#'cherry who are you romancing in scarlet hollow' You Know

[fruifruit]

just one chance wayne please

[siriusmydeer]

hey bestie, how about fluff prompt 10 with ron or harry?😁😁😁

the spiral of weather

ron weasley x reader

summary: you and ron share a rain kiss.

word count: 1.7k

warnings: self doubt, insecurity, swearing, weird teenager awkwardness, swearing, kissing, mentions of being sick

a/n: i hate this, thank u isa for inspo without u i would be crying rn, u can so tell this is rons pov by the amount of times i used the word ‘bloody’

ron he had a problem— not a problem, one might say. instead he had a nagging pronouncement that he couldn’t dismiss no matter how much he desired to do so in that halfwitted mind of his.

he had never felt the emotional wave of burn or passion in his lifetime as a teenager, that was till his eyes were strictly met with yours for the very first time. you’d think an eleven year old could possibly decipher feelings of yearning and endearment but, here we are years later.

books, movies, and even life normally if you were someones best friend the relation between the two parties happened to remain completely platonic. unless you were the cobalt-eyed, red-headed boy who happen to be the youngest son of the weasley family.

then that is in fact, not the case.

across the library you were irritatingly endeavouring cormac mclaggen with charms, attempting to explain how to flick your wand in the correct direction of a cheering charm. he took it upon himself to grab your hand and guide your hands together in the motion of his hand holding your hand, that was grasped on the wand.

classic bloody flirt.

ron was coerced persuaded, by hermione to finally catch up on the arithmancy homework that had been buried beneath his four poster messy bed stuffed in a sweaty quidditch bag. whilst hermione was attempting to explain the newest lesson from the class that ron could not be less bothered with.

his gaze could almost set a ring of fire into cormacs left sleeve on how strict his gaze was. the weather out earlier was ideally sunny, idyllic to hang out with your friends outside and possibly for a swim in the black lake. that was rons plan to pose towards you, maybe harry and hermione as well; but mostly you.

now the sky had ombré shades of washed-out dreary grey and depressing indigo. if the weather channel had existed in wizard culture it definitely would’ve called for overcast and a high percentage of downpour.

but when it came to romance hermione could be a bit numb in the head and decided to whisk him away from you, giving yourself a sweet opportunity for a free day that cormac just swooped right in an took it to his bloody advantage.

he was contemplating— he was contemplating so hard his brain could blow to bits if was possible. i mean he was a wizard after all, what wasn’t possible?

hermione clapped her smooth hands in front of his grimaced face, paying almost no mind to her peers that had glared in her direction from the disruption of noise.

“bloody hell, ‘mione! be anymore subtle would you?” rolling his eyes in the direction of the brunette who offered a ‘hermione scowl’ as ron and harry would say, in response.

“be anymore subtle would you?” she mocked. “you look like your about to go over there and snap his neck for godric’s sake! just talk to her, your so oblivious ronald.” she chastised, completely aware of his feelings towards you.

hermione knew? how would she know? who else knew... did you know? was he to obvious? should he have made a move? his brain could’ve been moving atleast a billion miles a minute on his overwhelming questions surrounding your possible reviprocations of feelings.

he looked at the smirking brunette for a moment, extremely bewildered but her bluntness. he raised a scarlet-brow in thought; if he was feeling gryffindor, reckless and impulsive or ron, some-what sensible and hidden.

he was a gryffindor after all.

getting up from his sear, the chair making a a smell reverberate at the sudden friction between the oak-wood floor and the cherry-coloured chair. clacking his shoes against said-oak floor creating a beeline directly to your sat figure with mclaggen.

your brows creased at the noise, diverting your eyes around the library and seeing the towering redhead walking directly over to you. your eyes widened for a moment, your (e/c) irises perfectly clear for viewing.

before you could even stutter out a word he got a grasp on your forearm, rapidly pulling you out of the library and into the somber courtyard. “merlin, christ, ron! give a girl a damn warning first, nearly gave me a heart attack!” your breath extremely rigid at his swift pace when guiding you away from peering eyes of both of your schoolmates.

“do you like mclaggen?” his voice was sputtered, almost like he said the question before he could even muster it as a thought.

if you’re eyes were wide before, now they looked like they were bulging straight from your eye sockets. “are you drunk? high? under the influence? potioned—“

“answer the question!”

“absolutely not, i would rather have offed myself than have feelings for someone else. plus i’m interested in someone else...” you trailed off in sentence, accidentally letting it slip that you in fact fancy someone.

paying no mind to the fact that you basically had confessed your feelings he nodded his head in a forward direction, offering a walk. you shrugged once before keeping in step with him around the courtyard.

“lavender brown, hmm...?” you offered, attempting to create a conversation with him; possibly making it more awkward.

why would he flip if you liked mclaggen? he was... alright looking, played quidditch, and an alright student. i mean there’s no big deal or anything of a sort.

“oh no, i fancy—“ drop.

oh.

oh?

drop.

it was raining.

“we should probably—“

“err, yeah....”

both of you peering up at the gloom sky above, small raindrops quickly pattering down on the both of you. you sped up your pace as well as ron attempting to get shelter in the downpour that was rapidly approaching as the both of you.

the continuous patter on the ground cause a few absent puddles into curvature of the grass surrounding the castle, causing small muddy hollow patch right beneath your left foot.

“oh!—“ you suddenly spoke, grabbing into the nearest surface your hand could grapple at; rons ashen coloured sweater.

his hands caught onto the curvature of your torso, holding you into a dip-position. one of your hands had grasped onto his bicep and the other on the bend of his muscular shoulder.

“well that was... quick?” clearing your throat awkwardly, looking into the sheen-cobalt irises of your best friend.

“i fancy you.” he spoke briskly, nonchalantly telling you how for the past five years he has been irrevocably besotted with you and essentially how he would die without not mowing if you reciprocated those feelings.

that was a bit melodramatic, but you understand the idea.

“you fan— wow that was fast, i didn’t even get a moment to like— think, maybe?”

oh my god, are you an idiot? i mean, who responded like that, like ever? the boy you had single handedly, pined for just admitted that and you say, ‘wow that was fast.’

he madly spun you onto your feet, both of you completely drenched from the recurrent downpour looking upon both teenagers. clothes anxiously sticking to your skin, and attempting to maneuver you hair behind your face.

“ron, why’d you— why would you want someone like me? i mean have you seen yourself, compared to me? ‘m just— ‘m not good enough.” you trailed between sentences, panting like you were out of immense breath but only overwhelmed trying to differentiate your thoughts.

maybe ron had drank to much butter beer, maybe he had an epiphany, but he was truly not taking no for an answer today and did all the work himself. he clasped both of your cheeks in his freckled palms, forcing your eyesight into his stare.

“have you gone absolutely mad? what do you mean, ‘i’m not good enough.’ i mean you’re one of the smartest people i know! and you’re always helping people, you don’t slap me across the face when i’m stupid most— stupid all the time! i mean i’m a bloody git and you still put up with me, i truly don’t know how, but you do! and y’know you make me want to be a better person and all that bloody crap, but y/n, you are worth it! so don’t tell me you’re not.”

the boy huffed in one sentence, trying to prove your worthiness not only to you but what was standing right in-front of you. not only just ron, but the way this would effect your relationship. after all that, even if you rejected him for his sake, the friendship would never be the same. could you take a risk? put it all on the table, for the first time in your life and possibly make something worth it?

you stood there frozen, but your eyes moved erratically to study his face. his pale ivory flesh, slightly down-turned pointy chin, full salmon-coloured lips. the study could go on, how you memorized every micro-detail of the boys face.

normally the scarlet-haired boy would’ve been the one in doubt; over himself, his peers, his schoolmates, his friends, and most-likely his family. but right now he didn’t have one single doubt in his mind, his only thought was wanting you.

you may not have been godric gryffindor himself, but you were impulsive on decisions, even the ones that you were petrified to make. so you kissed the boy, slotting his slightly chapped lips with your smooth strawberry tasting ones.

feeling the new and odd comforting taste of pumpkin juice, and spearmint bleed onto the curvature of your tastebuds. one of his hands taking a grasp at your hip, kissing you with all the vitality he had left. feeling the blearily daze of adrenaline scamper right through his veins, going immediately to his head.

he was completely, and hopelessly in love with you. the amount of intimacy he felt kissing you beneath a brewing storm was unmatched to anything or anyone else.

you pulled away for a moment, seeing how his lips tried to reattach to yours in such a quick paced moment. you snickered for a moment, the dread leaving your system second by second.

wanting to feel the eternal warmth and happiness the boy granted you, were you still a bit unsure, yes. but ron would spend his last dying breath proving himself to you.

“if we stay kissing in the rain, one of us will catch a cold.” your whisper was barely coherent over the boys pants, and the repetitive rain patter that beveled from the sky.

“i’ll take care of you.” he offered with a slanted smile, his vision bleary from admiration.

“‘course you will.”

of course he will.

taglist: @ronbrokemyheart @georgeswh0re @amourtentiaa @famdomhideout @hufflepogue

[amayamiyaki]

I recently got into writing angst. It's different than what I usually write but its always good to branch out of your comfort zone and learn try something new! So here's an angsty Shisui/Sakura oneshot!

If you're interested in sending me a prompt, please feel free to, along with the Sakur-pairing of your choice!

Title: Izana

Characters/Pairings: Shisui/Sakura

Rating: General

Prompt(s): meeting, hollow, binding

Izana

He's late.

Ironic for a man who’s compared to wind and lighting, but Shisui brushes aside the frustration that nips at the side of his neck. War waits for no one, after all—not even him.

Sliding off his mount, Shisui hands the reins of his steed to the attendant by the door and toes the sandals from his feet all in one movement, before slipping inside the teahouse. He hurries through the corridors, mindful of his swords as he passes the workers, smiling and tilting his head, searching, until the thundering laughter of his uncle catches his ear. A smile, true and soft, settles on his features, and he follows the voices until he reaches a set of doors manned by the wait staff. They bow to him, murmuring their welcomes but he can hardly hear them over the excited beating of his heartbeat. And when the doors part, it takes more control than he’d ever care to admit, to keep from rushing inside.

"Ah, there he is!” His uncle bellows, hand gesturing to him. Shisui bows lowly to his clan head, trying to keep his gaze from wandering to the women whispering to his side.

"My apologies, Uncle," Shisui began. "The meeting with Uzumaki-san went on longer than anticipated."

"It is of no concern," Madara replied with the wave of his hand. He appears unbothered—happy, even. "Sit. No more talks of war with women around."

Shisui straightens from his bow and makes his way towards his cousins, falling into the seat beside Itachi with a relieved sigh. Itachi pushes a choko towards him worth the side of his hand, observing him with a look of knowing.

"Uchiha Shisui, late,” He teases. “I never thought I'd see the day."

Shisui grasps the porcelain with a huff. "You know how the Uzumaki can get. They get lost in their thoughts more often than not."

Itachi hums but doesn't comment further, busying himself with the sake against his lips. However, that doesn't stop Sasuke. "Those fools enjoy the sound of their own voices."

"Sasuke." Itachi's voice is soft, but the scold is clear.

The two brothers share a bicker, their conversation veering towards swords and training and other things he can't find himself caring about; because how can he when his uncles share a laugh over the blush of the beautiful woman positioned between them?

She’s draped in scarlet silk and spirals of plum blossoms, her skin painted an ethereal white with brushes of pink and her rosy hair drawn up with glittering kanzashi. Her collar is red, the kind of crimson that makes Shisui think of war and death and fire—all things that he can’t even bear to imagine associating with her because she’s too beautiful for anything less than Amaterasu’s gardens.

Her Oneesan calls her Sakura.

She says her name with so much pride, smiles without restriction and tilts her glass encouragingly at the young girl who smiles back. Looking at her makes something within him burn—something wild and dangerous and wonderful.

"Won't you dance for us?" He hears Izuna ask. "You know Madara's heart only warms when you do."

The tease is innocent, Shisui knows, watching with a tight chest as the pretty Maiko beside him sets a gentle hand atop Madara's shoulder. But it still doesn't mean much to his heart.

"Izuna-san," She reprimands, though not unkindly. "Madara-san's heart is always warm. Can't you tell from the blush on his face?"

Madara turns away, but the corner of his lips curl with a hint of mirth "It's the sake, I assure you."

Sharing a sly look with the rosette and her Oneesan, Izuna’s hand comes down hard on Madara’s shoulder, making the elder of the two jerk forward. “Yes, yes. The pretty women on your arms have nothing to do with it.”

Perhaps it’s jealousy that makes Shisui’s knuckles whiten. He always was prone to jealousy. All Uchiha were. It’s in their blood, after all.

Sakura waves her hands and tilts her head, hiding her giggle behind her hand as Izuna teases his older brother, and it kills him, because those smiles are his. He owned them the moment he laid eyes on her—back when she was a fresh Maiko, dancing to the melancholy thrum of a koto and the hum of cherry blossoms in Spring skies.

He brings the sake to his lips, hoping to wash away the taste his uncles’ affection leaves in his mouth, when their eyes meet—pine and evergreen against wintry steel—and suddenly his chest feels less hollow.

The smile she wears now is his. He knows it. He feels it as deeply as his bones because that’s the smile she gifts him when he holds her in his arms, hidden in the shadows behind her okiya. It’s the same smile she gives him when he folds her hair behind her ear and kisses her brow.

It’s his and only his.

So his eyes soften and the jealousy resides, folding neatly into a little box at the base of his stomach. Shisui watches as Sakura finally acquiesces to their playful demands. Although her name is rooted in earth, she stands with the fluidity of water, walking in that way that makes the train of her kimono sway like a rippled pond. Then she stands at the front of the room, exactly where she’s meant to be.

Rawbone fingers pluck at a shamisen, the koto purrs; and Sakura dips her head to expose the unmarked skin at the back of her neck. It makes his breath stutter and his fingers twitch, and one glance at his younger cousins prove he isn’t the only one pleased with the sight. His uncles hum around their tobacco pipes, hands waving at the smoke that flitters into their faces, greedily taking in the graceful bow of their pretty dancer while his cousins shift in place. But it isn’t until she lifts her gaze to him once more, revealing something beautiful in those beryl eyes, that Shisui finds his chest truly bound.

She clutches the sleeve of her furisode, tugging it back to reveal a sliver of her pale wrist and the glitter of her fan. She rolls onto her toes, turning so her shoulder faces them, peers at them from the corner of her eye; then she gently waves her fan in a way that upturns her wrist.

She tells him a story—a story about a fleeting beauty that imprints his heart.

Her fan, spread wide, flutters and sways, traveling downwards. Then she taps it, creating the thunderous sounds of rainfall. She demurely hides her face with it, stepping towards the left, then again to the right. Then she lifts the fan above her head, shielding her petal locks from the showering rain. She lowers the fan to face the front of her, folding it inwards from both sides before reaching into the air with greedy fingers.

She draws the sunlight with her fingers, painting a vision of blooms and wind—the beginnings of Spring. He holds her fan tightly now, flat and with both hands, similar to how he holds his blade in its sheath, then pulls her hands apart to reveal a blade; she poses with it crossed over her shoulder.

The scene is different, he realizes. He recognizes the way she unravels her fan, tilting it as if she’s pouring sake, how she spreads it open like the petals of her namesake, before presenting it as a tray. He recognizes it, because it’s their story.

Her dance speaks of their romance, the lyrics her Oneesan sings purring of the way he had charmed her. She loves him, but never says it—she never does, even when their fingers intertwine beneath burning candles.

And it makes his chest hurt because he wants and wants and wants to hear her say it. No one knows. No one understands. Because to them, it’s a dance but to him, it’s a confession.

With the flick of her wrist, a second fan appears with an abrupt snap. The curves of her fan point inwards and she makes them flutter, like the wings of a butterfly. She lowers to her knees then, her smile more prominent than before. Her movements become more confident, more powerful if that’s possible. She connects her fans, creating one large one that makes him think of the insignia emblazoned across his back, rocking it back and forth above her head and spinning as she rises.

It makes him breathless.

The scene changes again, the music dropping into something quieter, more ominous while her expression hardens. Her fingers loosen from her left fan, making it dangle like a bud on a branch, then she twirls it, slowly turning on her heel with her right fan drawing the sunrise. She leans back, almost in a curtsey with her right fan poised above her head and the left in front of her, transiently similar to the way he wields his swords.

A battle comes in the morning.

Something creeps along the nape of Shisui’s neck, nuzzling him uncomfortably as he watches Sakura’s dance. Beside him, Itachi’s fingers tighten into his hakama and Sasuke’s chest is still. He chances a glance at his uncles to find all three leaning forward, so entranced in the Maiko’s romance that they don’t notice the emptiness of their glasses or the falling ashes of their tobacco.

She tucks her fans into her obi; hides her knuckles in her sleeves and pulls them to cover her body, tilting her head from side to side before lifting her hands in offering. She turns again as bells chime, revealing the spider lilies embroidered along the hem of her elaborate obi and the mountain painted into her neck. She stomps on the tatami, hands smoothly rolling to the side like swaying branches, then turns to the side, peering at them over her shoulder with the faintest upcurve of her scarlet lips.

And then her movements are frantic.

She moves to the left, then to the right, jolting forward before reeling back as if surrounded. Her expression is harrowed, brows knit tight as she faces enemies only she can see. Her shoulders become limp, her posture withdrawn; her arms sway from front to back almost lifelessly.

And then she draws the curls of raging waves with her fans.

Shisui sucks in a breath as he watches her left fan drop. She clutches the one fan between both hands now, slowly unraveling it like the petals of a flower.

Sakura turns back the way she came until she faces them again. She closes the fan again, her head canting side to side and expression somber. She looks lost. Hollow. And then she holds the fan like a knife, points it towards her belly as she slowly peers up at the heavens, and Shisui swears real tears glitter in her eyes in those seconds before they close.

And so the blossoms fall, so thickly they form clouds.

The music fades to an end and she comes to a stop with her head bowed and her fan poised. Shisui finds himself so entranced, that all he can do is stare—remembering himself only when the other men in the room applaud and coo.

“She’s wonderful,” Madara praises, clapping. And it stuns him, because Madara had never cared for geisha before. “Your Imouto’s dances get more and more intricate with every day, Tsunade.”

The blonde woman laughs as she refills his glass, eyes flickering towards her prodigy, who is already smoothing out her kimono. “Thank you, Uchiha-sama. Sakura is a special girl.”

“A special girl indeed,” Fugaku speaks up. “With a gift of storytelling.”

“One would think her tears were real,” Kagami agrees.

“You both must come to our compound,” Izuna insists. “Celebrate with us tomorrow night, after we’ve finally taken reign of Danzo’s castle.”

The young Maiko floats when she walks, and it’s with a displeased wilt that Shisui realizes that even though she sits beside him, it isn’t him that she sits with, but his youngest cousin. She doesn’t look at him, but Shisui can see the tremble in her fingers as she pours Sasuke’s sake. She acts as if there’s nothing between them, yet presses the side of her thigh into his.

It’s subtle, so fleeting that Shisui could convince himself it was a trick of his imagination. But then she does it again, and he knows.

So even though it isn’t him that she pours her sake for, or him that she charms with coy looks and her sharp tongue, he knows her heart belongs to him. He’ll tell her tomorrow—how much he loves her—after he storms Himura castle and takes the head of the man who killed his father.

He’ll tell her he loves her, and buy her freedom with his spoils. He'll spend the rest of his life traipsing through gardens of her favorite flowers, braiding the hair of the daughters she'll gift him. He'll give her every thing she so desires.

.

.

.

A shame he tells her with his dying breath.