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dmitriene · 8 months

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THOUGHTS ABOUT LEON WITH FEMENINE GF.

cw: tooth rotting fluff, comfort, smut, retired leon, domesticity, cunnilingus, lack of dialogues pairing: bf leon kennedy x gf fem reader

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

leon had always been a man of action, a typical hero in a world shrouded in viscous darkness, full of horrors, but now, in the quiet embrace of a relatively suburban home, he had found a life in which there would be no zombies or bioweapons, it was a step into a life that revolved around only gentle domestic rhythms, where his retirement did not mean inactivity, but rather a different kind of activity, one that is completely dedicated to you.

the soft hum of the coffee machine echoed through the spacious, bright kitchen, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sunlight, while leon stood in the aisle, dressed in a slightly rumpled plain tshirt and sweatpants, his usually even mop of hair now disheveled, sticking out from side to side like branches in a nest, but it wasn’t the aroma of coffee or the cozy kitchen that he was more than familiar with that attracted his attention, — it was you.

you, being his girlfriend, moved gracefully and quite airily around the kitchen, moving through the space as easily as if it were a dance floor, your laughter rang like bells, caressing his ears, and this sound became the sweetest melody in leon’s life after he went out on retirement, when you smoothly turn in his direction with a mischievous smile, a freshly baked tray of cupcakes in your hands, the corners of your lips curved into the sweetest greeting.

— «good morning, lee!» you greet, walking up to him with the scraping of slippers on the parquet floor and standing up on your toes to kiss him on the cheek, he is instantly enveloped by a tickling, light aroma of vanilla and warmth, an aroma that has become synonymous with the comfort of your presence next to him.

— «good morning, sweetie» leon responds with a baritone languid from sleep, and his gaze softens as he looks at you, there was a certain lightness in his baby blues, a satisfaction that usually speaks of a life well lived, the wrinkles on his slightly pinkish, after a kiss, face, that have accumulated over the years years of persistent and diligent service as an agent seemed to disappear as soon as he looked at you.

sitting in a cozy breakfast nook, usually decorated with a vase of flowers, which leon tries to replace as soon as the old ones wither, with cute knitted placemats under cute, flower painted plates and mugs that add tenderness, you enjoyed the silence of the morning with muffins and coffee.

leon was more than once surprised by the contrast — his past, slowly disappearing between his fingers like sand, full of chaos and dangers, and now this calm home life with you, in which he found solace in everyday life, in the mundane things about which you chatted and your voice was a ringing babble resounded from the kitchen and through the windows, in a softness that enveloped him immediately as soon as he was near, gentle interior design, soft, not too colorful colors, the things he shared with you and thanks to you.

from time to time you walked around the city, be it just a walk or for groceries, leon loved to spend maximum of his free time with you — he always, like a chivalrous gentleman, opened the car door for you, a small but painfully important gesture that made you smile softly and bubble a pleasant warmth in his chest, and on the streets, which were full of the hustle and bustle of everyday life, following the click of small heels on your new, cute shoes, his attention was focused exclusively on you, while you, in turn, looked at the shops located on both sides with burning eyes.

while you are walking together, a warm hand slides to your lower back, fingers draw graceful patterns on the fabric of your airy dress, neutral color, carefully emphasizing your body shape with its cut and cute elements, be it ruffles or bows, creating a delicate, fragile external visual that makes leon’s eyes squint when he looks at you, his love opens up just like a flower, a connection that transcends the need for loud gestures, and is noticeable precisely in the subtleties — shared glances, laughter, even.

while you explore the endless number of shops on the horizon, buying the necessary things for the home, kitchen towels, some charming boxes for sorting food and things, squinting and comparing one thing with another, trying to understand which is better before you take two, leon's keen, still squinting gaze scans the surroundings — a reminder of his days as an agent, he could not get rid of the instincts honed in the line of duty, but now those protective, obsessive glances were riveted on you while his thick, broad hand found yours, fingers gently intertwined with yours, silently promising to be there, when you contentedly, almost purring, leaned on his hand, walking in step.

you was spending most of your days together in quiet communication, be it watching a movie, cooking together, or just your babbling about some stories from the past to which he joined, pressing your tender body into his, hard, slightly limp over the years, intertwining his fingers with the strands your hair, running along the edges of some sophisticated hairpins, one of those that you often choose together, allowing leon to enjoy the simple joys of everyday life.

one lazy sunday afternoon, the two of you found yourself in the backyard of the house, basking in the smoldering rays of the sun, a light breeze playing with the strands of your hair as you lay in a hammock chair with a book in your hand, cheerfully flipping through the pages every time your eyes reached the end of a chapter, with a slight movement of your fingers, scrolling further, while leon, pleased with the way you were reading, sat next to you with a satisfied smile on his face.

— «i still can't quite believe i can spend my days peacefully like this» leon thought out loud and completely without reason, looking intently at you with tenderness seeping in his eyes.

you looked up from the book, a playful sparkle appeared in your eyes, and much more undisguised affection, answering him loudly velvetly, caressing his ears as if scratching under the chin, riveting his attention to you with his half tilted head — «well, you're a hero who deserves happily ever after, aren't you?» a playful remark as you tap your nails on the cover of the book, folding it into your lap.

he just grins, the sound turning into a harmonious melody following the rustle of the wind as the sun slowly sinks below the horizon, turning the sky pastel pinks and oranges as he joins you, not on the hammock, but between your legs, letting his knees press into the grass when he strokes your legs from toes to knees, velvety, plush skin without the barrier of shoes during a moment of relaxation, lifting up to round thighs and leading along the edges of another charming dress, while he says almost purring, a deep baritone bubbling from the very chest as he presses against your naked flesh — «i think so, especially when you're around me, darling»

you giggle, bury your fingers in his soft strands, running them over and squeezing until the slightly grown stubble lightly scratches and tickles the skin of your legs, he covers it with kisses, warm and short, forcing you to put the book completely down from your lap while he moves a little higher, forcing the hem of your dress to hide him more and more, and you sigh slightly raggedly, embarrassedly when he kisses the inside of your thigh, and you mutter, biting your glossy lips — «what are you intending to do, leon?»

he tilts his head as if innocently, smiling like a cheshire cat and wetting his lips with his tongue, rubbing and warming your thighs with the pads of his thumbs, while he himself crawled a little higher, before his warm breath slightly covers the cotton of your panties, and his face rests against your clothed pussy, bumping his nose and pressing his tongue flatly on your centre, one movement is enough to set your nerves on fire, and the fabric gets slightly wet from the slick that dribbles out, as he purrs contentedly, another sound rumbling deep within his chest — «to take my happily ever after, sweetheart, so sit pretty still f'me, mhm?»

next thing, leon's fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them apart as he begins to caress your drenched heat through the fabric of your panties.

his tongue presses flatly against your swollen clit, tracing maddening circles that send tremors running throughout your entire body, and the cotton between you and his skillful mouth does little to soften the sensations, but only increases friction on the clit swollen from arousal and heat.

with every flick of his tongue you grip his thick, slightly coarse hair tighter, a silent plea for more and leon literally growls into your cotton covered cunt in response to the grip in his hair, the vibrations causing a shiver of pleasure to run down your spine, allowing you voluntarily arch your wetness into his mouth, fluttering your eyelashes and watching his head slowly move with every lick and stroke.

he's relentless, his tongue working with a fervor matched only by the burning desire in his baby blue eyes, the taste of your slick arousal filling his mouth, fueling his desire to please you and causing him to push you closer to the edge.

as the fabric of your panties becomes wet from the mixture of his saliva and your slick, and your moans become louder, turning into an incoherent babble of — «yesyesyes, don't stop, lee, just like that — here! yes! yessmngh!» leon feels you pulsate more actively and your hole clenching around nothing, the grip on your hips intensifies, his fingers dig into your flesh before sliding up, teasing the edges of your soft underwear.

long, neat fingers push your wet panties to the side, exposing your shiny, swollen folds to his hungry gaze, and he wastes no time, his tongue immediately diving into your wet cunt with a hunger bordering on savage.

his sweeping movements from your clenching hole to your trembling clit cause waves of pleasure to run through your body, the laps of his mouth on your sensitive mound causes a mixture of moans and sobs from your trembling lips, your embarrassment that someone can hear this is drowned out by the all consuming ecstasy, deafening ears.

— «that's it, so pretty, so sweet» leon's purr vibrates against your smooth skin, a deep hum of satisfaction as he savors the taste of your arousal, he feasts on you with an insatiable appetite, his tongue mercilessly attacking your throbbing core.

your body reacts instinctively, a stream of sweet juices gushing from inside you, giving away just how high your arousal is, the sound of your wetness mixing with lewd slurping sounds as leon continues to devour you sloppily, his actions relentless and focused solely on bringing you to the top of pleasure and more, beyond.

with every movement, sucking and lapping he brings you closer to the edge, your moans become stronger, louder, less controlled even as you bite your swollen, bitten lips, the sensations overwhelm your senses, blurring the line between pleasure and the pain of sensitivity as your body shudders, teetering on the brink of stunning liberation, very close.

delving deeper, his tongue plunging into your clenching hole with unrelenting eagernessc and ease, he skillfully flicks and teases your folds, alternately sucking on your twitching clit and penetrating you with his skilled tongue.

his plump lips and chin are slick with a mixture of your arousal and his saliva, evidence of his hunger and sloppiness, he watches you carefully as you throw your head back, your body shudders and arches in pleasure, and baby blue eyes closely watch every goosebump on your skin with dilated pupils.

as soon as you reach the brim, tight coil of ecstasy finally snaps and your vision suddenly goes dark as your eyes roll back, your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, your moans turn into guttural screams, free when you release them, your cum fills leon's mouth and he hungrily drinks every drop, savoring the taste of your release on his tongue, slurping greedily and purely animalictically.

his movements don't falter as he continues to caress your sensitive, stimulated clit, prolonging your pleasure as aftershocks ripple through your body, the intensity of the moment rough, reeking of lust, yet unbearably tender, as are the movements of his fingers, drawing soothing circles on your thighs.

you are lost in a haze of ecstasy, your body shaking from the force of your release, but he remains steadfast, his focus unwavering as he makes sure every drop of pleasure is extracted from your trembling body completely as you slowly come to your senses, and there is a tension growing between his legs, but he will deal with it later, now he watched how charmingly your absolutely sopping folds trembled and pretty tight hole, relaxed after his tongue, clenched around nothing, rising his gaze further, to your heaving chest, still feeling the weight of your fingers in his hair.

he kisses your legs with a slow movement of his lips, descending from your thigh to your knee, drawing along the way transparent stripes from your slick on his lips, but in his opinion you look even more beautiful this way, completely dazed and drunk on pleasure, limp on soft pillows, listening to his rough, peaceful purring — «so pretty, my beautiful darling» which vibrate through the skin, preventing the butterflies in your stomach from calming down.

#.𐙚july's writings #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon scott kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy comfort #leon smut #leon scott kennedy fluff #leon scott kennedy x fem reader #leon scott kennedy comfort #leon scott kennedy x you #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fic #domestic leon kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy fanfic

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bamboozledbird · 2 months

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his eyes, his mouth // stiles stilinski imagine

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Void!Stiles, fem!reader (she/her pronouns) Pairing: not actually unrequited Stiles x fem!reader Word Count: 2.5k Warnings: canon typical gore/violence, choking, non-con touching/kissing (nothing worse than the show), emetophobia (mentions, no details) Tags: author is horny for classic lit and bad at titles and it shows Summary: Reader accepts Void's invitation to play even though she knows she's already lost. A/N: I'm on my teen wolf bullshit again icb. This is a rewrite of an old work of mine from 2014, and I did it for entirely selfish purposes. I need Void now, and my other work is in s1 smh.

The first time she saw brown eyes it was in her mother’s face, skin glistening with the sweat of labor and the adoration of motherhood. For a long time, she thought she’d never see eyes that full of feeling again—like a never-ending tree ring, like reeds taking root—and then, in the second grade, she met a boy with the round, brown eyes of a fawn. She helped him read without skipping over lines, he helped her make sense of fractions, and she stared at his eyes until it was time to go home. Over the years, she memorized every crack of amber and drizzle of honey until the sky was just a cloak of him, him, him.

It was the eyes that gave Void away. He could replicate Stiles’s smile, the curl of his smirk, the pucker of his confusion—but the eyes. He couldn’t quite hide the hollowness, even when her own were shut tight.

She kept them closed now. Under the starless sky, she could only make out the vague shapes of deadening trees; it was easier to follow the ink-dipped path with her hands. Her fingers brushed against damp moss and sticky bark until she stumbled over a loose rock. The stone rolled into something solid, and the resounding thud sent her heart into her throat. Everything seemed to be a little more than it was out here in the dark—the shapes bigger, the sounds louder, the fear thicker—everything except for her. Like this, she was a scared little girl. Frantic. Small. Alone.

She didn’t realize quite how small she was until she was enveloped with darkness, how small and how pathetically human—but here she was anyway: alone in the woods, blinded by the darkness of early morning, on her merry way to meet an immortal psychopath with an entire Japanese spirit army at his disposal. All this, simply because he told her to.

She’d known the text was from Stiles’s number before she even pulled her phone out from under her sleep-rumpled pillow. She knew because it was three in the morning. It seemed like he only ever needed her at three or five in the morning, and yet she always, always answered. She’d realized quickly, however, that this time it was Stiles’s number but it wasn’t his message.

< Stiles 🤓☝️: >

I know you always found Stiles so easily, but why don’t we see who’s the better hider? I’ll play fair this time, cross Stiles’s heart. I’ll even give you a hint: The cock crew, The sky was blue: The bells in heaven Were striking eleven. ‘Tis time for this poor soul To go to heaven. In case you’re thinking about not showing up, you should probably know the consequences. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, if you don’t come out and play with me, I’ll have to take out one of your pieces, and your family is just so deliciously human. I’m afraid it would be permanent.

The riddle wasn’t actually a riddle, and that was the entire point: both the author’s and Void’s. The only reason she knew the answer was because she loved James Joyce. Stiles knew that, so, of course, Void did too. He also knew that she’d know exactly which holly bush to stumble towards in the dark.

She reached the perimeter of a small clearing; the smell of pine and earth layered over the trickle of a shallow rivulet was achingly familiar. Tilting her head, she inched into the open area, wary of its uncanny resemblance to a stage, and came to a stop in front of a large stump nestled between thickets of holly. Even in the dark, her fingers found the clumsy letters chipped into wood by small, marshmallow-sticky hands.

He had Stiles’s phone, but he hadn’t bothered with the usual needlessly complex charade. She could only assume that meant that this was the trick and she was the punchline.

“The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush,” she broke the disquieting silence when the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled like a rabbit that knew it was about to die. She’d heard a rabbit scream once; nothing ever sounded quite so terrible until she heard Stiles wake up from one of his nightmares. “Clever, but I’m a little young to be your grandma. Aren’t you, like, a zillion years old?”

The Nogitsune exhaled against the knobs of her spine, his breath revoltingly warm and wet, “You could’ve let me have my dramatic entrance. I ask for so little.”

She pretended that her stomach was not churning and that she was not dying from this, “Sorry, next time a psycho killer asks me out, I’ll know better.”

He clicked his tongue and slipped his hand over her shoulder, twisting a strand of her hair around his finger in slow, methodical twirls. “You really need to learn to mind your manners, baby; someday that lip of yours is going to get you into trouble,” he chided, mouth resting against the shell of her ear.

She repressed a shudder and pulled his hand away from her by his wrist. He went surprisingly easy, delicate bones limp in her fingers. For a moment, she just gripped his clammy skin, digging her nails into pale flesh, waiting for him to do something. He didn’t. Void just sighed in her ear and hummed, “I know, baby. It’s just the moon, right? And the stars, and your favorite author in your favorite place with your favorite person—and they say romance is dead.”

It was the audible intake of breath as he smelled the jasmine and honeysuckle in her hair that finally cut through the heady haze swathed around her. She turned around and let go of his arm with a sharp push that sent her stumbling back a few steps. Void narrowed his eyes at her, and his slow smile made her sick, “Did I ruin it? C’mon, I gave you a hint; you tell me what he’d say if he were here.”

"Is this really why you made me get out of bed at 3:00 am? To roleplay?” she sounded much braver than she felt.

Void grinned again, all teeth and bad intentions, and she thought of the way Stiles’s eyes looked with his smirk wrapped around her straw as he stole a sip from her cup. It was more vanilla creamer than coffee, and his cheeks had hollowed from the sickening sweetness. She’d wanted to kiss him then for the same reason she wanted to climb on every sculpture that read, ‘look, but do not touch.’ Had that really only been a month ago?

Void slunk forward, agile and lithe like a big cat, and the flash of his smile in the dim light was a scalpel against her throat, “Maybe. Isn’t that why you came to find me in the middle of the night?” He stopped a few inches in front of her and canted his head, “All alone, no wolves or hunters to interrupt us, even though I didn’t tell you to keep it to yourself. You did that all on your own, baby. Such a good girl.”

His jaw softened slightly, and he rounded his eyes into a twisted mask of pity. He must’ve been able to hear her heart bruising against her ribs; she could feel the echo vibrating her stapes. Her lips parted, but her mouth went cottony when his hand trailed over her collarbone and came to a stop along the slender slope of her throat. “It’s just us now; you can tell me,” his voice was gentle, almost a coo, as his fingers squeezed slightly, thumb pressing into her carotid. “You can pretend it’s him. I won’t mind.”

“You’d get off on that, huh,” she was horrified to realize that her voice was wet and thick, completely wrecked, like she’d been crying for hours. Void’s eyes, dark and endless, flickered over her face as he sucked in a breath through his teeth—savoring her misery. “Knowing how much I want him—how much I hate you.”

His grip around her neck tightened briefly, but he relaxed his joints after a shallow exhale, struggling to pace himself. Overindulgence, she mused, that was probably his only weakness. “Don’t be like that, baby,” he smoothed his thumb over her pulse and grinned manically when it rabbited under his touch, “you’d get something too, and we both know this is the only way you’re gonna get it.” His wistful sigh stirred the soft hairs framing her face. “The boy doesn’t have much taste, I’m afraid, but I have to admit in this case,” Void’s gaze darted from her panting mouth to her heaving chest as she struggled for meager mouthfuls of air, “it’s worked out splendidly for me.”

If she could just stop seeing blurry splotches for a moment, maybe she could think of something to do other than gape at him like a fucking fish. At least, she couldn’t quite make out the lines and curves of Stiles’s stolen face like this. He would be so disappointed; the thought struck her in the stomach, and she might have gagged if her trachea had the space for it. He would be so disappointed that she’d been stupid enough to traipse into the forest to play house with a demonic spirit without backup. How? How could you be so fucking stupid? She could hear Stiles screaming at her in her head, almost felt his long fingers pinching her biceps as he tried to shake the stupid out of her. Not how, Stiles. Why. But she could never tell him the why; the why was possibly even more foolish than following the devil in the dark. At the very least, it was infinitely more cliché and endlessly more pathetic.

“I knew you were going to be my favorite.” She felt the words more than she heard them. Void’s dry lips brushed over her cheek, and then he dragged his mouth towards her jaw, more like a taste than a kiss, “I knew you’d be fucking exquisite.”

Her vision narrowed into pinpricks as his mouth crowded over hers, and with her last grasp of consciousness, she bit down on his lip. Hard. She fell to the ground with the coppery tang of blood on her tongue. Like pennies, she thought faintly as she watched honied amber eyes swim in the night sky, tastes like pennies.

**************************

When she finally woke up, she immediately wished she hadn’t. Her throat was rubbed raw with pain, and the left side of her body was sore to the bone. She hissed as she accidentally pressed into a blooming bruise just over her hip. It took her a moment to hone in on the ratty velvet couch and concrete floor: Derek’s loft, then. That was good. If she were dead, she would’ve picked just about anywhere else as the backdrop for her afterlife.

“You’re awake.” Stiles’s voice was flat, but his eyes were his and only his.

Her fingers skittered away from her skin to grab at the thin blanket draped over her legs, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Knock much?”

He didn’t look amused; he didn’t even roll his eyes. She had only seen Stiles well and truly angry a few times in her life and never at her. Heat sparked along her spinal column, and no matter how many times she swallowed her throat stayed dry.

“Look…” she cleared her throat and bit down on her bottom lip, wincing as pain sliced through the flesh—it was split open. When the hell had that happened? Frowning, she licked away the small trickle of blood from the reopened cut and slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably, like, five seconds away from laying into me with a hyperbole-heavy lecture, but can you just save it until I’ve taken a few painkillers and iced my fuckin’ knee. Much appresh.”

“You have no fucking idea what I’m thinking,” his tone was even, almost numb, but his eyes—his eyes gave him away. The amber was molten, and her head swam with the desire to burn in it.

Her leg jittered. “So,” the heel of her foot tapped against the stone floor, shooting aching jolts up her leg to her slightly swollen kneecap, “you aren’t thinking that I’m at least three levels above Jar Jar on the dumbassery scale? Like, it’s Jar Jar, Nedry, Condiment King, Goku, then me.” Her calf throbbed as she rolled her ankle and then pushed her foot up onto the toe of her muddy sneaker, trying to bounce silently. Stiles clocked it immediately. Of course, he did. It was his move.

Sighing, Stiles knelt down so that he wasn’t looming over her anymore and squeezed her unbruised knee until her foot slowed to a stop. “You know it goes: Nedry, Condiment King, you, Goku, and then Jar Jar," he ended his sentence with his hand hovering a few centimeters above your nose.

“Thank god.” The corner of her mouth wobbled as she tried to smile, “I think I hit my head on the way down, though. Possibly lost a few brain cells.”

Stiles winced, and the couch dipped with his weight as he sat down. His thigh was warm against hers. “Let me see,” he gently parted her hair, long fingers gently searching for any blood or bumps. She couldn't help but notice his mouth when he was this close; it was puffy and pink, most likely from using it as a chew toy while pacing a hole in the floor. She was frozen, paralyzed with wanting.

Her chest stuttered as her breath hitched. “You’re supposed to say somethin’ like, ‘Oh no, you didn’t have that many to begin with,’ or, ‘What will your other one have to fight with now,’” her voice was high and breathy, but she hoped he’d just write it off as pain or being slightly-concussed.

Stiles managed a weak smile until he accidentally pressed into a tender spot on the side of her head. She sucked in sharply, air whooshing between her teeth, and he immediately reached for her with his other hand. Like it was instinct. Like it was the only thing he knew. Stiles threaded their fingers together and squeezed as he carefully brushed the pad of his thumb over the same spot on her scalp, “There?”

“Mhm,” she was breathless, grateful he was intensely focused on the shallow cut just above her ear so that he couldn't see the wild look in her eyes.

“What did he…” Stiles licked over his teeth, grimacing, and stared at the pronounced veins in his pale wrist, “what did he say when he…had you…like that?” The words sounded painful, like barbed wire raking over his tongue. He couldn’t look at her; she wasn’t sure she wanted him to.

“Oh you know,” she hoped he couldn’t feel her heartbeat where his fingers were pressed against her skull, “the usual maniacal, narcissistic rambling.” She lowered her voice to a gravelly pitch even though it tugged at her bruised windpipe, “‘I’m what killed the dinosaurs. I’m inevitable.’ All the final boss monologuing clichés.”

Stiles searched her face for something. She smiled a little, and his responding smile was just as small, just as tired, but he seemed satisfied with her expression. He sat back and withdrew his hand from her hair, but he kept his thigh needlessly close to feel the warmth, the blood flow, the undeniable proof that she was here. “He Thanosed you?” Stiles arched a brow and dropped his arm over the back of the couch behind her head—close, but never close enough. Always a few inches away from where she wanted him.

“He did live in your head for a while there,” she sighed softly and drooped a bit into his side, chasing his body heat like a cat, curling in on him like a comma.

Stiles hummed a little in recognition, drumming his fingers in a soft pitter-patter just behind her shoulder. “And that’s everything? He didn’t…that’s it?”

She looked over at him. His jaw was tight and so were the tendons in his neck as he bit at his raw cuticles, on the verge of shaking or puking. His cheek fit perfectly in her palm, and she wanted him so badly she might split in two, “That’s it.”

#stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski fanfiction #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf imagine #stiles stilinski x you #stiles stilinski fic #dylan o'brien x reader #stiles stilinksi x reader

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chipedteacupchat · 30 days

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Reasons I love Rumbelle part 2:

I love how the show presents different types of relationships, for example CaptainSwan kiss constantly because they are a very physical couple, however Rumbelle hug more than they kiss because they are a more emotional couple (at least in my opinion).

Rumple finds it hard to show emotion after being abandoned by his family and never got any hugs when he was younger, yet Belle always knows exactly when he needs one and he in turn knows when she needs one (they still kiss occasionally aswell).

#rumbelle #once upon a time #rumplestiltskin #ouat #belle french #gif #love #hugging #relationship #beauty and the beast #opposites attract #love this

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peaches2217 · 6 months

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Everything's Okay

TW: PTSD, Dissociation, Brief Description of Vomiting

AO3 link! And a massive thank you to @squagel for your feedback and help!

~~~

“Peach?! Peach!”

The fire Peach dozed by may well have extinguished itself for how quickly her blood ran cold. Blissfully sleepy just moments ago, every nerve and neuron now blared alarm bells that forced her to move before she could even form a coherent thought.

She clambered her way out of the drawing room chaise as quickly as the extra weight she carried would permit, but even so, the ten steps to the bedroom door felt impossibly vast. It would feel no different even if she could sprint with the speed of a Yoshi racing through summer fields.

She was no stranger to hearing that voice call her name. She’d never heard it cried like that.

Just as she reached the door, it flew open, forcing her to clutch her belly protectively as she dodged its outward swing — and there stood Mario on the opposite side.

They stared at one another in shocked silence, and Peach took the opportunity to assess him before making her next move. Outwardly he appeared unharmed. He was still in his daytime attire, though the right strap of his overalls was undone and the adjacent bib corner hung limp from his chest. His hair was mussed, his eyes wild, boring into her with some mix of raw terror and disbelief; glancing over his head, she saw his cap resting on their bed near the far wall, its blankets still made up but visibly rumpled, the sheer canopy still drawn as it had been that morning.

A nightmare. He’d simply had another nightmare. Though she loathed to see him so frightened, Peach breathed a private sigh of relief. She had been so certain he was in legitimate danger from his tone of voice alone.

Honestly, she hadn’t even known he was in their quarters already. He must have snuck in sometime after dinner while she shared evening tea with Toadsworth and laid down to rest, crashing before he could even finish getting out of his clothes and snoozing soundly until his rude awakening.

“Peach…?” This utterance of her name was much quieter, almost quivering, and the weight that had lifted from her chest seeing him unharmed slowly resettled. Even newly awake, she could tell that this nightmare had been more intense than usual.

Indeed, he dealt with dark dreams somewhat regularly, dreams of attacks or disasters which jolted him awake and left him restless unless Peach was awake and available to distract him with lighthearted whispers across the pillow. Yet such dreams paled in comparison to the worst of his nightmares, in which he oftentimes lost her. Never any less painful in their familiarity, he woke from those dreams crying her name, and no amount of chatting could put him at ease; he would remain shaken and a little distant even as Peach fed him reassurances, resting his ear against her chest and listening to her heartbeat until he drifted off again.

The subject of tonight’s nightmare, therefore, was all too easy to discern. He must have panicked harder than usual upon waking to an empty bed.

“I’m right here,” she soothed, dropping her hands from her abdomen to hold him lightly by the shoulders. When he didn’t relax beneath her touch, she stroked his cheek, startlingly pale beneath her fingertips. Perhaps he was still half-asleep as well; maybe he still had trouble in discerning reality from another dream.

That happened sometimes on nights like this, so Peach didn’t panic. She guided him with gentle movements back into their room, leaving the door open so the heat from the fireplace could warm the dark bedroom. When she reached their bed, she situated herself on the mattress’ edge, urging Mario to sit beside her.

He didn’t sit. He remained standing before her, his expression dazed and his breath unsteady, but his eyes at least began to clear. At least she thought they were clearing. The moonlight that filtered in through the curtains was just adequate enough to see and not much more.

Adorning her gentlest smile, Peach took his hands. The rough skin that was normally a touch too dry was now clammy. “It’s alright, love,” she said. “It was just a bad dream. Everything is okay.”

Mario blinked a few times, glancing down at their hands. He made no attempt to hold hers in return.

“Everything’s…” he muttered vaguely. After a moment, he nodded. “Y… yeah. Everything’s… okay.”

Before she could utter another reassurance or encourage him again to join her, he withdrew his hands, the bulb in his throat bouncing as he swallowed thickly. “J-just a minute.”

“Of course,” Peach said in her same soft tone. With that, he nodded once more before lumbering away, towards the bathroom door; he flipped the lightswitch on as he entered but didn’t bother closing the door behind him. A jab low in her stomach drew Peach’s attention away from the empty door frame, and she smoothed her palm over that area of movement.

Your father, she sighed to her baby, letting her disorganized thoughts finish the sentence. Between the everyday pressures of being a hero and a consort, the apprehension over the rapidly approaching birth of their daughter, and the thousand royal tasks he insisted upon shouldering for her because “We can’t take any chances, Peachy, stress is bad for the baby! So you let Mario do all the stressing for you, okie-dokie?”, Peach had begun to wonder how he hadn’t fallen into a coma from sheer strain. A high-intensity nightmare was the last thing he needed.

But it would be okay, she assured herself. Mario was hardly invincible, but he could still handle more than most. He would feel better once he splashed some cold water onto his face, took a moment to breathe, and when he was ready to return she would give him a safe haven within her arms. By morning his nightmare would be a hazy memory and he’d live to fight another day.

Exhaling sadly and slowly, she relaxed her posture and fetched her husband’s cap where it lay just behind her, tracing the familiar coarse stitching with her index finger. The seams along the brim showed signs of fraying. Perhaps she could convince him to go bareheaded tomorrow, and she could busy herself repairing the beloved article. Give his spirits a much-needed lift. Already she could imagine him beaming and kissing her cheeks over and over as though she had performed some monumental act of charity, and the thought brought a grin to her face once more.

Clank!

Peach looked up. The noise came from within the bathroom, the unconcerning sound of a bottle being knocked over or perhaps a bar of soap being dropped. It wouldn’t have worried her in the slightest, if not for what followed: silence. Perfect, pure silence, no running of water, no padding of footsteps, nothing except for Mario’s breath, still far too labored for her liking.

“…Mario?” she called softly.

Mario’s response: a quiet, strained groan.

The dread blossoming within Peach’s chest burst violently into bloom at the commotion that followed, a sudden cacophony of distressed noises and the thud of something heavy hitting the floor, and now it was her turn to cry her beloved’s name.

“Mario?!” Abandoning the cap on the covers once more, she leapt to her feet with unprecedented vigor and rushed to where he was, hastened by a strangled cry and the sharp clank of porcelain on porcelain and—

And the unmistakable, nauseating sound of retching.

The sight that met Peach past the doorway froze her to the spot in horror. Mario, on his knees and clinging tightly to the latrine, coughed so violently into the bowl that his whole body shook, his few breaths between coming in pained gasps, and just as soon as he’d filled his lungs he was gagging again. His tongue lolled from his mouth and thick drool dripped from his bottom lip; tears streamed from his eyes, screwed tightly shut; and only when he lurched forward once more was Peach able to come to her senses.

“Mario—” She hurried to him as he vomited again, standing uselessly over his hunched form and running her options through her brain. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and coated every inch of visible skin in a thin sheen. Okay. First order of business: cool him off and help him calm down. Then they’d go from there.

He went into another coughing fit as she yanked the top drawer of the cabinet open, though it was far weaker now, phlegmy and punctuated with meek gasping. “Breathe, sweetie,” she said, praying he couldn’t hear the panic that bled into her tone despite her best efforts. “Just breathe. You’ll be alright.”

Running the first rag she could find beneath a stream of cold water, Peach tried to focus on the rush of the faucet, and that was almost enough to drown out the agonizing sounds that still spilled from his throat.

“Breathe,” she repeated as she wrung the drenched rag, returning to him to drape it over his exposed nape. This got a reaction from him at least; he shivered at the cloth’s ice touch, and his death grip on the porcelain loosened, and his shoulders sagged as he did his best to follow her order, and that was all good, she decided. As good as a situation like this could get, anyway.

Next order of business: water.

With the promise of her swift return, Peach beelined to the kitchen to fetch a glass and some sort of sickly syrup made to combat nausea. Nurse Toadessa wouldn’t be in bed for a few more hours. That would give Peach plenty of time to get Mario somewhat comfortable and then have him checked over. And it would probably be wise to receive a checkup herself, just in case…

But there had been no reports of any sort of stomach bug outbreak, and Mario was far too hardy to be among the first to catch an illness. Thinking back through the day, she couldn’t recall detecting any signs that he was feeling poorly, or at least anything other than overworked; she could, however, remember thinking poorly of the mutton served at dinner and politely refusing it, offering her portion to Mario under the (not entirely untrue) guise of wanting to save room for extra cake. He had practically licked both plates clean. (And then he’d belched loudly by complete accident, over which they shared a fit of laughter, albeit with much embarrassed fluster on Mario’s end.)

A sudden pang of guilt struck Peach, not helped by the sharp kick below her ribs she received at the same time. She’d only meant to spare the feelings of the castle’s hardworking cooks. Perhaps, she thought now, it would have been best to speak up.

But that might also explain his extreme reaction to his nightmare. The few times Peach had experienced food poisoning, her own dreams were uncomfortably vivid. Still, content that she knew the source of his illness, she held her head higher as she returned to the bathroom, medicine in one hand and glass of fresh water in the other.

Mario lay curled on the tiles, his head cushioned on his extended left arm, and now his breath was shallow but fairly steady. The toilet lid had been closed and the cloth Peach had provided him with was clutched loosely in his outstretched hand. Though her heart hurt for him, she couldn’t help but be taken by a sad but fond affection.

She had become well-acquainted with the bathroom floor during her episodes of morning sickness, and whenever she felt in good enough humor, she would promise to repay Mario’s attentive care if ever a similar sickness befell him. On those days he would challenge that promise, sprawling out on the tile beside her and listing off the endless stream of luxuries he expected to be showered with the next time he so much as ran a slight fever; only when she was giggling too hard to forget about her own misery would he kiss her forehead and assure her that it would be enough just to know that she was there.

Now was her chance to carry out that promise, at least.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to endure a bit of torture now,” she warned, equal parts teasing and sympathetic, setting the water on the vanity so she could pour said torture into the plastic cup that fit over the bottle’s lid. “But I assure you, it’s for your own good.”

The room remained silent as she measured out the syrup. Odd. Mario never passed up an opportunity to complain whenever he was forced to take medicine. She had at least expected a disapproving groan. For a moment she thought he might have fallen asleep, but looking again once the cup was prepared, his eyes appeared to be open.

“Mario…?”

He didn’t so much as twitch. If not for the quick rise and fall of his sides, he could have easily passed for a corpse.

Peach felt her hands begin to shake even before she could register her own emotions, and she set both the bottle and cup of syrup on the vanity lest they slip from her grasp. She knew this. There were occasions, very rare occasions, in which Mario remained awake yet became unresponsive. But it only happened when…

In a few swift movements, she joined him on the floor, shuffling towards him on her knees and reaching over her swollen stomach to jostle him — and eventually, with some difficulty, roll him onto his back.

He must have wiped his face with the cloth, because it was damp but fairly clean save a few residual tears that trickled down his cheeks, almost normal in appearance. But his eyes… they looked straight up and right through her. Aware, sort of, but glazed and dull, like ocean marble gone cloudy with age, like he could see her but didn’t actually know she was there.

Food poisoning and cloying syrups were suddenly the farthest thoughts from her mind.

“Hey.” She stroked his cheek with an uncertain hand; she felt a minute twitch of muscles in response to her touch, but Mario himself did not react. “C-come back to me, alright? We’re safe, love, everything’s okay! Everything’s…” Her words faltered, her throat closing off and her eyes stinging, staring into his blank gaze and searching for some sign, any sign, that he was with her.

Nothing. He blinked, maybe from her voice and maybe just automatically, but his stare remained as lifeless a stare as someone otherwise alive and well could possess.

The terror with which he’d screamed her name, terror reflected in his face even after seeing her… the daze he’d fallen into then, impenetrable no matter how sweetly she spoke to or touched him…

That was it then. This wasn’t the result of undercooked food or anything of the sort. Whatever images had been conjured up and presented to him in his sleep, they had triggered some sort of trauma response, and the only way his brain could protect itself from the onslaught of anguish, so sudden and unendurable that it had driven him to physical sickness, was to shut itself down.

Peach’s vision went unfocused, and she sat back on her heels. This hadn’t happened in years. What could she do?

Anyone who thought rationally on the matter for more than a few seconds could easily infer that Mario suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, or something like it. One doesn’t become a war hero without going through a handful of near-death experiences and witnessing more destruction and suffering in a single day than anyone should have to see in a lifetime.

Even so, the semi-frequent nightmares were usually the worst that trauma manifested, and the very worst of those never triggered this. No, these out-of-body (or maybe locked-in-body, he was never sure how to describe it to her) experiences only happened in the wake of considerable events: being crushed or burned until he stood inches from the gates of the Overthere, witnessing the near-death of the universe up close, things of that nature.

But Mario, through a combination of sheer stubbornness and an insatiable love for life, refused to let even that much take him down. In due time, he always came to peace with these events, or at least learned to leave them in the past where they belonged, at which point nightmares would once more be the worst of his concerns.

Sniffling and swiping her knuckles across her eyes, Peach took in his still-unmoving form, those blank blue eyes still trained on the ceiling. What in the Eight Realms had he dreamed of? A reaction this strong suggested it had been far worse than just losing her.

Or maybe there was more at play than a one-off dream. At present, Mario spent every day giving every last ounce of energy he had to spare (which, mind, is a lot), and for the past few weeks he’d barely even made it into bed before crashing. But he still seemed so happy, and though Peach had her suspicions that he was beginning to struggle, she had never stopped to wonder if he was already crumbling.

Of course. Of course he would hide the extent of his struggles from her more fervently now than ever, content in the knowledge that, for once, she would be too distracted with personal and shared concerns to see the usual signs. Of course he’d happily waste away to spare her concern, until his mental state was so eroded that one bad dream was enough to break him.

The tears she had cleared from her eyes were back just as quickly, accompanied by guilt so immense she could see it like storm clouds in her peripheral vision, but she swiped at her face once more and fought against it with whatever might she possessed. This was no one’s fault, or it was both of their faults; regardless of who was or wasn’t to blame, the only fix was to move forward. Wallowing in regret would help no one.

She considered redoubling her efforts, maybe using her magic to fill his brain with comforting images to coax him back. But what if the fear and hopelessness she felt was too strong to withhold from him? What if she only made it worse? Those thoughts compelled her to scoot across the floor on her backend — awkward, perhaps, but less taxing and risky than trying to hoist herself to her feet — and from the cabinet against the opposite corner she retrieved a rolled towel, the softest in their possession.

Maybe letting this episode run its course was the best option. Dark a thought as it was, Peach wondered, settling the towel beneath her husband’s head, if this forced shutdown of his mind might be exactly the reprieve it needed.

Mario blinked again. Still no focus in his eyes. Peach combed her fingers through his curls, still damp with sweat, and did her best to smile at him, just in case he could register it. Just in case her presence really was enough, just as he’d once said it would be.

A powerful kick to her side made her inhale sharply, and she turned her attention from Mario briefly to soothe their baby. She wasn’t in any mood to be soothed, so it seemed; she kicked again, somehow even harder, and this was followed by a flurry of tossing and turning tantamount to a full-fledged tantrum. Peach held her belly steady in both hands and winced at the barrage of sensation.

“Maybe we could tone it down a bit tonight?” she murmured, more to fill the silence than out of any real hope that she would be heard. Already her little girl threatened to match her father’s boundless energy, and Peach had long since resigned to taking the brunt of it (though Mario sometimes fell victim too — the memory of his expression the first time his unborn daughter had kicked him in the face, eyes wide with the most authentic shock she’d seen from him in ages, elicited a fleeting giggle from Peach). But tonight…

Come to think of it, it was well past storytime by now, wasn’t it? Of course she would throw a fit over the unexpected change in routine. Peach sat back and huffed in sorrowful amusement.

Every night without fail — at least until tonight — Mario made a point to devote time to bonding with their daughter. Most nights it was a casual affair, humming little lullabies or telling stories in either of his tongues while he and Peach lay in bed together. But the closer her due date drew, the more elaborate those bonding sessions had grown. Last night, he’d laid Peach down on the couch with a mug of spiced cocoa, surrounded her with pillows and blankets, then knelt on the floor and read a colorful picture book to her stomach, complete with over-the-top faces and hand gestures and unique voices for all of the characters and frequent interjections of “How exciting!” and “Ooh, what do you think happens next, albicoccetta?”

Their baby had kicked and moved about as if bouncing in excitement, just as she did each time she heard her father’s voice before bed, and Mario had chastised Peach for interrupting the sacred ritual of storytime with her delighted laughter, his voice thick with playfulness and his tired face alight with glee.

In the present, the warm fondness of recent memories was chilled by a dark, dawning realization.

He had dreamed of losing a lot more than just her.

“Peach…”

Peach’s head snapped down with such speed that it made the room spin.

Mario was making a feeble effort to raise up on his elbows, though he groaned quietly and his face screwed in discomfort from the effort. The tightness in Peach’s throat returned with a vengeance.

“Relax,” she somehow managed to squeak, one hand finding his hair and the other resting on his chest, where the unhooked denim bib exposed his shirt. “Lie back down, love. Gather your bearings.”

He followed her guidance without protest, which was as comforting as it was disquieting.

The attempt at getting up drained whatever energy he had left, and once more his breath came in labored pants, his eyes shut tightly, sweat beading at his forehead. Peach glanced at the vanity, next to which sat a small refuse bin, and her hands reluctantly left Mario so she could retrieve it. Best be prepared in case he needed to vomit again.

He caught her hand before she could move away.

“Peach,” he whispered again, and even that whisper sounded as if it took a great deal of effort to summon. She had always been entranced by his hands, large and impossibly strong yet warm and careful. But now the hand holding hers trembled, cool to the touch, and Peach knew she could easily break free from his frail grasp if she felt so inclined.

She was not inclined in the slightest. She wanted nothing more than to hold on even tighter and tell her love that everything would be okay — and she wanted just as badly for him to do the same for her.

When he opened his eyes, they finally focused on her, and they looked much the same as they had in the drawing room: terrified, pitiful, pleading.

“Non andare,” he mouthed. If any sound passed his lips within those two words, Peach couldn’t hear it.

She clasped her free hand atop his and willed herself to give him her most comforting smile, even as her bottom lip quivered, even as she lost the battle against her own tears. “I’m right here,” she promised him. “Mario, we’re not going anywhere. We’re safe.”

Mario nodded with small, rapid movements and shakily pulled their conjoined hands to his chest, covering them with his remaining hand and mouthing something like Okay, okay, okay. His pulse hammered away beneath Peach’s touch, yet he released a deep sigh and closed his eyes once more.

And still nothing felt right, not at all, but he was back with her at last, so that gave Peach the strength to feed him the little white lie that it was all okay.

~~~

Peach woke to a Mario-sized indent in the mattress beside her and the sweet smell of melted chocolate and caramel. Still enveloped in the fog of sleep, everything felt disarmingly normal. Dreamy, even.

Ten seconds into her struggle to sit up, she caught sight of Mario exiting their quarters’ small kitchen, his hair and nightclothes dusted in flour and a platter of something that looked like pancakes and a fork balanced in his hands; the cheerful smile he flashed when their eyes met initially gladdened Peach, but uneasiness settled over her just as quickly, and much more strongly at that.

“Morning,” he greeted as he reached her, setting the platter on her bedside table before slipping an arm behind her back. “Here, here, don’t exert yourself. I gotcha.”

Once she was upright, he quickly fluffed her pillow and set it against the headboard, helping her scoot back so she could sit more comfortably. Then he handed her the platter with a quip of “Buon appetito!”, and after brushing the residual flour from his body, he set straight to work smoothing the bedcover over her legs.

Peach paid no mind to the platter in her hands at first. She simply watched as her husband busied himself, humming a familiar tune, and the casual atmosphere only served to heighten her discomfort.

This wasn’t the same Mario she had fallen asleep with. That Mario had eventually been able to pry himself from the bathroom floor and join her in bed, but his eyes remained distant and his movements heavy and stilted. They’d laid together for maybe an hour before Peach drifted off, his ear firmly planted over her heart and his palm following each and every little (and not-so-little) movement from within her belly, her fingers combing his hair and her voice carrying increasingly drowsy whispers of affirmation.

Maybe she should have been relieved, she thought, seeing him move so easily and act so cheerfully after such a troubled night. Anyone else might assume the experience had lifted some great weight from his shoulders and restored his drive. Yet he’d spent far too long fussing over the bedcover, and the longer she watched, the longer she realized he was pointedly avoiding her gaze. Almost like he was hiding from her, hiding in plain sight…

Peach was thus not nearly as excited over the breakfast offering as she wanted to be. A real shame, given said offering was chocolate pancakes with chocolate chips drizzled in chocolate and caramel sauce. Any other morning, she would have happily obeyed her cravings and scarfed the stack down, showering her personal pastry chef in compliments the whole while. Indeed, this was the cleanest, most attractive plate he had ever presented to her… and that told her everything she needed to know.

Mario was no pâtissier — more of a pastassier, really — so the uncharacteristically perfect presentation confirmed that he had been awake and at work since well before sunrise. She sighed heavily.

“What’s wrong?” She could hear the dismay in his voice, hidden beneath a thick layer of partially-feigned concern. “Not, uh, not feeling up to chocolate today? Well don’t you worry! Mario’s here to make you anything you—”

“We can’t just pretend last night didn’t happen, Mario,” Peach said, lifting her head from the plate — and finally catching his eyes.

She caught him unguarded just long enough to see it all in his face: guilt. Embarrassment. Regret. Crushing, crippling exhaustion, the sort that any average person simply wouldn’t be able to function under. And just as soon as she saw it, his guard went right back up, a few milliseconds too late.

“...Peach—”

“Please,” she cut in, because she couldn’t bear to watch him sweep it all under the rug, not after seeing him in such a despondent state. “Darling, I know you. These episodes don’t just happen out of nowhere. Won’t you please just… talk to me? I’m worried about you.”

Mario perked up a bit at those last four words, and immediately she realized, with no small level of annoyance, that she’d given him a perfect springboard for diverting the topic.

“Ah, amore,” he crooned with painful sincerity, drawing closer to lay a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got enough on your plate, yeah? Let’s leave all the worrying to Toadsworth! You just worry about yourself…” he released her shoulder to tap her cheek affectionately. “...and our albicoccetta…” He brought his hand down to repeat the gesture to her bump, but stopped when he saw the pancake platter Peach still held atop it.

“And getting you something to drink.” He clapped his hands and smiled brightly, almost brightly enough to outshine the dark circles beneath his eyes and disguise the frown lines barely hidden by his hair. “Mamma mia, how could I forget? What do you want? Tea? Juice? More of that spiced cocoa from the other night? Ooh! Or maybe—”

“I want you to rest, ” Peach interjected, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended, judging by the way his face dropped and he briefly flinched away. But she couldn’t entertain this a moment longer. “I fear you’ve taken on more than you can handle right now. The pressure is breaking you. And I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner, but now that I know, I won’t let it go on any longer.”

Mario stuttered uselessly, his mouth opening and closing around nonsense sounds and unfinished words. Peach took the opportunity to recenter herself while he searched for his words; clearly he didn’t disagree with her assessment. Perhaps she could still talk some sense into him.

“Here,” she continued more gently, setting her still-untouched breakfast back on the bedside table and shimmying from beneath the blanket. “Trade me places.”

That kicked him into gear. “You can’t,” he said quickly. “You-you really shouldn’t, Peachy. The baby—”

“Some mental stimulation will be refreshing, and the change of pace will be healthy!” Mario’s meticulous blanket-smoothing work now ruined, Peach carefully swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I promise I won’t overdo it. And, of course, I’ll stay until you can get back to sleep, and I’ll check in with you throughout the day. But trust that Toadsworth and I are more than capable—”

“No!”

Now it was Peach’s turn to flinch, her heart stuttering in her chest and her words dying on her tongue. Mario had never raised his voice at her. Not like that.

She saw her shock reflected in his face. No, it was far more than shock on his face; it was a rush of those same emotions she saw earlier, guilt and shame and humiliation, all interwoven with understated but blatant horror.

“J-just…” He reached out hesitantly, not daring to make direct contact, like he feared his touch might bruise her. Suddenly Peach wanted nothing more than to feel the full strength of his arms around her. “Here.” His left hand ghosted over her side and his right gestured to her legs, urging her to pull them back up. “Lay back down, okay? Lay down.”

Peach numbly complied, pulling her legs back onto the bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to lay down fully. She watched as Mario tentatively pulled the cover back over her legs and forced the wheels in her head to spin, give her the answers for how to make everything right.

Mario eventually found the nerve to glance back up at her. “I’ll just… get you some water, yeah?” He smiled, and maybe it was supposed to look calming or reassuring, but it just made Peach want to cry. He looked so miserable.

The words came to her as he made his way to the kitchen, though they weren’t the words she was expecting.

“Come here.”

He stopped in his tracks, twisting his torso to look back at her. “L-lemme just get—”

“Come here, Mario,” Peach repeated, firm but not cold, patting the empty space on the bed beside her. He eyed that spot reluctantly, but he relented quickly enough; in half a minute’s time he settled in beside her, body angled towards hers, close but not quite touching.

A small noise of surprise slipped his throat as she pulled him into her arms, forcing him to lean forward or else collapse against her.

Trying to talk sense into Mario was as effective as trying to eat a brick. He didn’t need a lecture. He needed safety. He needed to know he could be vulnerable, even when his every last sense told him otherwise.

“Talk to me,” Peach whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. He remained rigid in her arms, but she could hear his breath quicken, and she laid heavily against the headboard to encourage him to relax as well.

At long last, after several tense seconds, he melted into her. He carefully slotted himself against her side, burying his face into her sternum, encircling his arms around her so that not a single centimeter of space remained between their bodies, and for the first time since the previous evening, everything truly felt okay.

For a while, Mario didn’t say anything. He held onto her and breathed in her scent in silence, though his breath was uneven, and Peach suspected that at any point she’d feel hot tears seep into her nightgown’s fabric. For better or worse, this never came to pass, but eventually he did break the silence.

“I have to protect you,” he said.

“I know.” Peach rubbed small circles over his spine, and he responded not by relaxing further, but by tightening his grasp on her.

“No, Peach, I…” He gathered handfuls of her nightgown tightly enough to constrict the garment around her chest — tightly enough that his arms began to shake from the strain of his muscles. “I have to— I have to keep you safe,” he continued, unable to even raise his voice above a whisper. “Both of you. I-I have to. I have to, don’t you get it?”

Peach continued with her ministrations in silence as she processed his words. He wasn’t talking about any literal obligation, his duty as her guard and her king, her husband and the father of her child. The need he spoke of was pathological.

Mario had always taken the safety of those he loved upon himself. That innate need to protect had predictably escalated tenfold in the past months, and normally Peach found it terribly endearing, the pains he took to ensure that she faced nothing worse than achy muscles and mood swings for the duration of her pregnancy. But he feared for far more than her comfort or even her health, didn’t he?

Already Peach had deduced that his psychological state was in far worse shape than he’d let on. Now he trembled in her arms, silent once more, and the question of what had triggered his breaking point was answered in full.

He hadn’t just dreamed about losing his wife and daughter. He’d dreamed that he had tried to protect them and failed. He’d dreamed that they were dead, and it was all his fault. And Peach would stake every last coin in the royal treasury that he had seen it happen, in graphic, all-too-realistic detail.

“Oh, sweetie,” she sighed, and she felt useless to say anything beyond that. She could try to match his fears with facts — that the one entity with any plans for her downfall had pointedly steered clear of the kingdom’s borders for years now, with spies confirming no plans existed for retaliation or ambush, that she also had the protection of the full Royal Guard, stronger and more courageous than any Guard before them with Mario as their commander-in-chief, that anywho who could get through the Guard or even Mario would still have to get past Toadsworth, and no one got past Toadsworth — but she knew it would make little difference, if any.

Facts rarely quelled fear, especially a fear with its barbs sunk deep into an overworked, horrifically stressed, sleep deprived mind.

“Oh sweetie,” she repeated softly, sinking lower against the headboard so she could cradle Mario’s head against her chest. He went with her easily, sighing shakily beneath her touch, his death grip on her gown easing up.

A feeble kick nudged against Peach’s side, and then she felt a puff of air against her clavicle, Mario’s lips curling into a small smile against her. Seeing the opportunity for a diversion of her own, Peach suddenly felt a bit lighter.

“She doesn’t like hearing you so sad,” she said, her right hand fishing for Mario’s left and bringing it to the point of movement. “She wants her papa to be happy.”

Another puff of air. “Pretty sure she’s trying to beat me up, actually.” He laced their fingers together over that spot, and where Peach expected him to grip her hand for dear life, he gently squeezed it instead. “We didn’t have storytime last night.”

Peach hummed in consideration. He was being lighthearted about it, but she knew he genuinely felt bad, and that would be one more weight he’d have to carry through the day. Knowing now just how greatly he toiled to keep himself together, she couldn’t help but fear even that small burden might be too much. If only she could take that weight from him, every last bit of it…

Maybe she couldn’t take it from him, but she could at least convince him to let go of it all for a while.

“I’m sure she can find it in her little heart to forgive you,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You tell Toadsworth you’re taking the day off. Ask him to move as many of today’s tasks as he can to tomorrow and to take care of the rest himself.”

Mario pulled back at this, just far enough to look her in the face. Was that relief she saw, hidden half-heartedly beneath weary concern? “But—”

“You did say we should leave the worrying to him,” Peach teased, returning his earlier squeeze of their conjoined hands. Toadsworth knew as well as Peach how willingly Mario would run himself into the ground before ever considering a day off. He would know the request was at Peach’s behest, and he’d be all too happy to comply, as much for Mario’s sake as for hers.

And if he wasn’t happy, well, he could take that up with Peach. The old Toad may well have been her father. She was hardly intimidated.

Mario drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly through his lips, and that was most certainly relief she saw in his features. “Alright. I, uh… I’ll get presentable.”

A similar relief flooded Peach’s chest, relief mixed with pride, and she rewarded her husband with a kiss to the nose. Accepting a break when there was work to be done was one of the few challenges he couldn’t face easily. “Hurry back,” she said. “I think we both deserve to sleep in.”

The tired contentment Mario wore lightened into something more upbeat, a familiar wide grin spreading beneath his mustache. “Ah! And you know what sleep means, yeah?” He pulled away fully now, letting go of her hand so he could rest his palm against her belly. “Papà ti darà due storie, oggi! Che te ne pare?”

Peach giggled as he leaned over to kiss her bump. A chance to relax and a chance to make amends for a missed bonding session. Today would be a therapeutic day for Mario indeed.

“...and I’ll grab something from the kitchens for you to eat,” he added as he climbed off the bed, and only then did Peach remember the immaculate-looking pancakes she’d abandoned on the nightstand, now cold and likely going stale.

“Don’t even think about it.” She brought the platter to herself once more, because now that she wasn’t bogged down with worry, her cravings were already rearing their head once more. “You put too much work into these for them to go to waste.” And they were still really good, she discovered and divulged after her first forkful, even at room temperature.

By the time Mario was dressed and gave Peach her parting kiss (after taking her plate into the kitchen, because she had demolished the pancakes with a speed and passion one might consider embarrassing), he looked so much more like the Mario he had tried and failed to emulate an hour ago: the Mario who was truly happy, truly unbothered by even the worst of his problems, because the joy and love he felt for his life and those within it outweighed all else. Her Mario.

Yet once he left and the room fell back into silence, that creeping uneasiness settled over Peach again.

In the end, this was little more than a distraction. Maybe Mario would feel refreshed after today, and maybe he would be more willing, however slightly, to lean on his wife for support. But he would still carry everything that got them to this point in the first place: all of his traumas, all of his duties, all of his fears, his insatiable need to remain a beacon of stability even when he himself was on the verge of collapse.

Maybe he would hold their baby in his arms in a month’s time and remember the images he’d seen in his nightmare. The thought struck Peach with such force that it caused her physical pain, like a dagger plunging into her heart. She took in a sharp breath and forced it from her mind at once.

But even if today was merely a distraction… it was still a distraction. A chance to regroup. A much-needed reminder that, in the end, it would all be okay, somehow. The best they could do was take it day by day. Tomorrow could throw out any challenge it wanted; just for today, they could put their worries on hold. Everything would be okay, even if only for a short time.

And maybe, for now, that was good enough.

#so! this was SUPPOSED to be a ficlet...#super mario bros #smb #mario #princess peach #mareach #mario x peach #peaches' fancy fics #tw pregnancy #tw emeto #tw vomiting #not sure which one's best to use... forgive me #tw ptsd #tw dissociation #daddy marioposting

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depressedstressedlemonzest · 10 months

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So i dont annoy the ever loving crap out of @lunarmultishine Imma start live posting my watch of Once Upon A Time 12 years late.

#ouat #first complete watch through #i watched a couple episode when it first came out and remember a few things #insert tiktok sound 'i only watched once upon a time for that one hot guy'#'aw yeah captain hook right'#'yes the age appropriate conventionally attractive man definately not #SCALY LIZARD MAN'#i am 100000% watching fornscaly lizard man #i already watched 1x12 and i love it more than life #rumplestiltskin #ouat rumple #rumbelle #belle x rumple #emma swan #lem watches ouat

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nym-wibbly · 19 days

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A Bed of Thorns - the ending

I've answered a few Asks recently about the state, fate, and ending of my 12-year-old Belle/Rumple WIP, A Bed of Thorns.

I don't have it in me to admit that this thing defeated me (Once Upon a Time is all about not giving up hope, after all, so that would be silly) but I think it's time to put the ending out here for anyone who'd like the closure to find. It's not a huge secret. I've been sharing details of the ending and epilogue with anyone who asked privately since a couple of years into writing it, and I've never asked those people not to tell others.

As with all my works, anyone is welcome to snag my ideas and original characters for use in their own non-profit fanworks, so if my planned ending doesn't float your boat, by all means create your own! Of all my stories, I know that A Bed of Thorns was, is, and always will be so much bigger than myself. I lay claim to nothing but the words I've written. Even if I'm never able to complete it, the story lives in my head and heart, and the privilege of touching something once-in-a-fannish-career special still leaves me humbled (and more than a bit intimidated!)

Don't click the 'keep reading' if you don't want to know how the story ends!

Rumple eventually lets the Dark Curse (and Regina) go, trusting Belle to find a way to reunite them with Baelfire. A way that doesn't rack up the cosmic debt and devastate more lives. Belle finds the way, because there was always another way—multiple other ways to move between the Enchanted Forest and the Land Without Magic—Rumple just couldn't access those solutions by using dark magic, distrust, or dealing. And, having let Baelfire go all those years ago, he couldn't see the flaw in his approach until he had love in his life again. Magic bean, plot, then Rumple hesitates at the portal, afraid to go through and become powerless on the other side. Afraid it won't work. Afraid that Bae won't forgive him. Afraid he'll fail as a father again. Belle just holds out her hand and waits patiently for him—trusting him to make the right choice for Bae, not doubting for a moment that he will. She's so excited for the big adventure of this strange land without magic. They step together through the portal into Victorian London. In the brief epilogue Rumple and Belle finish up an anxious search by knocking on the Darlings' door, finding young Bae before he's taken to Neverland. Before it's too late for them to be a family.

If you love A Bed of Thorns even a fraction as much as I do - thank you.

Nym - September 2024

#nym's fanfic #a bed of thorns #rumbelle

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pedroscardigan · 1 month

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for emma to know so well how the legal system works, why THE FUCK does she think she can just have henry?? and for mary margaret’s ass to think she can say to regina she doesn’t have a say. regina LEGALLY adopted henry. RAISED him for his whole life. so yes, he found emma. emma deserves to be in his life if he himself wants. but for everyone to think that regina has no say IS FUCKED UP. are people actually blind to the fact that regina actually just loves henry??? why can the town fathom rumple threatening to kill everyone over belle but the MOMENT regina wants to defend herself for henry and hurt others, she’s a bitch. like why are we respecting rumple more and taking him more seriously than regina??? like MAKE IT MAKE SENSE TO ME. i hate this town.

#once upon a time #once upon a time analysis #regina mills #regina mills analysis

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 1 year

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PLEASE MORE DICK AND READER AND DOTING BRUCE CONTENT I ADORE THEM SO MUCH

Alfred looked up from where he was sitting in his favorite armchair, enjoying a quiet cup of tea. And for just a second, he forgot what year it was.

Dick was fast asleep against Bruce's shoulder. Bruce held him in one arm and had his other hand in yours. The two of you are quietly giggling at some little joke he wasn't- and didn't want to be privy to. And as Bruce leaned down to steal a kiss, Dick opened his eyes.

He murmured something sleepily. Reaching for you as you reached up to ruffle his hair. And when you took him, cuddling him in his rumpled- now filthy- white suit to be put to bed, Bruce stopped for a minute. Watching you go. Clearly melting into a puddle.

"Was there no convenient mud puddle?" Alfred asked, raising an eyebrow as Bruce loosened his tie and dropped into a chair.

"He didn't manage to stay reasonably tidy," Bruce snorted. "There were other children. And sugar."

Alfred chuckled to himself and leaned up to pour Bruce a cup of tea. "Other than that, how was the wedding?"

"Fine," Bruce said, half shrugging. "Not as horrible as some." You were going from an outsider to an oddity- someone to be spoken to out of curiosity. Just visible enough that your backstory was interesting instead of scandalous... Largely, Bruce thought, because of Dick. Anyone who saw the two of you together would have a hard time assuming you were in it for the money anymore. And Dick was not shy about telling people off when they were rude to you. Or about you.

"I'm sure Miss Y/N was quite the belle of the ball," Alfred observed. "I'm sure the bride was put out."

"She was more preoccupied with being angry there were children allowed," Bruce said. He could understand that. But at least no one bounced a basketball into the cake. Or screamed through the ceremony. "And irritated that the champagne wasn't as expensive as she would have liked."

That detail made Alfred snort. "Oh dear-"

"Most of the gossip mill gives them 6 months... But they gave us 3 so. Who knows."

"Indeed," Alfred said nodding. Privately, he'd given this less than a year. Though he was pleased to be wrong. It was nearly 2. With a child in the mix.

The sound of bare feet in the hall cut off what he would have said about you. Not that it was disparaging. He just didn't want to see you be uncomfortable being spoken about when you walked back into the room. And he started to prepare another cup of tea.

"Bruce-" you yelp when your husband reaches over and pulls you onto the arm of his chair and shake your head, scritching the back of his neck. "Honestly."

"Dick all tucked in?" he asked, accepting a cup of tea for you and handing it to you so you didn't fall over reaching for it.

"He was asleep again before I even got him into his bed," you snort. "I don't think the stains will ever come out... I don't know how he managed to find ever dust patch in the building but he did."

"I'm well acquainted with getting stains out of children's suits," Alfred assured you. "Master Bruce went through a phase where he was absolutely fascinated with frogs. And the duck pond."

"Aww," you tease, crinkling your nose.

"Alfred," Bruce said, cheeks heating.

"Poor little duckling," you tease, kissing his cheek- only making him blush darker.

And Alfred chuckled, winking at you as he resumed his seat. And when you hid your smile behind his cup he wondered why he never thought to tell you those little things before. It was satisfying watching Bruce squirm. Just a little.

#bruce wayne #Bruce wayne x reader #doting husband!bruce #ask answered #minors dni #reader insert

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wzrd-wheezes · 14 hours

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Friday, I'm in Love - Remus Lupin x Reader

"Remus found himself visiting the shop more often and Y/N found herself looking forward to his unplanned but always promised visits."

AN - I had this idea for a fic ages ago and it's taken me so long to write for some reason. I hope you enjoy n please give it a reblog if you do <3 I also have a lil list of songs that I listened to while writing this so let me know if you want me to post it

It was a slow morning, to say the least. Outside, the downpour was relentless, each raindrop drumming against the thin glass of the record shop’s front windows, blurring the already muted colours of the street beyond. The warm glow of the shop lights barely reached the pavement.

Y/N hadn’t seen a customer in over an hour and the stillness had settled into a comfortable rhythm. She passed the time by meticulously arranging the coins in the till, the soft clinking sounds punctuating the quiet. The final notes of a record filled the room before slowing to a comforting crackle. Choosing the music that played instore was one of the few small joys on slow days.

She wandered over to the old turntable, her fingers trailing along the edge of a weathered box of records. The sleeves, many of them worn and well-loved, slipped past her fingers as she thumbed through them. After a moment of contemplation, she settled on one, slipping it from its sleeve and setting it on the turntable, guiding the needle to the edge. The familiar crackle started once more, followed by the comforting notes of the music.

Y/N hummed to herself as she wandered around the small shop, flitting between the shelves, straightening records, adjusting displays and dusting off the shelves. She was working alone today, however, she didn’t mind the solitude – there was something peaceful about the quiet, empty shop, surrounded by rows of records and the soft glow old the old lamps. With no one to talk to and no customers to serve, she settled herself back behind the till, pouring herself a fresh mug of coffee and perching on the counter behind her, reaching for her book that she kept stashed away.

She had just settled into a good part of her book when the sharp jingle of the bell above the door startled her. She looked up, the shop’s quiet suddenly disrupted as a gust of cool, rain-scented air swept in. A man stepped inside shaking droplets from his coat as he paused in the doorway, taking in the warmth of the shop.

For a moment, their eyes met and Y/N felt a flutter of surprise at the sudden presence. She closed her book softly, setting it aside as she slid off the counter. He was dripping from the rain, his jacket soaked through and his hair slightly dishevelled. His eyes scanned the room before they finally landed on her. He offered a small, almost sheepish smile as he stepped further inside.

“Bloody horrible out there, isn’t it?” he said, his voice warm despite the miserable weather. He ran a hand through his damp hair, attempting to tame it as he gave her a lopsided grin.

“Absolutely,” she agreed, “You can hang your jacket up while you look around if you like? There’s nothing worse than a soggy coat while you’re trying to shop.” she gestured towards the coat stand adjacent to the door.

He smiled appreciatively, immediately taking her up on the offer and shedding the sodden jacket, revealing a rumpled jumper underneath.

“Thank you. It’s nice to be out of the rain for a bit.” he said, his eyes flickering over the shelves of records that lined the walls.

“Can I get you a coffee or anything? It’s only meant to be for staff, but you look like you could do with warming up.”

He looked pleasantly surprised, a grateful smile spreading across his face.

“That would be lovely, actually. As long as it won’t get you into trouble?”

Y/N laughed shaking her head, “It’s only me in today and I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He chuckled, clearly relieved, “Deal. I appreciate it.”

With a nod, she moved behind the counter, grabbing the coffee pot from the warmer and pouring it into a clean mug. A moment later, she joined him by the shelves, handing him the steaming cup.

“Here you go. Try not to spill any on the records - you’ll get me sacked and I actually quite like this job.” she teased.

He took the mug with a grin, “I’ll try to be extra careful. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your imminent unemployment.”

“Glad to hear it. I’ll be over there,” she jutted her head towards the till, “Give me a shout if you need anything.”

She watched him as he browsed; he was interesting to look at. His trousers were slightly too short for his lanky frame, and with every step they revealed glimpses of his mismatched socks. His hair, now starting to dry, was settling into soft waves. When she had handed him the mug, she had noticed that his hands were marked with white scars, matching the ones that adorned his face. He seemed absorbed in the records, flipping through them with a thoughtful expression. Occasionally, he would pause to examine a cover. After a short while, he approached the counter with a small stack of records in hand.

“I think I’ve found a few that might be worth a listen.” he set them down with a satisfied smile.

“Yeah? Any particular mood you’re going for, or just exploring?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Just exploring. I haven’t bought any new ones in a while.” he shrugged.

“Let’s see what you’ve picked, then.” she reached out, “I promise I won’t judge – at least, not to your face anyway.”

“Fair enough. I’ll take my chances.” he leaned forward on the counter as he watched her inspect his choices.

“Hey this is good one- Unknown Pleasures.”

“Yeah? I’ve heard a couple songs, y’know on the radio and stuff. Thought I’d give it a proper go.” he pulled down the sleeves of his jumper over his hands, toying with a loose thread as he spoke to her, “What about this one? You listened to it?”

She turned the album over in her hands, poring over the track list on the back. She frowned and shook her head.

“I haven’t actually. Heard of it, but never gave it a listen.” she totted up his total as she spoken to him, “You’ll have to let me know if it’s worth a listen.

He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small pile of coins, dropping them into her outstretched palm as he counted them.

“It’s been nice speaking to you.” he smiled sincerely at her, “Oh, and thanks again for the coffee.”

“No worries at all. It’s nice having someone to chat to on slow days like today.” she glanced up at him and she put his money into the till, “Thanks for not spilling it all over the albums.”

He grinned as he took the bag of records and headed towards the door, pausing momentarily to shrug his jacket back on. With one last nod in her direction, he pushed the door open and stepped back out into the rain, the shop once again settling into its quiet rhythm.

A few weeks later, the weather had shifted from the relentless rain to a drearier drizzle. Inside, Y/N was immersed in sorting out a new batch of records behind the counter, the crackle of vinyl playing softly in the background.

The familiar jingle of the doorbell caught her attention and she smiled to herself when she saw who it was.

“Back already?” she grinned.

“Couldn’t stay away apparently.” he stepped inside, shaking the rain from his umbrella and looking around with an appreciative nod, “I was just passing actually, thought I’d stop by and see what’s new.”

This time, he looked more prepared for the weather, sliding his umbrella into the stand by the door. His hair was now tousled in a more deliberate way, though the sense of casual coolness in his clothes remained.

“You’ve got great timing.”

He cocked his head and looked at her quizzically, walking over to where she stood at the counter.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We just got a delivery this morning. I’m just sorting through it if you want to take a look?”

He nodded and moved to stand opposite her, resting his elbows on the wooden countertop. As he leaned in, his eyes focused on the box of records, his fingers lightly brushing over the album covers.

He began to sift through the records, carefully flipping through the albums. As he examined each one, the two of them fell into a comfortable rhythm, their conversation flowing easily. Every so often, they would both reach for a record at the same time, their fingers brushing against each other's. Each time, he would glance up with a sheepish smile, his cheeks flushing slightly as he mumbled an apology.

“I didn’t catch your name last time.” Y/N said, filling the silence, “I feel a bit rude not knowing it.”

“Remus.” he looked up, eyes locking with hers, “and yours?”

She smiled and pointed to the name badge pinned to her t-shirt. His cheeks tinged pink again and he quickly looked down at the album in his hands and then back to her.

“Oh, yeah, I’m an idiot.” he laughed, “I should’ve noticed that.”

She laughed softly, waving off his embarrassment, “You’re fine, don’t worry,” she said, her tone reassuring, then with a nod towards the album in his hands, she asked, “Any of them catch your eye?”

They spent the next half an hour deeply immersed in a spirited discussion about music, bouncing from one artist to another. Remus’s enthusiasm was palpable; he could have spent hours delving into the intricacies of his favourite albums. His passion was evident in the way that he spoke, animated and engaged. He had taken to leaning forward, his forearms resting on the counter as he spoke to her.

Eventually, he glanced up at the old clock hanging on the wall and realised how late it had gotten, “I should probably get going.” he said, reluctantly straightening up, “It’s been great talking music with you, though. Thanks for all the recommendations.”

“Anytime. Small price to pay for having someone to talk to on a quiet shift.” she smiled, sliding the album he had bought into a bag.

Remus came to the record store more and more often over the following months. They had settled into a familiar routine, discussing the merits of the latest addition to his collection and conversing about different genres and artists. Over the months, he had collected a plethora of albums: Ramones, David Bowie, The Cure, Fleetwood Mac, Joy Division. Anything that she recommended, he would buy and the next time he stopped by they would have a lengthy discussion about it. Remus found himself visiting the shop more often and Y/N found herself looking forward to his unplanned but always promised visits.

One afternoon, they were having a fairly heated discussion. Y/N had hoisted herself up on the counter behind the till, and Remus was leaning forward, propped up on his elbows on the counter facing her.

“I mean, you can’t deny the impact of Three Imaginary Boys,” Remus said, “It’s got that sort of gritty edge that you don’t get in their later stuff.”

Y/N shook her head, her eyes sparkling with conviction, “I get that, but sometimes it’s not about the sound it’s about how the music makes you feel. With their later stuff it’s like they took all of that energy and polished it and made it into something great.”

Remus raised an eyebrow, the scar across his lip stretching as he smirked, “Are you saying that because you think its natural progression, or just because you’re a fan of their later stuff?”

“Both.” she replied with a grin.

Their voices were animated, the shop’s usual quiet atmosphere was replaced with the lively exchange, each of them passionately defending their point with the occasional joking jab to the other.

As the conversation continued, Y/N shifted her position slightly, causing a stack of records to wobble precariously. Remus’s lanky frame stretch across the counter, straining to try and steady them. Their hands brushed briefly, lingering for a moment longer than usual. They exchanged a quick, knowing glance before returning to their previous positions.

“Do you want to go out for a drink or something sometime?” Remus blurted the words out before he even realised what he was saying.

Y/N paused, her eyes widening slightly as she processed the sudden, unexpected offer. Remus’s face flushed a deep shade of red, and he fumbled with the album he was holding, suddenly very interested in the cover.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” he stammered, feeling a wave of embarrassment, “I just thought it might be nice to hang out outside the shop, y’know, when you’re not working and being paid to talk music with me.”

Y/N smiled at his nervous rambling, “I’d like that. It sounds like a lot of fun.”

Relief washed over Remus, and he looked up, meeting her eyes with a hopeful grin, “Really? Brilliant. I wasn’t sure if it was too forward or-”

“No, not at all.” she cut off his worry before he could spiral, “Friday?”

Friday afternoon arrived faster than Remus had anticipated, and by the time he reached the bar, his nerves had crept back in. The bar was warm and dimly lit, with old wooden beams and music humming from a jukebox tucked in the corner. As he stepped inside, he scanned the room and spotted Y/N almost immediately. She was seated near the window, her fingers drumming against the scrubbed wooden table as she stared out of the window.

“Sorry, I’m late. The rain-” he wiped his palms nervously against his jeans.

“You’re not late, don’t worry. I’m early if anything.” she gestured to the seat opposite her, inviting him to sit down.

Relieved, Remus nodded and slipped into the chair, the tension in his shoulders easing a bit, “Good, I was worried I’d kept you waiting.”

“Not at all.” she assured him, “Besides, it gave me time to order us some drinks.” She gestured to the table, where two glasses awaited, “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of choosing something for us.”

It was strange seeing him outside the context of the record store. The casual way he carried himself was different from his usual, more reserved demeanour. As he picked up his drink to take a sip, Y/N’s eyes drifted up to the cigarette that was tucked behind his ear.

“S’a nervous habit.” he said, catching her looking and smiling ruefully.

“So,” Y/N started, leaning in slightly with a teasing glint in her eyes. “Are you prepared to defend all your music opinions tonight, or are we calling a truce?”

Remus laughed, “I didn’t come here unarmed, but I’ll call a truce—for now.”

He glanced over at the jukebox in the corner, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins, sliding them across the table to Y/N with a playful grin.

“Here.” he said, “Why don’t you go and pick something? I’m pretty sure that we’ve just heard the same two songs on loop. Unless, of course, you have a soft spot for cheesy ballads?”

“Please, I’ve got better taste than that.” she raised an eyebrow as she took the coins, “Although the thought of making you sit through Total Eclipse of the Heart isn’t entirely unappealing.”

Remus chuckled, leaning back in his chair as he watched her stand, “I’ll be on my best behaviour then,” he replied, “No one deserves that kind of torture.”

Y/N made her way to the jukebox, scanning the selection, taking her time as she pondered her choices. After a moment, she made her pick and returned to the table with a triumphant smile.

“Your ears are safe for now,” she said, sliding back into her seat, “I went with something a little less torturous.”

“You always get bonus points for Bowie,” Remus smiled, looking at her over the top of his glass, “Good call.”

Y/N’s knee bumped against Remus’s as she shifted in her seat. Instead of immediately pulling away, Remus remained still, their legs pressed together. The contact lingered as Y/N glanced at him, her cheeks warming slightly. She could feel the gentle pressure of his leg against hers and the warmth it brought.

Remus looked over at her, his gaze soft and a bit uncertain. He could feel his heart rate pick up, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he allowed himself to relax into the contact.

As the evening continued, their closeness remained, the subtle touch of their legs became a quiet reminder of the connection they were building. Each time one of them would go up to put a song on the jukebox, the small movement seemed almost rehearsed. They would slip back into their seat, their legs resuming their previous position almost instinctively.

“I think we’ve exhausted every good song on the jukebox.” Y/N noted an hour or so later, returning to the table once again.

“I thought the exact same thing-” his voice trailed off as the song that began playing caught his ear, “You promised no cheesy ballads!”

Y/N held her hands up in mock surrender, a mischievous glint in her eye, “I never promised.” she said, leaning in slightly, “I just couldn’t help winding you up a bit.”

“I should have known better.” Remus shook his head jokingly, “And I’ve ran out of change so I can’t put something else on.”

“You’re joking.” Y/N’s eyes widened, “I just used the last of mine as well. I refuse to let Total Eclipse of the Heart be the last song we hear tonight.”

Y/N drained the last of her drink her eyebrows knitting together as she thought. Remus fidgeted in his seat, reaching his hand up to rub at the back of his neck nervously. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before the words finally came out.

“Why don’t you come back to mine?”

The words hung in the air for a moment, both of them surprised by his sudden boldness. He quickly added, “I mean, only if you want to. I don’t know if you know this but I have a pretty good record collection.” he let out a shaky laugh.

“Oh, yeah?” she leaned forward a little, eyes sparkling, “I wonder where you got those from.”

As they walked, Remus began to explain, almost apologetically, that he shared his place with two friends. He spoke casually, describing the flat as small and a bit cluttered. His tone was slightly self-deprecating as he mentioned the occasional mess, but he assured her that it wasn’t too chaotic.

“Luckily they’re out tonight, at a party of something.” he mused, “otherwise they’d talk your ear off as soon as you stepped through the door.”

“Are you not a party kind of person then?”

“Absolutely not.” Remus dug around in his pocket for his keys, retrieving them with a jingle and unlocked the door. Remus ushered her up the stairs almost immediately.

“Would’ve made them tidy up downstairs if I had planned this properly.” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, “At least I know that my room is somewhat clean.”

Y/N smiled at him reassuringly, following him into his bedroom. She didn’t know Remus all too well, but his room was the pure essence of him. His bed was pushed up against one wall, a cosy mess of sheets and blankets, a wooden bedside table sat proudly beside it, a stack of books perched precariously on top.

Y/N made a beeline for the record player that sat in the corner of the room, two boxes of records placed on the floor beside it.

“Mind if I put something on?” she asked, beginning to flick through the albums before he could answer.

“Go for it,” he smiled, “I’ll go get us a drink while you choose.”

Remus’s heart was racing a little as he walked down to the kitchen. She was in his room and he didn’t know what to do. He was so comfortable around her in the confines of the record shop, but now she was here, in his space, looking through his records and smiling at him in a way that made his heart melt.

“Pull yourself together, idiot.” he muttered as he crossed to the fridge, pulling out two bottles of beer.

When Remus came back into the room, bottles in hand, he couldn’t help but grin at the sight before him. Y/N was sat cross legged on the floor, completely absorbed in the albums she had spread out around her. A pile of records rested in her lap as she sifted through them, occasionally pausing to inspect a cover or read the tracklist on the back. The warm glow of the lamp on his bedside table cast a soft glow over the scene, making everything feel somehow more intimate and familiar.

He cleared his throat softly, handing her one of the beers as he sat down on the floor next to her, trying to mask the nervous energy still buzzing in his chest.

“You’ve got a pretty solid collection her,” she said, raising her bottle in appreciation.

“Thanks.” he replied with a slight chuckle, though he knew most of those records had come from her recommendations.

She slid one of the records from its sleeve, glancing at him briefly before getting up to place it on the turntable. The needle dropped, and soon enough, the low hum of music filled the room, ground the quiet tension between them.

As she sat back down, their knees brushed again, but this time, neither of them pulled away. Instead, they both stayed in the easy closeness. Y/N turned her head slightly to meet his gaze, catching him staring at her. He quickly looked away, a soft blush creeping up his neck. She smiled to herself, leaning back on her hands.

“Y’know you have a couple of doubles?” she said after a moment.

“Hm?” Remus blinked, looking over at her.

“Yeah.” she grinned, holding up two identical copies of Lonon Calling, “When I was looking through, I noticed you’ve got quite a few albums twice. D’you keep spares or something?”

Remus let out a nervous laugh, rubbing a hand across his face, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, “Yeah, uh.. About that.”

Y/N tilted her head, her grin widening. “What? You just really love The Clash?”

He sighed, giving her a sheepish look, “Not exactly. I, uh... ran out of records I wanted to buy.”

“So, you just bought the same ones again?” her brows furrowed together.

“I didn’t want to stop coming in.” Remus’s gaze was fixed on the floor.

Her smile softened as the meaning behind his words sank in, “You didn’t want to stop coming in?” she repeated, her tone teasing but gentle.

Remus nodded, eyes still on the floor as if he wished it would just swallow him whole, “Yeah. I mean, the records were a good excuse, but.. It was more about seeing you.”

Y/Nfelt her cheeks warm. She hadn’t been expecting him to admit it so openly, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She nudged him lightly with her shoulder, trying to ease the tension.

“You could’ve just said you wanted to see me, y’know. Would’ve saved you some money.” she teased.

He let out a shaky laugh, finally looking up to meet her eyes, “Yeah, well, hindsight’s a wonderful thing.”

“Well, for the record,” she held up one of his albums playfully, “You didn’t need a reason to come back. I would’ve liked seeing you anyway.”

Remus blinked, surprised by the ease with which she said it, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” her voice was softer, almost shy now, “I thought that was obvious.”

They stayed there in the quiet for a moment, their legs still touching, the air between them thick with something unspoken.

“Don’t supposed you kept your receipts?” Y/N turned to face him.

He laughed, shaking his head, “Nah. I wasn’t exactly thinking that far ahead.”

Without thinking, Y/N leaned in, and Remus found himself tilting his head slightly to meet her halfway. Their lips brushed together softly at first, one of Remus’s hands trailing up to cup the side of her face in his hand. When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other, breathless smiles lighting up their faces.

“You’re a bit of an idiot, y’know that?” she teased.

“Yeah... probably.” he just smiled and kissed her again.

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