do with finances anymore, because their company just cannot bear with another scandal.

Instead, Zixuan is offered a quick formation in web design, and incorporated into the IT team, just another worker among others. It’s work he can do from home, and he’s never met most of his colleagues. None of them seem to realise that he is the son of their employer, and apparently assume the surname Jin is just a coincidence. During a phone reunion, Zixuan hears someone talk about Jin Guangshan’s son who died some years ago, and doesn’t bother to correct it.

His mother can push all she wants, it’s clear Zixuan isn’t going to inherit the company.

It bothers him less than he should. On the rare days when he still hopes that Yanli will return to him, Zixuan tells himself that they can drop everything and start a new life somewhere quiet. Just him, his wife, his son… and his brother-in-law, if Jiang Cheng feels like it. After those last few years, Zixuan can’t quite imagine living without him, and he knows Jin Ling wouldn’t want to either. Jiang Cheng has been there for all his life after all, and theirs is not the worst of lives.

Which isn’t to say that it’s always easy.

Some days are too much for Zixuan.

Today is such a day. His pain is flaring up like crazy, making it agony to sit for long. Jin Ling is in a bad mood, and determined to make it felt. And three urgent projects have been dropped on Zixuan’s hands, to be finished before the end of the week.

What Zixuan wants is to drop his son with Jiang Cheng, take all the painkillers he’s allowed, and sleep for about three or four days until he’s better. It’s not an option, of course. He can’t let down everyone, those projects are important, his mother will be furious if she hears that he’s using his health as an excuse to be lazy, his father will take it as more proof that he can’t be trusted with anything. He has to pull through, pain or not.

People with worse health than him can do their job, he can’t use disability as an excuse.

So Zixuan pushes himself, sitting in front of his laptop until the pain gets so intense he’s starting to see dark spots at the corner of his eyes. He has to do this, has to…

“I think you’ve been stupid long enough,” he hears Jiang Cheng says, surprisingly close to him.

Zixuan startles and looks up, grimacing as the movement pulls on too tight muscles. Jiang Cheng is glaring down at him, apparently more upset than usual.

“You can’t work like that,” Jiang Cheng snaps, dropping a glass of water and a pill next to the laptop. “Take that and go rest.”

“I have to…”

“You have to fucking take care of yourself. You look like you’re about to have a seizure or something. Take that painkiller and sleep before you make yourself worse.”

Zixuan blinks numbly. The medication he takes mostly helps prevent seizures, but it cannot fully eliminate them. He’s been having them more often since he started working again, and has told himself it’s only a coincidence.

“I’m fine,” Zixuan weakly protests. “I’m almost done with this, and then I’ll…”

“Don’t make me pick you up,” Jiang Cheng warns. “I’ll do it. I’ll fucking carry you to bed in my arms, I swear.”

“I’m really…”

“I’ll text Luo Qingyang and tell her you’re sick,” Jiang Cheng cuts him. “She’ll understand, and she’ll deal with this. So take the damn pill and go rest, Zixuan.”

It feels unfair that Luo Qingyang from HR should have to take care of Zixuan’s messes, just because he can’t pull through on single bad day… but the pain really is awful, and it might have been more than one single bad day. Su Minshan from research has been absolutely awful all month about the launch of a new website to showcase their innovations, and since he has Meng Yao’s full support, it’s been hard to deal with him. And there’s that charity dinner coming up, for which he’s also helping develop the webpage even though his father pointedly asked him not to come because even just using a cane would be bad for PR and he can’t make it through the evening without it. And also…

Zixuan sighs. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.

So he gives in, just this time. He takes the pill, and lets Jiang Cheng help him to bed where he promptly passes out.

When he wakes up again, hours must have passed. Night has fallen outside, and there’s no light in this part of the house, though Zixuan can vaguely hear something happening far away, in the kitchen. Although it is very tempting to stay in bed, Zixuan makes himself get up and, leaning hard on his cane, makes his way to the kitchen to check if Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling have had dinner yet.

Before he reaches the door, he’s startled to hear a singing voice.

The voice in question is good enough that he wonders for a moment if it’s not from a video, but the fact there’s no music is odd. Besides, Zixuan recognises that song as being from a cartoon that Jin Ling loves, but he’s never heard that particular version before.

The mystery unfolds when Zixuan steps in the doorway and finds Jiang Cheng singing with abandon as he cuts vegetables that Jin Ling is very carefully washing for him. The little boy seems very happy to be helping, his previous bad mood completely gone. It’s not such a surprise of course. Jin Ling adores his uncle, and Jiang Cheng has mastered the art of finding the line between too rough and too soft when it comes to dealing with his nephew. It always warms Zixuan’s heart to see those two together, but tonight it is almost too much for him.

There’s just something about the sincerity with which Jiang Cheng sings those stupid lyrics, his smile when Jin Ling joins him for the chorus, the happiness they radiate when Jiang Cheng picks up his nephew so Jin Ling can drop the vegetable into the pan… It is everything Jin Zixuan always hoped his family would be, even if it isn’t happening with the person he’d thought he’d live with.

And that’s what hit him hard tonight.

He’s had that thought before, watching Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling. The right amount of domesticity, only with the wrong person.

But Jiang Cheng spots him in the doorway and grins, blushing at being caught singing yet still happy, and Jin Zixuan realises that after five years of living together, he can’t say Jiang Cheng is the wrong person, not anymore.

It probably makes him an awful person. His wife might still be alive somewhere, and here he is, thinking that way about her brother.

He should be ashamed of himself.

He is, but not as much as he ought to be.

So Zixuan drops on a chair at the kitchen table, and smiles to himself as Jin Ling excitedly explains what they’re making, as Jiang Cheng resumes cooking and singing.

When they reach the chorus again, Zixuan too joins in.

#xuancheng #chengxuan #jiang cheng #jin zixuan #jin ling #jau writes #domesticityyyyy #oh shit I gotta go back to work I got carried away #mdzs #Anonymous

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