#he’s just been staring into space for hours

[sirenedeslily]

𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐃𝐄𝐍 ‎𐦍 𝐜hristopher 𝐬turniolo

❛ somebody 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 how i’m 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈. ❜

(⊹ֹ 𝐢𝐧 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 ) ──── ⟢ a quiet ache lingers, but the warmth of her lover’s presence reminds her that healing begins in the spaces between words.

it wasn’t one thing that sent you spiraling. it never was. the weight crept in quietly, a whisper that turned into a roar. you didn’t notice it until you were already caught beneath it, struggling to breathe, each moment heavier than the last.

lately, it felt like the world was asking too much of you. deadlines stacked like bricks on your chest, the air in your lungs thinning with every passing day. sleep was a distant memory, replaced by the harsh glow of your laptop screen and the bitter taste of coffee that didn’t help anymore. even the smallest things—an unanswered email, a misplaced notebook—became mountains you couldn’t climb.

and then there was the familiar darkness, the one you thought you’d left behind years ago. it sat heavy in your chest, uninvited but persistent, curling into the quietest corners of your mind. you tried to push it down, to ignore it, but it was always there, waiting.

you told yourself you were fine. it was easier than trying to explain the way your mind wandered to places you didn’t want to go. easier than admitting how often you felt like a passenger in your own life, watching it all slip by. you smiled when people asked how you were, gave the same tired answer every time: i’m fine, just busy. it wasn’t a lie, not exactly. you were busy—busy running from the parts of yourself you didn’t know how to face.

and you buried it. you always did. hid it behind strained smiles and quiet reassurances to anyone who asked. i’m fine, you’d say. just tired. you weren’t lying, not really. you were tired—bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired.

the signs were small at first. you stopped texting chris goodnight, and your messages turned clipped, sparse. you blamed school—i’m just busy, i’ll call later—but later never came. on facetime, you avoided the camera, saying it was broken, that your wifi was lagging. and when chris asked how you were, you gave him the overused line you had given everyone else in your life: i’m fine.

but you weren’t fine.

the semester’s endless grind pushed you deeper into yourself. the library became your sanctuary, not because you felt productive there, but because you could hide. headphones in, dull and tired eyes, you lost hours staring at your laptop screen, the words blurring together until they didn’t make sense. the cold boston winter slipped through every crack in your armor, and you were too tired to fight it. eating felt pointless. sleep was fitful. most nights, you stared at the ceiling until morning, pretending you didn’t hear your phone buzz on the nightstand.

but chris knew better.

he always knew. even from across the country, he could hear it in your voice, or the lack of it when your calls started going unanswered. he saw it in the text messages that came less often, in the silences that stretched too long. chris wasn’t one to sit and wonder. when you stopped answering altogether, he booked a flight without a second thought.

you didn’t know he was coming. he didn’t give you a chance to talk him out of it. he knew you’d try, knew you’d tell him not to worry, to stay where he was. but chris had never been the kind of person to let you suffer in silence. not when he loved you the way he did.

he found you at the library. it was where you always went when things got too heavy, hiding in the corner like the world couldn’t reach you there. you were hunched over your laptop, earbuds in, the glow of the screen reflecting off tired eyes.

“hey, princess.”

the sound of his voice cut through the fog like sunlight breaking through clouds. you froze, your hands hovering over the keyboard, not daring to look up. when you did, he was there, standing in front of you with snow melting in his hair and a look in his eyes that made your heart twist.

“chris?” you whispered, the disbelief thick in your voice.

“surprise,” he said softly, pulling out the chair across from you.

“what are you doing here?”

he didn’t answer right away, just set a paper bag on the table and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. his voice was gentle, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. “you stopped answering my calls,” he said. “got worried.”

you looked away, your gaze fixed on the crack in the table. “i’m fine,” you mumbled, the lie falling out before you could stop it.

chris didn’t buy it. he never did. he reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “don’t do that,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “not with me. i know you.”

those words broke something inside you. the tears came fast, hot and unrelenting, and you tried to hide them, your hands trembling as you covered your face. chris didn’t hesitate. he moved to your side, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, pulling you close.

“it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice steady as the world around you crumbled. “i’ve got you. just let it out, sweetheart.”

you shook your head against his chest, the words spilling out between sobs. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me. i’m trying so hard, but it’s like i can’t keep up. i feel like i’m falling apart.”

chris held you tighter, his hand cradling the back of your head. “you’re not falling apart,” he said softly. “you’re human. you’re allowed to feel this way. but you don’t have to do it alone.”

his words melted into you, soft and warm, like the first sip of hot chocolate on a winter day. you stayed there, wrapped in his arms, as the weight you’d been carrying finally started to lift, just a little.

when your breathing steadied, chris pulled back just enough to look at you. his thumb brushed a stray tear from your cheek, his touch impossibly gentle. “you’re so strong,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “you don’t even realize it. but you don’t have to be strong all the time, okay? let me carry some of it.”

your eyes filled with tears again, but this time they felt different—softer, less sharp. chris reached into the paper bag, pulling out a pastry and setting it in front of you. “you need to eat,” he said, his tone light but insistent.

you shook your head. “i’m not hungry.”

“please,” he said, his eyes pleading. “for me?”

you took a small bite, the sweetness spreading across your tongue like warmth returning to frozen limbs. chris smiled, his hand finding yours again. “good girl,” he said softly.

his words stayed with you, filling the empty spaces that had been aching for so long.

chris studied your face for a moment, his brow furrowing with quiet determination. the familiar, concerned look in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed, and you could feel the weight of your exhaustion more acutely now. he noticed everything—the stack of notebooks strewn across the table, the mountain of textbooks you’d been buried in for days, the way your laptop screen flickered with yet another unfinished project. you hadn’t even noticed how much you’d been sinking until he did.

without a word, he reached for your hand. his palm was warm against yours, grounding you in a way that nothing else could.

“come on,” he said gently, his voice low but insistent. “let’s take a walk. just for a little while.”

you hesitated, the weight of the world pressing against your shoulders. but then his gaze flickered to the window, where soft snowflakes began to fall, catching in the pale light of the streetlamps. his voice softened, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“you love the snow,” he reminded you. “i know how much you love it when it’s this quiet. let’s just walk for a bit, okay? it might help.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling your body betray you, tiredness pooling in every part of you. but there was something in his tone, in the way he looked at you with that unwavering concern, that made you nod.

before you could protest, chris was already gathering your things. he tucked your notebooks into your bag with care, placing each one neatly as if he understood the chaos they carried. he slid your laptop into its sleeve, the keyboard barely visible beneath the layers of papers. he took his time, making sure everything was in its place, then slid the strap over his shoulder before offering his hand to you once more.

you let him lead you outside, the cold air greeting you with a refreshing bite. the streets were nearly empty, the city muffled by the thick layer of snow that had begun to blanket everything in sight. it felt like the world had slowed, as if the snow itself had wrapped you both in a quiet, sacred moment.

as you walked, chris slowed his pace, matching each step with yours. every now and then, he glanced at you, his eyes catching the way the pink from the cold kissed your cheeks, the way your hair caught the snowflakes and held them like little diamonds against the night. he didn’t say it, but you could see it in the way his gaze softened—he thought you were beautiful like this.

“when we were kids, i always loved seeing you like this. you’d catch snowflakes on your tongue, and it was like you didn’t even notice the cold. it was just… you and the snow.” he said after a while, his voice cutting through the silence.

a faint smile tugged at your lips, a fleeting warmth that faded too quickly. it wasn’t the smile you wanted to give him, but it was enough for now. enough for him to keep going, to hold onto.

but the weight of everything you’d been holding back started to settle in again. you stopped walking, the cold air tugging at you, and turned to face him, your breath clouding between you.

“i’m scared, chris,” you said, your voice catching in your throat. “when it gets this bad… i don’t know how to stop it. i don’t know how to keep it from taking over again.”

his eyes softened, his grip on your hand tightening as if to anchor you. he stepped closer, his other hand gently brushing the side of your face, his touch grounding you in ways you hadn’t realized you needed.

“i know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with tenderness. “it feels impossible sometimes, but you don’t have to face it alone. i’m here.”

you shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. “but you’re in la, and i’m here. it feels like i’m disappearing, like i’m just… fading in this big, empty space. you have your whole life out there, and i don’t even know what i’m doing anymore.”

chris cupped your cheek with both hands now, his warmth spreading through you. “you’re not disappearing,” he said firmly, his voice steady. “and you’re not alone. i’m always with you, even when i’m far away. you’re my best friend, my everything. i’d drop everything if it meant you’d never feel like this again.”

the tears spilled over then, hot against your frozen cheeks. “i feel so…unworthy,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of the confession. “of you. of your love. i feel like i’m just…too much to handle.”

chris didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. he only wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into the kind of embrace that made the world feel smaller and safer. He rested his chin on the top of your head, his voice soft but resolute.

“you’re not too much,” he whispered. “you’re everything. and i love you more than anything in this world, princess. you don’t have to carry this by yourself anymore. let me hold some of it with you.”

you buried your face against his chest, letting yourself break, finally giving into the comfort of his arms. he held you close, his hands smoothing over your back in slow, comforting circles, murmuring against your hair.

“i’m here,” he said softly. “i’ve got you. i’m not going anywhere.”

and for the first time, you believed him. you believed in the warmth of the snow, in the light he brought with him even in the coldest of times, and in the truth of his words.

the snowfall had slowed by the time you and chris found an empty bench near a quiet park, tucked away from the main streets, where the world seemed to fall away, and the only sound was the gentle whisper of the snowflakes as they settled onto the ground. he brushed the snow off the wood with his hand before guiding you to sit, his hands still steadying you even though you were already seated. the air was crisp, but it felt like it was wrapped around you both in a quiet embrace. the city lights twinkled in the distance, but here, it was just you and chris, a stillness that felt like a secret only the two of you shared.

chris sat next to you, close enough that his shoulder brushed against yours, and the warmth of his presence was enough to chase away the last of the cold. he didn’t say anything for a while, just sat there, breathing with you, as if you both needed this moment of peace more than words could express.

finally, when you turned your head to look at him, his gaze met yours, soft and steady. he looked at you for a long moment, studying the way the faint glow of the streetlights caught in your eyes, how the snowflakes clung stubbornly to the ends of your lashes. you looked fragile, yet there was something achingly beautiful about you like this, cheeks rosy, hair slightly damp from the snow, eyes glistening with unshed tears. he smiled, a small, tender thing that seemed to melt away all the tension that had been building up in your chest.

“you know,” he began, his voice low and full of affection, “i’ve always known you’d be my whole world.”

his words were so simple, yet they held a depth that made your heart skip. you swallowed, unsure of what to say, but he wasn’t waiting for a response. he just kept going, his voice wrapping around you like a blanket.

“when we were little,” he continued, “i used to watch you, just… watch you, and i knew. i knew i’d be the luckiest person in the world to have you in mine. i thought… i thought about how everything made sense when you were around, how everything felt like it had a purpose because you were in it. and i wasn’t the only one who knew that. my whole family? they all love you like you’re their own. you’re… you’re just it to us. always have been.”

the weight of his words settled in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you whispered, “i feel so far away from that now.”

chris shifted, his fingers brushing your chin as he tilted your face toward him. “you’re not far away,” he said softly. “it’s all still there—those memories, those feelings. and you’re not alone in this, even when it feels like you are. you’ve still got us, always.”

you swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill again. “i don’t know how to not feel like this, chris. it’s like…like i’m drowning, and i don’t even know how to ask for help.”

“you don’t have to ask,” he said firmly, his thumb grazing your cheek. “i’m always going to show up for you, even when you think you don’t deserve it. you’re worth it—every damn piece of you. do you hear me?”

you blinked, feeling your heart swell with emotions you couldn’t quite name. chris had always been a rock, but hearing him say these things, so openly, so unguarded, made you feel like you were floating.

“you make everything make sense,” he said, his voice quiet now, but the weight of it hanging in the air like a promise. “even when i’m lost, or everything’s falling apart, i know i’m okay because you exist. because i know you’re out there, and i know i’ll always find my way back to you.”

the sincerity in his eyes made your chest tighten. you didn’t know how to respond, but in that moment, you didn’t need to. you let his words wash over you like a soft tide, settling the chaos in your mind, grounding you in a way that nothing else could.

as he spoke, his hand reached out, finding yours once more. you felt the calluses on his fingers, the steady rhythm of his pulse, as if he was holding onto you just as tightly as you were holding onto him. there was no need to pretend, no need to hide from the overwhelming weight of your emotions. not here. not with him.

the moment stretched out, wrapped in a blanket of silence and understanding, until you found yourself leaning into him, your eyes growing heavy. you didn’t realize how much you needed this closeness, how much you needed him, until the weariness crept up on you, slowly but surely. the weight of the last few days, the sleepless nights, the endless worry—it all melted away as you rested your head on his shoulder, your body seeking out the warmth of his presence.

chris didn’t say anything when he felt you start to doze off, his hand gently brushing through your hair, his fingers weaving through the strands as if to reassure you that he was still there. he knew. he always knew when you needed to rest, when you needed to let go of everything and just… be.

when you finally fell asleep against him, your breathing slow and even, chris smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. he didn’t want to disturb you, didn’t want to wake you from the peace you had finally found. instead, he gently carried you back to your apartment as carefully as if you were made of glass.

once inside, chris continued holding you in his arms, carrying you effortlessly to the couch. he gently laid you down, making sure you were comfortable, then draped a soft blanket over you. as he moved toward the bathroom, he lit vanilla and cinnamon candles, letting their soothing scent fill the air. he knew how much the warm, familiar aroma helped to ease your anxiety, how it always made everything feel a little less heavy.

the water ran warm and inviting as he carefully helped you into the bath, making sure you were comfortable before lighting a few more candles around the room. he placed a journal beside you—one with a leather cover and pages that felt like they belonged to something sacred—and opened his own journal, sitting beside you with the quiet intention of journaling together.

“you don’t have to write anything if you don’t want to,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “but i thought maybe we could just… be together in this. i’ll write, too. i want you to know that you’re never alone in this.”

he played laufey softly in the background, the gentle hum of her voice blending perfectly with the flickering candlelight, as you both sat there in companionable silence, the world outside slipping further away. the moment felt timeless, and for once, you allowed yourself to simply be—without worry, without fear.

when the bathwater began to cool, chris helped you out of the tub, drying you off with a soft towel, his movements slow and careful, as if he was afraid of breaking you. he dressed you in his hoodie, the one that always smelled faintly of him, and his own pajama pants, making sure you were as cozy as possible.

he booped your nose with a smile, marveling at how cute you looked, the softness of the fabric, the way your hair fell in loose waves around your face. “so cute,” he murmured, brushing through your hair with delicate care, braiding it in a loose, gentle way, as you settled onto the couch, starting up a charlie brown christmas with a content sigh.

when your eyes began to flutter, heavy with exhaustion, chris gently lifted you into his arms and carried you to your bed. he tucked you in with a soft kiss to your forehead, and before he pulled away, you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

“thank you. for everything.”

chris smiled softly, the warmth in his chest growing, and he kissed the top of your head before settling beside you, his arm wrapping around you tightly. “you never have to thank me for this,” he said softly, his voice a balm to your soul. “i’m always here. always.”

as your breathing deepened, he pressed his cheek against yours, his lips brushing softly against your temple. “you’re safe now,” he whispered. “i’ve got you.”

and there, in the warmth of his embrace, surrounded by the gentle glow of the candles and the soft hum of the world outside, you finally let go. you let yourself be taken care of. for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to feel truly, completely loved.

𝒢𝜚 💭 ࣪ ✸ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ∿ based on this request !!! i hope it’s not too disappointing. 3.3k w.c ! literally no one understands the connection i have to camden, my forever song.. tiwifl i miss u sm

❝ 𝟐𝟐𝟐 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @flouvela @eternaldecisions @elizabebabe @ncm9696 @marrykisskilled

❝ 𝟑𝟑𝟑 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @l34n @sturniolossss @lovingregulusblack @cl1tlover3000 @mattslolita @mattssgf @le4hsblog @brvtall @mattscoquette @chratts-left-ball @jetaimevous @angelesqve @starlace111 @secretlocket @starkeyszn @etherealval @slut4chriss @star-yawnznn @nickmillersn1gf @sturnsmia @tastesousweet @strnilolover @xoxo4chrisss @madifilipowiczslvt

[dee-writes-anime]

First Meetings with Megumi Fushiguro

FEATURING Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

SUMMARY Megumi meeting your daughter for the first time

CONTENT WARNINGS pregnancy trope, vague mentions of childhood truama, nervous/scared megumi, cuteness, descriptions of facial features (on the baby).

AUTHORS NOTE It's been too long since I wrote my cute little grumpy guy, feast my loves!

SERIES MASTERLIST

The room felt suffocatingly hot, over a million degrees by your calculations, but you had only just given birth, so you figured you weren't the best judge of temperature considering the layer of sweat that clung to your skin. Once you finally willed your tired eyes open, you were met with the soft, golden glow of the afternoon sun as it peeked through the half-drawn curtains. The quiet hum of machines filled the space once your ears stopped ringing, an occasional fuss or crinkle from hospital bed sheets seeping through. Your entire body felt like it was on fire from the waist down if you excluded the sharp sting of sore ab muscles and you could feel the crushing weight of exhaustion from hours of labor pushing you deeper and deeper into the thin mattress.

Yet none of it mattered, it barely registered as you stared in awe at the tiny bundle cradled in one of the nurse's arms. They had yet to clean her up much, really, still covered in blood and various other fluids, but they had wiped her face quickly with a different blanket than the soft pink one she was wrapped in now.

Noticing the lack of movement from the nurse as she looked toward the window, you followed her gaze and quickly noticed why. There Megumi stood, his back rigid and hands shoved deep into his pockets. He hadn't said much since birth, come to think of it, he hadn't said much since you arrived at the hospital, just stoically holding your hand as you screamed and ran his fingers through his hair in a panic. You could practically see the tension radiating off of him in waves-- from the slight bounce in his heel to the way his fingers played with the fabric of his pockets.

"Gumi," you called softly, your voice hoarse, cracking slightly, but still full of warmth.

He turned immediately, shifting his almost fearful expression from the nurse to you, his gorgeous, dark eyes catching yours. The moment stretched as he stared, his eyes letting go of the flicker of mania to a gentler, softer look at seeing your face, seemingly reassured that you were okay.

"You get to hold her first, remember? Like we talked about?" you murmured, motioning to the nurse with a shaky hand who had moved closer to Megumi while he had been distracted, treating him almost as if he was a cornered animal.

His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, you could see where the nurse was coming from. His expression was almost comparable to the fidgety, grumpy teenager you had met all those years ago. "Me?" he asked after a long stretch of silence, his voice a fearful whisper.

"Yeah, honey, you wrote it in the birth plan, hm?" you coaxed, "took you a lot of convincing and feet rubs to pull it out of me." A smile pulled at your lips despite your exhaustion. Megumi had been weirdly adamant about wanting to be the first to hold her since you both agreed to start trying for a child and you were still unsure as to why, but if that was the one thing he wanted, you weren't going to deny him. "C'mon, Megs. She's waiting for her dad."

He hesitated, glancing at the nurse and then back at you, his fingers flexing nervously as he tried to hide the slight tremble in his fingers before he let out a deep breath and finally stepped closer.

The nurse handed him the baby with a gentle, understanding smile, softly guiding his hands to support her tiny head and body. Megumi froze for a moment, arms locked awkwardly outward as soon as the weight of your daughter settled into him, his breath catching audibly. Your girl fussed for a moment, uncomfortable with his unsteady, rigid grip and you watched as Megumi slowly, gently reeled her closer to his chest. It looked so smooth, so inevitable-- like a wave crashing upon the shore.

"She's so... small," he said quietly, and you knew he was trying to hide the emotional crack in his words as his heart swelled ten times in his chest, eyes swirling with wonder and fear.

Megumi gently adjusted her then, his trembling arms ever so slowly steadying as he stared at her face, his eyes, dark and wide, were drinking in every small detail they could find. From the tiny freckle in the corner of her eye to the plump swoop of her lips, her strikingly similar eyes to yours to the black of her small tuft of hair, and finally her sweet button nose to the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Alive.

For a moment, you watched as Megumi lost himself in thought. His brows furrowed, a spark of something unspoken passed over his face and that's when you knew. When you realized why he had been so adamant about holding her first. It was the final nail in the coffin of his child, an ache in his chest that he no longer wanted to carry into his daughter's life, something he seemingly needed to let go if he were ever to be a good father. You knew he was wrong, that Megumi could never, ever repeat past mistakes made by his own parents, but you let him have his moment. You let him feel his pride at overcoming the weight of everything he had endured and then you let in settle in the disbelief that he could have something so gentle and pure in his arms.

"She looks like you," he breathed, finally, his voice weighed down by the thick emotion in his throat and then he glanced up at you, his lips twitching into that beautiful, shy smile you had fallen in love with. "Thank God."

You couldn't help but laugh, tears falling down your red cheeks, "You both have that same freckle by your eye," you smile, reaching out a shaky hand to gently caress his arm.

Megumi shifted closer to you, his gaze falling back to your daughter as his thumb traced mindless circles on her blanket. "Hello," he whispered awkwardly, "I'm.. I'm your dad."

You felt your heart swell at the sight of him, this usually stoic man who now looked utterly unguarded. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he bent closer to her, his expression tender in a way you’d rarely seen.

“I promise…” he began, his voice barely audible. “I promise I’ll protect you. No matter what.”

Your tears finally spilled over, and you reached up to wipe them away. “Megumi,” you choked out, your heart bursting with love for both him and your daughter.

He glanced at you, his eyes shining. Without a word, he leaned forward and pressed a soft, hesitant kiss to your forehead. Then, as if she sensed the moment, your daughter let out a small, sleepy sigh, her tiny lips curling slightly.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You nodded, resting your head against his shoulder as the three of you sat there, wrapped in the warmth of the moment. For the first time in a long while, everything felt right.

As your daughter’s breathing grew slower, her little body curling into Megumi’s chest, he finally let out a shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing.

“I never thought…” he began, then stopped, shaking his head. His voice was quieter when he continued. “I never thought I’d have something this good.”

You reached up, brushing a hand through his hair. “You deserve this, Megumi. We both do.”

The room grew still, the soft sounds of her breathing the only thing breaking the silence. In that moment, nothing else mattered—no fears, no past, no uncertainties about the future. It was just the three of you, a new family, basking in a love so profound it left you both speechless.

TAGLIST

@makingtimemine @strawbrrycat @soraya-daydreams @shokosbunny @saltypuffin1040 @danilights2021 @startwithrecords @obeythebutler @sparklykeylime @surielstea

[endereies]

STUDY SESSION - CS

No Nut November - Day 20

NNN Masterlist...

-➤ Chris helps you take your mind away from studies

You had been sat in your bedroom for hours. It was completely silence other than the sound of pens scribbling and keyboard keys tapping. Every free area of space was covered by some scrap paper. Words had started to blur hours ago, and it only made things worse for you. Nothing made any sense to you and with your finals coming up soon, you couldn’t waste any more time.

Nothing could split your eyesight away from the sheets of paper around you, not even the growl of your stomach. The feeling of hunger slipped past your mind as the thoughts of the previous failure mark forwarded everything. You were too disappointed in yourself to think about yourself.

It had gotten to the point that you hadn’t noticed Chris walk behind you and start speaking, not until he gripped and turned your chair towards him. “Hey…you’re up late?”

“Chris? You are back early, weren’t you filming until 2am tonight.” You grew confused as you only felt a few hours pass in your mind.

“Y/n? Its 3am? I’ve been downstairs because I thought you were asleep, until I heard movement. What are you doing up?” He saw the exhaustion etched into your eyes and it only made his eyes soften with worry.

“Just studying, my exam is in a week, and I don’t want to fail again.” You stopped copying down notes to look up at him.

Chris stared at the freshly written on paper and met your gaze again. “What was the last thing you just wrote down.” You were about to tilt your head before he stopped you. “Without looking”

Words stuttered out your mouth, your fingers tapping, trying to find the answer. “Uhm, the definition of functions?” Your voice squeaked, knowing it was more than wrong.

“Nope, you aren’t even doing functions, it was the nth term baby… How are you meant to revise like this if you cant remember what you’re writing.” You tried to protest and once more he stopped you. A few of the papers began to be hard to focus on and gain any knowledge from and you sighed your head in defeat.

“I know this is important to you, but you’re important to me.” Both his arms gripped your shoulders, the dim lights of your laptop highlighting the sincere look in his eyes.

“Mhm…okay.”

“Good, now, there is some pasta on the stove, have some fuel and you can crash out, all this will be waiting for you…”

Your body drew itself into Chris’ chest, a sharp exhale escaping. He snaked his hands around your body and placed his chin on top of your head. He swayed slightly, embracing the physical touch before creating some distance.

“Thank you, Chris, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry, love. Just relax now, you need it.

@melliflws @yuhayeee @st7rnioioss @sturn-bugz @bueckerrss @worldlxvlys @raysmayhem-72 @patscorner @y0urm4m @bernardsbendystraws @junnniiieee07 @luverboychris @jnkvivi @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @shorthairchris @colorthecosmos444 @anabethinking @zay-sturns @anyaa2s @emilyfaith2003 @jassturn @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @sturniolosiphone @ribread03 @slutf4rmatt @spaghetti835928383 @flouvela

© ENDEREIES 2024

[menwrittenbywomen]

Jegulus date - word count: 4k

Why did I agree to this again? Regulus questions himself as he follows James down the stairs leading from his apartment.

He’s spending the day with James Potter. The man he’s hated since for as long as he can remember.

After they make it downstairs, they wait while James calls them a ride. Regulus is tempted to ask where they’re going, but he sort of likes the idea of it being a surprise. Normally he hates surprises, but today is not a normal day. Regulus isn’t sure if he likes that or not.

The silence while they wait isn’t as unpleasant as Regulus expects it to be. He’s never been one to try and fill the silence, but he thought James would at least try to make small talk. The man normally never shuts up. However, he seems to be lost in thought at the moment. He’s staring into the distance with a faraway look. Regulus continues to stare at James, taking him in fully without the stress of having him look back. There are no words that need to be said at the moment.

Instead, a comfortable quiet fills the space between them. Regulus likes that he now knows that James has the ability to shut up on occasion. It’s easier to not be annoyed by him that way.

Their taxi arrives a little later, and it seems to snap James out of his thoughts. He turns to Regulus.

“Ready?” He asks, a gleeful look on his face.

Regulus gives a nod and starts forward. They take a taxi because he isn’t a fan of subways. They’re way too crowded, and if there’s ever an available seat, it’s covered in too many unidentifiable liquids.

Trying not to think about what sort of liquids the taxi seats have seen, he gets in and scoots over to leave some space. James sits a respectful distance away, which slightly offends Regulus. What’s so wrong with him that James wants to sit so far away? Not that Regulus wants him any closer. It’s just the semantics that upset him.

The car ride is silent on Regulus’ part. He looks out the window and certainly does not pout while James strikes up a conversation with the driver. Because of course he does. It turns out that they have quite a lot in common. They go to the same gym, enjoy the same movies, and like the same music. Regulus is then stuck listening to Kendrick Lamar's new album for the rest of the short ride. He debates opening the car door and jumping out onto the bustling street.

When they arrive at their destination, Regulus is actually a little impressed. They’re at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Regulus has never been despite living in the city for a while now. He loves museums and art, but he usually tells himself he’s too busy to indulge himself like that.

He regrets not spending more time doing the things he loves. There are so many opportunities he’s missed that if he tried to count them, the day would be long over.

They both exit the taxi, and James refuses to let Regulus pay. James thanks the driver, who is now a new friend of his apparently, and then holds out his arms as if presenting a prize to Regulus on a game show.

“Ta-da!”

“It’s a museum,” Regulus states. He tries his best to sound unimpressed despite the excitement coursing through him.

“Yes, the best one in Boston! C’mon, it’s gonna be fun.” James skips ahead, genuinely skips, and Regulus wonders if he'll get arrested for assault if he hits James.

James comes back over and sees the unamused look on Regulus’ face. He smiles and ushers to the entrance. Regulus shakes his head but begins walking. James slows to match his pace, and Regulus purposefully ignores the fluttering feeling he gets.

They pay and enter the museum, going first to the large garden called the Courtyard. Regulus lets out a gasp when he sees it.

It’s one of the most beautiful gardens Regulus has ever seen. It’s overflowing with flowers and beautiful architecture. This is the kind of place he could sit for hours and forget the world.

“I love it,” he says aloud. He hadn’t meant to, but when James turns to him he keeps speaking despite himself. “I could stay forever and not worry about a thing.”

James nods along, looking out at the beautiful scenery. “I’d stay here forever with you if you’d let me,” he says, and surely Regulus misheard him. A moment later, James laughs awkwardly, and Regulus supposes he must have been making a joke.

James and his stupid jokes.

Regulus huffs before making his way to the closest room in the museum. It’s called the Macknight Room, and it’s full of wonderful artwork for Regulus to gawk at. He notices James enter behind him, but pays him no mind.

He looks at a lovely watercolor painting of the Grand Canyon. It astonishes him that there are such beautiful places in the world. It saddens him to think that he may never get to see them. Maybe he should be more like James and take time to enjoy things. However, the thought of being anything like James makes him feel a bit sick, so he decides to put a pin in the idea.

Eventually, he and James end up side by side again. James asks him a question about an object on the table in front of them, and Regulus decides to forgive him for his joke. He’s not got much time for grudge-holding today. He answers James’ question, then another, and another, not getting annoyed in the slightest. They begin to make their way through the museum, and it’s surprisingly Regulus who does most of the talking.

They see works by Rembrandt, Degas, and even Michaelangelo. Regulus finds himself enjoying the experience way too much. He keeps telling himself to calm down, it’s just a painting, or a sculpture, or a vase. He starts going on tangents to James about the artwork, and James seems content just to listen to him. Regulus is surprised he hasn’t asked him to shut up yet. He can get kind of annoying about art, as his friends have told him many times.

He interrupts himself in the middle of telling James about a painting by Rubens. “Sorry, I’m ranting again. You can tell me to stop talking, I know it’s probably annoying.”

James firmly shakes his head, surprising Regulus again. “You’re not annoying, Regulus. You’re just passionate. I like hearing you talk about art. Your face lights up when you do.”

Regulus can’t do anything about the blush that appears at that. He turns away quickly and avoids James for a little while.

They eventually make their way through almost the entire museum. The last room they visit is the Spanish Cloister. Regulus thinks this is one of his favorites. It has beautiful works by Sargent, Seville, and many talented others.

Regulus' favorite is one by John S. Sargent called El Jaleo. It depicts a performer dancing in a tavern with musicians playing for her in the background. Regulus likes it because he feels like he can relate to the woman dancing. She’s trapped in the painting, putting on a show for everyone for eternity. Regulus feels like his whole life has been one big performance. Performing for his parents, for strangers, for himself.

The painting is a myriad of colors and objects. There’s so much going on that it’s hard to figure out where to look. Regulus is drawn to the woman, however, and he wishes that she could curtsy so the show can be over.

James comes to stand next to him. “Do you like this one?”

It’s hard to find the words to describe how the painting makes him feel. He can only think of two words to say, but he knows they’re not enough.

“It’s beautiful,” Regulus whispers.

“Yes, it is,” James says back.

Regulus turns and is surprised to find James looking at him instead of the painting, another stupid smile on his face. He must have turned his head a split second before Regulus did. That’s the only explanation.

James is opening his mouth to speak, and Regulus waits with bated breath. He doesn’t know what he wants James to say, but he knows that he wants it to be something monumental.

“I’m glad you asked me to spend the day with you,” James says, and Regulus wants to take back his wish. James is so earnest too; Regulus knows he means what he says. He wants to tell James what he’s thinking, but that would involve being open with his feelings.

Regulus is a coward. He doesn’t respond. He turns away.

It’s silent, and then:

“Are you hungry?” James asks him for the second time that day. Before Regulus can answer, his stomach betrays him by growling. They both laugh. Regulus is learning that laughter can be nice sometimes.

“C’mon, I know a great place not too far from here.” He follows James out of the room, pausing to look at El Jaleo one last time.

The performer, stuck forever in a dance. He’s worried he can understand her a little too well.

He blinks away tears he didn’t realize had formed in his eyes and catches up to James. Look at him, getting emotional over a painting. It would make Sirius laugh.

Regulus hates to admit that he misses that laugh.

Once they’ve left the museum, they grab another taxi. This time, the ride isn’t silent and they keep a nice conversation going. They talk about their favorite things from the museum, and Regulus corrects James when he gets things wrong and laughs at James’ funny descriptions of the art. The ride seems to be over too quickly.

They both exit the taxi, James once again paying despite Regulus’ protests. He wants to tell James that he has the entire Black family inheritance burning a hole in his pocket, but he would probably just be laughed at.

They’ve been dropped off in front of a row of shops. James steps toward the one closest to them. Regulus pauses to take a look at it. The sign above the entrance reads Punjab Palace in bright red letters. James has brought him to an Indian food place. Regulus likes Indian food well enough; some of the dishes are too spicy for him as he grew up in a household where salt and pepper were oftentimes the only seasonings used. His spice tolerance is terrible, to say the least.

James turns to him, an anxious look on his face. “Are you okay with Indian food? If not, we can go somewhere else-”

“James, I’m good,” Regulus interrupts. He’s learning that James cares what people think entirely too much. “I’ve had it before, I like it. Calm down.” His words genuinely seem to calm James, and he smiles before walking to the entrance. Regulus follows him inside.

Once they're seated, he anxiously takes out his phone but doesn’t do anything more besides go to his home screen. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates small talk but feels it’s what is expected when two people eat together. He waits for James to initiate the conversation.

“My parents used to bring me here when I was younger,” James says in a fond voice. Regulus is glad he’s with someone unafraid to speak. Regulus often feels like he’d rather die than say anything.

He nods along instead of speaking. He’s of the opinion that sometimes things people say don’t require a response from the listener, especially if there are no words that are meaningful enough. He supposes he could say “Oh, that’s cool” or “Nice”, but those aren’t big enough to say how he really feels. He wishes he had the words to say that he thinks that it’s amazing that James’ parents took him to such a cool place growing up, and it’s great that his parents are so nice and loving, and that he’s sad that he didn’t have any of that growing up but he’s happy for James at the same time. But he doesn't know how to say any of that. So he just nods instead.

James doesn’t seem to mind his nonverbal responses and continues to talk. “My mom likes things that remind her of home. Food, music, dancing. I used to love dancing with her when I was a kid.” Hearing James talk so fondly of his mother makes Regulus think of his own. She never danced with him or Sirius and was never kind. Regulus knows that she’s the main reason his brother ran away from home. He’s glad that Sirius was able to find a mother who is nice, even if it meant he was left alone with one who wasn’t.

“She sounds lovely,” Regulus says. She sounds like everything a mother should be. Everything Regulus isn’t.

“She is. She’s the best.” He then says something Regulus isn’t expecting. “You should meet her someday. I think you guys would get along.”

Regulus is surprised that James thinks he should meet his mother. He doesn’t think James likes him all that much. So to suggest that he meet Euphemia Potter is a little strange. And how does James know they’d get along anyway? He barely knows anything about Regulus.

Before Regulus can respond, a waiter arrives to greet them. When the waiter asks what they’d like to drink, James orders something called a mango lassi while Regulus plays it safe and gets a Diet Coke. James also asks for some saag tikki and garlic naan, and the waiter hurries off to put in their order.

“I’m excited for you to try some of this food. Growing up, this was my equivalent to McDonald’s.” Regulus sort of understands the reference; he was never allowed fast food growing up. He supposes his version of McDonald’s would be when he and Sirius would stay with their Uncle Alphard when they were young. He would make them delicious foods their parents wouldn’t let them have otherwise.

It’s then that the waiter comes back with their drinks and appetizers. Regulus mentally applauds the fast service. The waiter asks if they're ready to order, and Regulus panics and picks his menu up. James thankfully orders first, giving Regulus time to scan. When the waiter turns to him, he orders chicken tikka masala because it’s the only dish he recognizes. He’s had it before and liked it, so it’s the safest option.

The waiter leaves again, and a silence ensues. Regulus sips his coke while James has some of his mango drink. James lets out a sound that’s entirely too close to a moan for Regulus’ liking. He shoots James an offended look.

“Sorry,” James says, not looking sorry at all. Honestly, doesn’t he know better than to make noises like that? Someone could get the wrong idea. “I just haven’t had one of these in forever and I forgot how good it is.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t give you an excuse to moan like you’re in a cheap porno,” he says, then immediately regrets it when he sees a glint in James’ eye.

“I bet you’d love-” James is interrupted by Regulus throwing a piece of naan at his face. This effectively shuts him up.

“Do not finish that sentence.” James looks at Regulus with a shocked expression. He clearly didn’t expect to have a piece of bread thrown at him.

“I can’t believe you just threw naan at me.” James sounds offended, but Regulus can tell he’s only joking from the look on his face. He proceeds to pick up the naan that had fallen onto the table after it smacked his forehead and eat it.

“I would have thrown my knife at you, but I’m a gentleman.” James lets out a loud laugh at that.

“Regulus Black, you are full of surprises.” Regulus doesn’t believe that. He’s very predictable. He always has a snide comment or sarcastic remark, and his smiles are almost never present. He can always be counted on to bring reality to someone’s wild dreams and keep them from making rash decisions. So yes, he’s predictable, but he likes that James doesn’t see him that way. He likes that he sees him as a mystery to solve, something that has hidden answers. He then wonders why he likes that it’s James who sees him that way before clearing that thought away. That was dangerous territory.

James takes another sip of his drink, this time behaving himself for Regulus’ benefit. “This was my favorite drink as a kid.” He pushes the glass toward Regulus. “Here, try it.” He takes a cautious sip and is surprised to find that it tastes good. It’s not like anything he’s had before, but he likes it nonetheless.

“I like it,” Regulus tells James as he slides the drink back. This makes James happy. He’s too easy to please.

They make small talk while they wait, but it’s not as painful as Regulus expects it to be. James is a pro at keeping the conversation flowing, and Regulus realizes that he’s actually enjoying himself. He never expected that to happen with James in close vicinity, let alone him being the one to make Regulus happy. Today has to be the strangest day ever.

The waiter brings out their food while they’re in the middle of a debate over whether cereal is a soup. It was starting to get a little heated, so the food came out at a great time.

James starts in on his chicken curry and Regulus can smell the spices from it across the table. He takes a small bite of his own food, and his eyes widen. It’s amazing. He starts eating and doesn’t stop until the whole plate is empty.

He looks up to see that James devoured his food as well. They both seem to be amused at their eagerness. The food was just too delicious to do anything other than savor it.

The waiter comes to clear the empty plates, taking the credit card James hands over.

“I could have paid,” Regulus says, but James waves him off.

“I suggested we come here and you trusted me. It’s on me today.” Regulus nods in thanks. The waiter comes back with their receipt, but neither one stands to go.

“Do you-”

“Are we-”

They both pause when they begin speaking at the same time.

“You first,” James laughs.

“I was just going to ask if you still wanted to spend the day together. Don’t feel obligated to say yes.”

“I was just about to ask the same thing,” James says with a grin. “I’m having fun, so why stop here?” Regulus' stomach does something funny that he ignores.

“Yeah. Why stop here?” Regulus repeats. They stare at each other then. It feels important, and monumental. Then James looks away, and the moment ends.

“Time for dessert,” He announces.

“James, I’m so full. I don’t think I can manage dessert.” Regulus feels ready to burst. He hasn’t had a good meal in forever.

James stands from his chair. “The place I have in mind is about thirty minutes away, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Thirty minutes?” Regulus says as he stands. He embarrassingly stumbles a bit. James reaches out a hand to help, but Regulus just glares at it until he retracts it. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” Hasn't this whole day been one big surprise?

Another taxi. Another drive. Regulus is noticing a pattern to the day. James leads and he follows. He just hopes he’s not led in the wrong direction.

They pass a sign on the way that states they’ve left the city. Regulus looks at their surroundings and realizes where they’re going.

“Why are we going to Cambridge?” He questions James.

James only shrugs nonchalantly. “You asked me to show you my favorite places.”

“Yeah, in Boston,” Regulus deadpans. He’s not sure he wants to go cross-country with James. They’d argue over the music playing in the car and inevitable crash or something.

James refuses to give him any more answers. Regulus is stubborn and tries his best though. He’s realizing James may be almost as stubborn as he is, which is going to be a problem if they continue arguing.

Regulus amuses himself by looking out the window. He’s always loved car rides. It’s nice to look at the scenery as they pass by. It makes him think about how big the world is and how small he is in comparison. Most would find that thought scary, but Regulus finds comfort in it. It reminds him that everything he does is insignificant and won’t matter one day, so he has all the freedom in the world.

They eventually make it further into Cambridge, and the taxi stops. They have arrived outside of an ice cream shop. Regulus loves ice cream, but there’s no way James knew that. It’s just a happy coincidence.

“Ice cream is my favorite,” Regulus admits to James as they hop in line to wait.

“Yeah, you mentioned it before, so I thought I’d show you my favorite ice cream shop.”

Regulus is confused. “When did I tell you I like ice cream?”

James laughs. “You didn’t tell me. I overheard you say it to Remus a few months back.” With that, he turns to look at the flavors on display.

Regulus doesn’t know what to think. It’s thoughtful that James remembered something he said from months ago. Too thoughtful for two people who are supposed to hate each other. Regulus wants to know what else James knows about him. He also wants to learn more about James.

He’s terrible at this whole hatred thing.

When it’s their turn, James orders a double dip of a strange flavor called Passion Fruit Caramel. When Regulus makes a face, James laughs and explains that he’s on a mission to try all the different flavors the shop offers, and that this is the only one they’re offering today that he’s yet to try.

He thinks that it’s a very James thing to do.

Regulus once again plays it safe and orders a single dip of Burnt Caramel. He wasn’t allowed to have very many sweets when growing up, so now as an adult, he attempts to make up for his loss by eating sweet things whenever he can.

Regulus manages to pay for his ice cream even though James insists, and they take their cups outside. There are benches lined along the sidewalk and they have a seat. Regulus notices that James sits a little closer than he did in the taxi from earlier.

James has some of his, making sure to let Regulus and all the passerby know how good it is by the sounds he makes. They are thankfully more PG this time.

Regulus excitedly takes a bite of his and has to force himself not to spit it back out. It’s bitter and not at all how he expects it to taste. He swallows quickly and wishes he had something to get the taste out of his mouth. He sticks his tongue out like a toddler without thinking about it, wanting anything to make the flavor go away.

“Everything okay?” It seems James has noticed his distress. Great.

“No,” Regulus answers petulantly. “It’s bitter and doesn’t taste good.” He gets up to throw the ice cream away in the nearest trash can. He comes back to where James is sitting, mood effectively ruined because of some stupid dessert.

James looks sympathetic. “Have some of mine.” He holds his cup out but Regulus hesitates. “Tastes good, promise.” James sounds so genuine that Regulus really has no choice. He once again attempts to be brave and tries a small bite. James isn’t lying; it tastes delicious. It’s slightly tart from the passion fruit but the sweet caramel balances it well. It’s also super creamy and one of the best things Regulus has ever tasted. He takes another, bigger bite and has to hold back a delighted groan.

The small kindness goes a long way. Regulus is still trying to decipher the mystery that is James Potter. The man is choosing to spend time with him even though he’s been cruel to him, and now he’s sharing his very tasty ice cream when he’s not obligated to. Regulus tries to think of words big enough to encompass his gratitude but falls short. He can really only think of two words to say, and he hopes they’re enough.

“Thank you,” Regulus whispers. It’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever said to James. It makes the man smile, and Regulus decides he may have to make a habit of being nicer to James. Where before he found the smiles quite annoying, looking at it now, it was actually really pleasant to look at. James' smile lights up his whole face. It’s as if there’s this constant joy inside him that’s ready to burst at any moment. Now that joy is directed at Regulus, just because of two small words he said.

And then Regulus does something very unexpected.

For once, he smiles back.

[writingfics-passingtime]

hi, can you please write about the reader overthinking decorating a pumpkin and loki threatens to tickle them if they don't start it 🤗🤗

I can still post pumpkin content cause it's still November, right?

Here's a sassy, stoic reader, an absolute teasing menace Loki, and a tender, emotional ending (because I can't help myself).

word count: ~4300

pairing: Loki x female reader

content / warnings: sexual tension, suggestive banter, flirting and touching, tickling, swearing

minors dni: this work does not contain smut, but does contain a suggestive relationship between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: thank you anon ~ I wasn't going to respond yet because my prompts aren't open, but I've seen a few other writers receive and fulfil this ask, and I've liked seeing what other have done with it. My imagination went a little wild. Thanks for your message x

If anyone has an idea for a title, help a girl out

The room was alive with voices, clinking bottles, and the occasional scrape of a knife against pumpkin flesh. The compound’s main dining hall had been transformed into an unlikely tableau of domesticity. Avengers, gods, and spies bent over their assigned gourds with varying levels of skill and enthusiasm. Stark’s pumpkin already looked like a disaster of glitter and questionable wiring, while Natasha’s had been carved into a clean, menacing grin, a masterpiece of precision.

And then there was you.

Your pumpkin sat pristine and untouched in front of you, its smooth surface mocking your indecision. Brushes, carving tools, and paints were scattered around your space, all conspicuously unused. You held a small knife in your hand, twirling it absently as you stared at the blank canvas.

“Do mortals often find themselves defeated by vegetables, or is this particular weakness unique to you?”

Loki's voice slid over you like velvet, dark and rich, tinged with mockery.

You didn’t look up. “It’s a fruit, actually.”

“Ah,” he drawled, moving closer. “Semantics. How very like you.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him lean against the edge of the table, his long, lean frame clothed in casual, dark fabrics that clung just enough to remind you that he wasn’t of your world. His sharp blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed your untouched pumpkin.

“You’ve been staring at it for nearly an hour,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Surely even you can’t find this much to overthink.”

You exhaled sharply, finally meeting his gaze. “Maybe I’m waiting for inspiration.”

“Or perhaps you’re simply afraid to begin.” His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk, the kind that made your pulse stumble. “One wrong cut, one poorly chosen stroke, and the whole thing could be ruined. What a tragic metaphor for your careful, overthought life.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Freud,” you said dryly, turning your attention back to the pumpkin. “Now, if you’re done, I have work to do.”

“Work?” His laugh was quiet, mocking. He moved closer, the faint rustle of his clothing brushing against your senses like a whisper. “Sitting frozen with indecision isn’t work, darling. It’s fear.”

You bristled but kept your voice calm. “If you’re so invested in this pumpkin, why don’t you decorate it yourself?”

“Because I find your quandary far more entertaining.”

He stepped around behind you then, his tall frame casting a shadow over your seat. His presence loomed, a magnetic pull you both resented and couldn’t entirely resist.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said softly, his voice close now, the faintest trace of his breath against your ear. “Either you begin decorating this ridiculous fruit, or I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

You turned slightly, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. They gleamed with dark amusement, his smirk widening as he caught the way your lips parted involuntarily. “Oh? And how exactly would you do that?”

Loki’s smirk deepened, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “I could start with this.”

Before you could react, his fingers brushed against your sides, featherlight but enough to send a jolt through you. You stiffened, gripping the edge of the table as his touch lingered, just shy of maddening.

You twisted in your chair to glare at him. “That’s your plan? Tickle me into submission? How original.”

His chuckle was low, dark, a sound that sent a shiver up your spine. “Oh, I think it would be quite effective. And besides,” he murmured, leaning closer, “I suspect you’d secretly enjoy it.”

Your breath caught at the sheer audacity of him, the way his voice dipped into something so sultry, so intimate, that your stomach twisted. “Sounds like you're desperate for an excuse to touch me,” you shot back, your tone sharp despite the heat rising in your cheeks.

He tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more deliberate. “Desperate? No, darling. Just curious.”

His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, as if he could see straight through you to the rapid beat of your heart.

The air between you seemed to thicken, the tension coiling taut as his words hung there, daring you to respond.

Your grip on the table tightened as you forced yourself to meet his eyes, even as heat coiled low in your stomach.

It felt like gripping the steering wheel of a car spinning out, but you snapped the moment.

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are."

Loki laughed, soft and wicked. “Of course not. And you're the picture of composure, as always."

His hand brushed against yours then, the faintest graze of his fingertips, and you swore the room tilted.

“Go on,” he urged, his voice a low murmur, his eyes locked on yours. “Prove me wrong. Pick up the brush. Start decorating. Show me you're not afraid of a little fun.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. The weight of his gaze, the dark amusement in his smirk, the sheer magnetic pull of him it was... intoxicating.

Finally, with a sharp exhale, you grabbed the brush. “Fine,” you said, your voice tight as you dipped it into the paint.

Loki straightened, his smirk triumphant but his eyes still glinting with wicked intent. “There’s a good girl,” he said softly, the words like a caress against your ear.

It left you burning long after he’d stepped away.

As you focused on the paint in front of you, doing your best to ignore the heat coursing through your veins, you felt the thrill of his words linger.

The brush hovered over the pumpkin, the orange, unsullied skin glaring up at you like a taunt. Loki had retreated to the far end of the room, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the table as he spoke with Thor. You knew it was only a matter of time before his attention flickered back to you, the heat of a flame too close for comfort.

You had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm under his gaze any longer.

Sliding the brush down as quietly as possible, you rose from your seat. The soft scrape of your chair legs across the floor was muffled beneath the ambient chatter of the room, and Loki didn’t so much as glance your way. Your pulse quickened as you edged toward the door, heart hammering with every step.

He didn’t follow.

Once you’d slipped into the quiet of the hall, the tension in your chest eased, and you let out a breath you were very aware you'd been holding.

You made your way toward the compound’s library, the solitude of it a welcome balm. The others would still be occupied for at least another hour - enough time for you to lose yourself in the pages of your book and avoid whatever game Loki had been playing that almost made you crack.

The library greeted you with its familiar quiet, the scent of leather sofas and paper a comforting presence. You found your usual spot tucked away in a far corner, a large bay window cushioned with soft pillows overlooking the courtyard. Settling in with a contented sigh, you pulled your book from where you'd wedged it between the seat cushion and the wooden frame.

The story drew you in almost immediately, the tension of moments ago dissolving into the words on the page. The sunlight filtering through the window began softening into twilight, painting the room in hues of amber and shadow.

The quiet here was sacred, untouched by the chaos of the compound. As you turned the last few pages, your chest loosened, the illusion of safety creeping in.

Surely, he hadn’t followed you. Surely, Loki had other things to occupy himself-

Surely not.

“I expected better from you.”

The voice slithered into your ears, so low and sudden that your breath caught in your throat. With all your years of training, you managed to stay frozen. Futile, though. You knew he could see right through it.

You looked up, and there he stood, shadowed and immaculate, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of a single, golden lamp. His icy blue eyes glinted with cruel amusement, his lips curling into a smirk that made your stomach twist.

“How... predictable,” he continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “You flee like a rabbit, thinking you can burrow away from the wolf.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you forced yourself turn back your book. “I don’t recall fleeing,” you started, turning a page. “I walked out, actually. Perhaps you’ve forgotten the difference in your old age.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, like distant thunder rolling over jagged peaks. “Ah, there it is. That fire you wear like armour. Does it soothe you to pretend you’re unshakeable?”

You scoffed, even as your pulse betrayed you. “You’re awfully sure of yourself for someone whose only hobby seems to be tormenting me.”

“Torment?” he echoed, his voice silken as he closed more distance between you. “My dear, if I were tormenting you, you’d know it. Shall I demonstrate?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, instead turning another page of your book. The words blurred before your eyes, but you kept your expression neutral. “If you think I’m going to feed your ego by reacting, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

"Why did you refuse to take part?" There was something unnervingly earnest in his voice that pulled at your heart. "Why did you leave?"

You looked up, wearing a mask of indifference and sarcasm. “I didn’t realise decorating pumpkins was a matter of state importance.”

The smirk tugging at his lips was slow and predatory, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. “Such sharp words, little rabbit. Always so quick with your tongue when your heart’s trying to claw its way out of your chest.”

Your pulse spiked, but you refused to let him see it. Instead, you tilted your head, letting a slow, sardonic smirk curve your lips. “You said you weren't desperate, Loki. But you seem to have taken to taunting me for sport."

The laugh that slipped from him was low and sinuous, curling like smoke through the still air. “Oh, I don’t need sport to occupy me. But you…” He leaned forward, the space between you vanishing in an instant. “You’re far too entertaining to resist. Especially when you’re trembling behind that mask of yours.”

“I’m not trembling.”

“No?” His voice was a purr now, his breath brushing your ear as he lowered himself just enough to meet you at eye level. “I suppose you weren’t squirming earlier, either. Like prey in my hands.”

Your cheeks flared with heat, but you kept your expression neutral. “You sound obsessed.”

“And you sound very ticklish.”

The way he said it - smooth, dark, laced with that damned smirk -sent a ripple of mortification through you. It was all the confirmation you needed of his intentions to follow through on his earlier threat.

It was inevitable.

So you leaned back, lifting your book as if to shield yourself from the weight of his gaze. If you were going down, you were going down swinging. Well, verbally, at least.

“You’re overplaying your hand.”

“Oh, am I?” He stood to his full height, towering over you now, his shadow eclipsing the faint light. “Because the ones who act so tough, so stoic, so unbothered... they’re always the most fun. It’s so very delicious to watch them fall apart.”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night?” You forced your tone into something light, dismissive, though your grip on the book tightened. “That you’ve got me figured out?”

His smirk deepened, his head tilting as he studied you like a puzzle he already knew how to solve. “I don’t need to tell myself anything. You do all the work for me.”

Your lips parted for a retort, but his eyes flickered down to the slight tremor in your fingers, the way your knees shifted restlessly against the cushions.

And you saw how his smile widened, satisfied and predatory, when he saw all the hallmarks of someone about to flee.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, voice dropping to a velvet whisper. “Run. It’ll be more fun for me.”

For a split second, you froze, torn between logic and instinct. Then you bolted, your book tumbling to the seat as you darted for the nearest gap.

But Loki was faster.

You didn't make it two full steps before he caught you with a preternatural ease, his ensnaring hands dragging you back against him in one smooth motion. His low chuckle brushed your ear as he manoeuvred you down onto the window seat, half-pinning you on your side with his arms wrapped firmly around your waist.

“Pitiful,” he drawled, his tone rich with mockery. “And here I thought you’d make it a challenge.”

You shoved at him, scowling. “Let me go, you overgrown-”

Whatever venom you’d prepared was shattered as his fingers pressed into your ribs, curling with precision against the fabric of your sweater. Laughter burst from you, loud and uncontrollable, and you immediately clamped your lips shut, mortified by the sound.

“Ah,” Loki purred, his grin widening. “There it is. That lovely sound you try so hard to keep from the world. Go on, darling. Let me hear it again.”

“Loki, wait- no!” you gasped, but his hands had already found the curve of your waist, his fingers pinching with precision that felt criminal.

“No?” he echoed, mockingly incredulous. “You were so calm a moment ago. What happened?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, squeezing tighter, his nails grazing the bare skin of your sides. You quaked at the contact, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as he found every sensitive spot with uncanny accuracy. Your hands clutched at his forearms, his chuckle hot and tempting against your neck as your head fell back in mirth.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice low and commanding, the words a dark melody against your ear. “Why did you run?”

“I- I...” you wheezed, twisting in his hold, going nowhere. With a ferocious, defiant growl, you yelled, "I... walked!"

Loki paused, his lips curling in that knowing smirk, and then he tickled harder, digging in with precision. You crumpled back against him, laughing helplessly, unable to catch your breath. Every sound that left your mouth was a mix of laughter and helpless gasps, each one a surrender to him, to the unrelenting tickling.

“Let's try again,” Loki commanded, his voice low, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me why you fled.”

You struggled to pull yourself together, trying to come up with another witty retort, but before you could speak, Loki found an especially sensitive spot, just under your ribs, and his fingers locked in with a brutal efficiency. You shrieked, squirming beneath him, but he held you there with the effortless force of a god, his smile widening against the shell of your ear.

You thrashed harder, your laughter raw and breaking, tears welling in your eyes. “I’ll- kill you-”

“You’ll what?” He laughed, low and dark, his fingers picking up speed again, pressing and kneading with wicked precision. Every stroke of his hands felt like it was designed to unravel you, to push you past your limits and then some.

The realisation hit like a blow: he could read you. Every shudder, every hitch in your breath, every twitch of your body. And worse, he was enjoying it, adjusting his touch with the kind of skill that only centuries of mischief could hone. His hands didn’t just tickle; they teased, tormented, mastered you.

"You- oh my g-" you gasped, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "You absolute fucking-"

“Such language,” he chided, his tone a tease of disapproval. “And after I’ve been so gentle.”

His fingers danced lower, teasing the curve of your hips, and the laugh that escaped you was so deep, so raw, it left your chest aching. Loki stilled for half a heartbeat, his grin sharp as he took in the sound, before redoubling his efforts. He pressed his thumbs into the tender space just above your hipbones, his fingers curling to squeeze in a way that had you screaming, your body writhing in his iron grip.

“Okay! Okay!” you gasped, tears of mirth welling in your eyes.

“Speak, then,” he commanded in low and silken voice, his fingers unrelenting. “And don’t lie to me. You won’t like the consequences.”

“I—” You hesitated, your breath hitching, but he gave you no mercy. His nails dragged lightly over your ribs, and the sound that tore from you was half a laugh, half a desperate gasp.

“Speak."

“I didn’t want to embarrass myself!” you finally choked out, your body trembling beneath his. “I didn’t want to make something stupid and have everyone see how bad it is!”

Immediately, his hands stilled, and you gulped in a shuddering breath. He unwrapped his arms from around you and leaned back, his smirk softening into something almost... fond. You shoved at him weakly, as if not quite believing he was retreating.

“Well,” he said, standing and staring down at you, admiring his handiwork, “you’ve certainly made a spectacle of yourself now.”

You glared at him, flushed and breathless. “You... are insufferable.”

“And you,” he countered, his grin returning, “are utterly fascinating. Shall we?”

Before you could protest, he hooked his arms under your knees and around your back, sweeping you up effortlessly, carrying you toward the door. You squirmed in his grasp.

“What the hell are you doing now?”

“Delivering you back to the battlefield,” he said, his smirk a knife’s edge. “You’re not escaping that easily. You’ve still got a pumpkin to ruin, and I, for one, am thoroughly invested in the spectacle.”

You groaned, your head falling back in defeat. "I hate you."

The smirk in his voice was undeniable. "No, you don't."

The dining hall was no longer the lively scene it had been earlier.

Now, it was deserted, shadows stretching long and dark across the room, flickering with the faint light of a few dying candles. The scent of melted wax and pumpkin guts permeated in the air, and the silence was nearly oppressive.

Loki carried you inside, his grip firm but not unkind, and though you didn’t resist, you couldn’t help but feel a smouldering irritation at the way he seemed to enjoy this small victory. When he set you down, his hands lingered at your waist, steadying you, as though daring you to bolt again.

You stepped forward, stopping just shy of your untouched pumpkin. Its smooth, orange surface gleamed in the low light, mocking you. The tools remained where you’d left them, and the weight of your earlier frustration pressed at the edges of your mind.

“I... don’t know what to do with it,” you said finally, turning back to Loki. You hated how the admission sounded - small, almost defeated - but there was no taking it back now.

Loki’s sharp gaze softened imperceptibly. His lips twitched, but the smirk didn’t fully form. “Then I shall help you,” he said, his voice low and smooth, offering no room for argument.

Before you could respond, he sat in your chair with that infuriating ease, his presence commanding even in the simplest of movements. His eyes met yours, glittering with a mixture of challenge and amusement, and he reached out a hand, curling his fingers in a silent demand.

“What are you-” The words barely left your mouth before you realised he was beckoning you to sit on his lap. Heat flushed through you, unbidden, and you scoffed, trying to mask it. “You do realise chairs are meant for one person, don’t you?”

Yet, unwilling to have him see how he was sliding under your skin, you turned and settled yourself against him. His muscled chest brushed against your back, his legs firm and solid as your seat.

“And yet, here we are,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. His hand settled at your waist - an anchor, not a cage. “Now, let’s see if we can salvage your poor, neglected pumpkin.”

You scoffed, grabbing the carving tool. “Fine. Show me your masterful technique, Your Highness.”

The title came out sharper than intended, but Loki only chuckled, low and indulgent. He leaned closer, his shadow engulfing yours, and reached around your shoulder to guide your hand. His fingers slid over yours, his grip firm but not harsh. “Relax,” he murmured. His voice sent a delicious shiver down your spine. “You grip it like a weapon. This is art, not war.”

You bit back a retort and let him guide you. His body was close enough that his every movement brushed against yours, his breath warm against your cheek. Together, you began to carve into the pumpkin, slow and deliberate. His free hand flexed against your waist, your free hand steadying the canvas.

As the shapes emerged, you realised they weren’t ordinary designs. They were runes.

Norse runes. Delicate, intricate, and entirely unreadable to you.

Loki worked with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his hand steady as he traced the lines with your hand.

“What does it say?” you asked eventually, breaking the silence.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured, “You’ll see. Keep holding it steady."

The tension between you grew with every passing second. His touch lingered long, his presence close. Every shift of his body beneath yours was impossible to ignore, every brush of his breath against your skin a reminder of just how thin the line between teasing and something real had become.

When the carving was done, you slipped off his lap, feeling the need for a the brief moment of distance for your sanity, and retrieved a candle from the sideboard.

But the room felt colder without him holding you.

You lit the wick and placed the candle inside the pumpkin, watching as the light filled the carved runes, casting jagged shadows across the table.

You turned back to Loki. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on you as though he could see straight through to your very thoughts.

Carefully, you sat back down on his lap, unable to ignore the magnetic pull he seemed to have on you. This time, you sat side-on. His hands settled instinctively, one on your back, one on your knee, holding you steady. With his height, your faces were almost level, but you still had to look ever so slightly up.

“What does it say?” you asked again, your voice quieter now, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thing had formed between you.

“The name of a great warrior,” he said, his tone mockingly reverent. “Renowned for wit, skill, and unmatched beauty.”

You arched a brow, your lips twitching. “Let me guess. Your name?”

His grin widened, and the silence was answer enough for you.

You rolled your eyes, but a genuine smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet undeniably fascinating,” he countered, his voice a low purr. His gaze dropped to your lips, and his smirk faltered, replaced with something quieter, more tender. Relieved. "There it is." His words were almost a sigh.

You tilted your head, raising a brow in question.

“I was beginning to fear you didn’t know how to smile.”

The intimacy of his words rendered you speechless for several, long seconds. Your mind faltered, your fingers fidgeting in your lap.

“What? You don't remember what happened like... twenty minutes ago? I recall laughing to the point of tears, thanks to you.”

“That was different,” he said simply, his tone quieter, earnest.

The air between you thickened, heavy with unspoken things. His hand moved in slow, deliberate patterns against your back. “It must be exhausting,” he said after a moment, his voice gentle and laced with something that sounded dangerously close to sympathy. “Always bracing for the next crisis.”

His sudden sincerity caught you off-guard. You fidgeted with your hands, stained with pumpkin pulp, your gaze dropping to your lap. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, though the words felt hollow.

“Isn’t it?” His hand stilled on your back for a moment before continuing its slow, soothing movements. “You are allowed moments of meaningless joy. To partake in frivolity. It doesn’t make you weak.”

A bitter laugh escaped you, soft and humourless. “I take it you didn’t buy that I was embarrassed about the pumpkin?”

He tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “Not for a second.”

You looked up, straight into him. "But you let me go."

His gaze fell to your lips, as if he were already missing your smile. Mourning it. Plotting a witty remark or flirtatious comment that might see its return.

He then looked back to your eyes, swallowing harder than usual, his voice now gentle. “I thought you were due for some mercy. You... seem to have very little for yourself.”

The words settled over you like a weight, heavy and undeniable.

And for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

"It feels wrong," you admitted in little over a whisper. "To... do things like this when so many people-" The breath caught in your throat and you had to look back at your hands, sniffing to buy some time. "It's selfish. Carving pumpkins. Decorating. Laughing at stupid things. People are out there suffering, and I’m here playing holiday games. Safe.”

Loki was quiet for a long moment, his hand resuming its slow, deliberate movements along your back. It brought you far more comfort than you'd ever admit out loud. Not yet, at least.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, the usual sharp edges dulled. “You cannot bear the weight of your world every hour of every day. Even the strongest flame falters if it is not tended.”

The rawness of his words cut through your defences. You couldn’t meet his eyes, but your lips twitched as you tried to deflect. “You know,” you muttered, half-laughing as your head dipped, “getting tickled to death felt a lot less exposing than this conversation.”

His chest vibrated with a low chuckle, and when you glanced up, his smirk had returned, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “I’m happy to oblige,” he drawled, his fingers curling against you as if preparing to pounce.

You shot him a warning look, though you couldn’t quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. “You wouldn't.”

“Oh, wouldn't I?” he teased, his hands still hovering ominously close.

"No," you shook your head, that twitch turning into a smirk. "I sat with you of my own free will. Trusting you. You won't jeopardise that."

The playful glint in his gaze softened slightly as he settled back, studying you with a quiet intensity. "The little rabbit may just be a fox after all," he mused, ceding his advantage.

He studied you for a good, long while, you both sitting in a comfortable silence as he traced idle patterns against your back, his thumb brushing your knee.

Finally, you swallowed your nerves, and broke the silence. "Thank you. For your help.”

You looked back to the table, eyes roaming over what he'd carved with your hand;

The name of a great warrior. He'd said. Renowned for wit, skill, and unmatched beauty.

"Runes are... actually quite beautiful."

He hummed softly in agreement.

You turned your head slightly, eyes still on the sharp lines. "What would my name look like?"

Then, you looked up at his face, and your breath caught.

His eyes were alight, faintly glittering from the flickering candle inside the artwork. Something between a smile and something far more satisfied curled onto his lips as he nodded at the runes.

"Exactly like that."

[cuubism]

now, this one got REAL. unfortunately. do you want some angst (+hurt/comfort +fluff)

cw burnout, depression, animal death

--

It started when Jessamy died.

Or.

Well.

Hob is pretty sure it started when Dream was a teenager, if not even earlier. But it comes to a head nearly fifteen years later, when Hob comes home from work and finds Dream sitting on the floor by the couch, Jessamy held in his arms. She is still. And Dream is equally still, equally numb, staring off into space.

Hob knew it was coming someday soon. Dream had had Jessamy since he was twelve, when he’d found her as a kitten by the side of the road and somehow convinced his parents to let him keep her, so she was not a young cat, and while her health had generally been good she’d been increasingly tired and wobbly lately. And cats didn’t live forever.

She looks peaceful, there in Dream’s arms. It isn’t a bad death for a cat, Hob thinks, to curl up in a patch of sunlight on the couch and just not wake up again. Not that that will make Dream feel much better.

Hob sits down beside Dream on the floor. Doesn’t say anything, but lays his hand on Dream’s knee. Dream just keeps staring off into the distance, one hand lightly stroking Jessamy’s fur.

“She didn’t come to greet me,” he says, eventually, when they’ve been sat there for some time. “She always comes to the door.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Hob says.

Dream sits there for a long time, just holding her. Later Hob helps him bury her in the garden, then Dream goes upstairs and buries himself under the blankets in their bed and doesn’t come back out for the rest of the night.

Later Hob will think, that was the first domino to fall. Even later, he will realize it wasn’t the first, but the last.

~

Dream was often seen as stoic. Unemotional. Hob thought so too, when he’d first met him. But he’d quickly come to learn that the real Dream was extremely sensitive and had simply learned to keep all of that inside and present a functional front to the world. And Dream was, indeed, exceedingly functional. Not just functional, Dream was brilliant. He’d graduated top of his college, and he’d gone to Oxford, and then he’d launched a tech company, and even published a novel on the side simply because he enjoyed doing it. When it came to standard metrics of success, Dream was one of the most functional and successful people Hob had ever met.

And Dream was crashing.

~

Hob comes home from work a bit late one day to find Dream slumped on the couch, face pressed into a pillow. The TV is on, but he doesn’t seem to be watching it. There’s a book on the table beside him, but he isn’t reading. He’s just lying there. Listlessly.

“You alright, love?” Hob asks, and Dream just shrugs one shoulder under his blanket.

“I fell asleep on the couch in my office,” he says, “so I came home.”

This immediately rings Hob’s alarm bells because Dream doesn’t do that. He doesn’t come home early from work. He barely takes a lunch break.

“Feeling ill?” Hob asks, perching on the couch beside him.

Dream shrugs again.

“Want some dinner?”

“I suppose.”

He’s barely looked at Hob. He’s not even budged from his sprawl on the couch. But when Hob gets up to get dinner, Dream reaches out, snags a hand in his sleeve, squeezes once and lets go.

Hob leans down to kiss his forehead, and Dream sighs.

Hob brings dinner back to the living room a half hour later, and Dream sits up with him and eats but barely says a word. He listens as Hob talks about his own day but barely contributes beyond brief answers to Hob’s questions.

After dinner he lies down with his head in Hob’s lap and goes quiet again. Hob is starting to get worried, but he gives him the benefit of the doubt. It could just be an off day.

Dream falls asleep in Hob’s lap, and then later gets up and goes to bed at barely 9pm despite how he’s normally a night owl.

“Dream?” Hob says, before Dream retreats to their bedroom. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am just tired,” Dream says.

Then he sleeps for ten hours and wakes barely early enough to get to his office on time. And doesn’t seem particularly concerned about it. Then again, Dream does own the company, and can hardly fire himself for being late. But he’s normally much more particular about it.

Then it’s an off two days. Then it’s an off week. Then it’s an off two weeks.

Hob comes home from work and, instead of finding Dream back on his laptop doing more work, or working on his novel, he’s just lying in bed with the covers over his head. Earbuds in, listening to music or an audiobook. I’m tired, he says when Hob asks. I don’t feel well.

Do you want to work on your novel? Hob asks. Usually cheers you up.

Dream’s novels are an escape from the stresses of his other work. He’d published the first one under a pen name so it would have no connection to his company or anything else about him. He’d been so proud when it hit the bestseller list.

No, Dream says. I don’t care. It’s meaningless.

Worry is starting to sit heavier and heavier in Hob’s chest.

Hob’s known for almost as long as he’s known Dream that Dream struggles with a latent, underlying level of depression, but it’s been well managed thus far and he’d thought Dream had found an equilibrium with it.

Apparently it was a much more fragile equilibrium than he’d realized, because now everything seems to have tipped and flipped over.

At first he thinks Dream isn’t doing anything about it. But then Hob learns that he is, and that almost feels worse, because now Hob doesn’t know where to even start helping him. Dream has already taken medication for years. He’s recently increased his dose and it’s done nothing. He already sees a therapist. He’s started going twice as often as he did before and still nothing seems improved. He hasn’t pulled away from Hob. He still curls up to him in bed at night, and lays on the couch with his head on Hob’s lap while they watch TV. He lets Hob drag him around doing things he thinks might cheer him, like walks in the park, feeding the pigeons, going to the botanical gardens to look at flowers. If Hob cooks something, he’ll eat, but he makes no effort to eat otherwise.

He goes, he does things, but he isn’t there. He’s checked out, distracted, and his smiles are hollow.

Hob watches him pick up books he would normally love, read one page and then put it down again. Watches him abandon the newspaper crossword puzzles he usually likes to do over breakfast after solving only one or two questions. Watches him get dressed in the morning, putting on his usual all-black attire with a mechanical precision that suggests he’s operating on autopilot and not thinking about it at all. He just doesn’t seem to care about any of it, and Dream normally cares so much about everything that it’s really starting to freak Hob out.

Hob asks him if he’s okay and he says he’s just tired. Hob asks him why and he says he doesn’t know. And the worst part is, Hob believes him. He doesn’t think Dream does know what’s wrong. It’s not just grief for Jessamy that’s doing it. Hob thinks it’s more that Jessamy was a tiny piece of a support structure that was far more meager than either of them realized, and now all the rest of the heaviness has come crashing down. That doesn’t mean Dream has the words for what any of that is, though.

Hob worries about him when he’s at work. He worries about him whenever Dream is out of his sight. He thinks about how relentless and intense Dream usually is and contrasts it with his current listlessness and he worries.

He thinks about Dream graduating university with honors while he built a whole fucking company in his dorm room and wrote the first half of a novel on the side, and he worries.

Dream had always made time for Hob then, too. And he always has since. Or maybe being with Hob was the sanctuary he carved out for himself amidst the whirlwind of all that he was.

Now more often than not Dream comes home and immediately collapses on top of Hob on the couch and doesn’t speak a word for a least two hours. Hob is just glad that, whatever’s going on, he at least isn’t fully isolating himself. He’s still coming to Hob for comfort, in whatever way he knows how.

The next time it happens, Hob messages Lucienne, Dream’s COO. In fact he does it from his phone while Dream is lying on top of him, and Dream doesn’t even notice.

Has Dream been alright at work recently? he writes.

Lucienne responds fairly quickly. She’s a bit of a workaholic, just like Dream. I am not sure he would want me sharing all his business without his knowledge.

Hob sighs. He supposes it’s fair that she’s protective of her boss. Lucienne. Come on. Please. I’m worried about him.

He seems tired lately, she writes, at length. And distracted.

Anything in particular going on?

No, if anything, we are in a bit of a slow down at the moment. There is not as much on our plates.

Odd.

Do take care of him, Hob, Lucienne adds.

Always will, Hob says.

He puts his phone aside, and pets Dream’s hair. Dream hums in pleasure, nuzzling into him. “Sweetheart. You want some dinner?”

“If you desire,” Dream says.

Hob’s not convinced he would eat anything at all if Hob didn’t push him.

“Come on, up, we’ll get something to eat,” Hob says, and Dream groans, but lets Hob maneuver him up, and sits placidly in the kitchen with the cup of water Hob pushes into his hands as Hob cooks. He is so placid, lately, in general. Hob is used to Dream being strong-willed and opinionated. It’s upsetting to see him passive.

All he can do for now, though, is take care of Dream as best he can. As he always does.

~

It hits a breaking point when Dream simply doesn’t go into work at all.

Hob is working from home that day, and doesn’t notice at first that eight o’clock has passed and Dream hasn’t left the house. At around nine he goes to make more coffee and realizes, suddenly, that Dream’s shoes are still by the door, his coat still hanging on its hook. So Hob goes to find him.

He finds Dream still lying in bed, not asleep, just sort of staring blankly at the wall, arms wrapped around himself. Hob lays a hand on his shoulder. “Hi, darling. You getting up for work?”

“No,” Dream says, flatly. “I cannot. I don’t want to.”

So Hob calls Lucienne to let her know Dream’s sick and won’t be coming in. He can hear her concern over the phone. Dream almost never calls in sick. If he gets something contagious, he just works from home instead of resting.

Maybe this is part of the problem. Maybe this is all part of the huge, looming cloud of pain that has apparently been covering Dream like a shroud for longer than Hob’s even known him without Hob ever truly seeing it.

When he puts his phone away and comes back Dream is still lying in the same position. Heart in his throat, Hob climbs into bed to sit beside him. “I told Lucienne you’d be out today,” he says gently. Dream turns over to face him, wrapping his arm around Hob’s thigh to pull close. That gives Hob some hope. That Dream still wants to reach out. “She was worried about you.”

Dream looks up at him solemnly. “And you?”

“I’ve been worried about you for a long time, darling. Talk to me.”

“I meant to go in today,” Dream says. “I have things to do. I suppose. But. I realized that I don’t care about any of it. I tried to remind myself how to care about it. But I could not remember. And so there was no point in getting up.”

“Perhaps you’re a bit stressed about it all,” Hob suggests, but Dream shakes his head.

“I do not feel anything about it at all. I think the company could disappear entirely in this moment and I would feel nothing but this... numbness. I ought to care. But I don’t. It’s meaningless.” He presses his forehead into Hob’s thigh. “I think it ought to scare me. But I don’t feel that either. I don’t feel anything.”

Hob breathes out hard. “Okay. Alright.” He pets Dream’s hair as he thinks. He doesn’t feel very equipped to handle this, but Dream’s regular therapy and meds don’t seem to be doing anything so he’s going to have to try. And if Dream’s regular routine isn’t helping then maybe it’s not his usual depression. Then maybe Hob can work out something to begin to help. “Maybe we need to take you on a very, very long holiday. So you can have a rest.”

Dream lets out a choked laugh, though when he speaks there’s no humor in it. “Hob. I think if I stop moving for that long. I will not get up again. So if you wish to have a functional partner, you may want to withdraw that suggestion.”

Hob feels his heart break in two. “What if I want an alive partner?”

“I am not planning to kill myself.”

“Recently it seems you’re well on your way to it, Dream.”

Dream is silent for a long moment, then says, voice cracking, “I am not trying to—”

“I know, I know, honey,” Hob slides down the bed to rest beside him, pulling Dream into his arms. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know any other way to be,” Dream cries, pressing his face into Hob’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, my love.” They have been together since university. He’s seen Dream go through bouts of depression before. But he’s never seen him like this. Fracturing at the seams. It’s frightening. “I love you so much, do you know?”

“I know.” He squeezes Hob close. “I do know.”

“I don’t care how functional you are,” Hob says, making a clear mockery of the word, and Dream laughs weakly. “I do actually like you, you know. You. Not Mr Great Tech Innovator.”

Dream groans. “Please do not call me a ‘tech innovator’ or I may have to actually kill myself out of shame.”

Hob remembers when Forbes had wanted Dream to be in their thirty under thirty issue and Dream had refused because he thought it was ‘stupid and self-aggrandizing’ and because he ‘didn’t put in years of work for the purpose of being on the cover of an insipid magazine.’ Hob loves this stupid idiot so much.

Dream doesn’t do any of it for fame. Hob doesn’t entirely know why he does it. He think maybe pouring all of himself out is the only thing Dream knows.

“When’s the last time you feel you got an actual break?” Hob asks.

Dream thinks about it. “Year 10,” he says at last. “I spent the summer holiday doing nothing but reading. It was blissful.”

“Dream, that was fifteen years ago."

“After that summer I was always working somehow. Doing advanced class prep work. Then university prep.” He gives Hob a sly sidelong glance, and despite the heavy topic, Hob internally cheers to see a bit of his humor come back. “Needless to say, I was not spending my free time partying when I was in school.”

No, Hob knew that about him. Dream is practically incapable of having fun. Even one of his supposedly stress-relieving outlets, writing, he’s managed to turn into a side career as an author. And Hob knows that, unless one is a verifiable genius, one doesn’t earn the perfect marks Dream had all through school without sacrifice. Hob had gotten good marks, too, but Dream had always been a step above.

And he knows Dream’s parents had always demanded utter perfection. Whether they ever rewarded him for any of it, Hob doesn’t know.

“Hey, darling,” he says. “You’re doing a good job.”

Dream whimpers, pushing his face into Hob’s chest.

“You’re doing enough,” Hob continues. “You’re doing so well. I promise. It’s all okay. It’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” Dream says. He clings to Hob, wrapping his arms around him, slipping one leg in between Hob’s thighs. “So much.”

It would be easy to feel insecure around Dream’s level of success, except that Dream’s love for Hob is so obvious. To Hob it is, at least. Dream cares for him so deeply, in his way, and he never acts like he thinks Hob is lesser for not being someone Forbes is pursuing for their lists. If anything, Dream usually discounts his own success, and is, generally speaking, obsessed with Hob and everything Hob does.

This is also a visceral reminder of the costs of this type of success.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he says, rocking Dream in his arms.

“I have been feeling. Somewhat unwell, recently,” Dream admits. “Increasingly so. I suppose I ought to be grateful, in a way, that my mind forced me to shut down before my body did.”

Hob’s not sure he himself feels quite grateful about it, but he is glad Dream at least recognizes the problem.

“We’ve just got to send you to the seaside for your health,” he says.

Dream laughs, genuinely this time. “Truly.”

“Get you a little break. It’ll help, I promise. You’ve just been over-working yourself, hm?”

“I do not think it is my current level of work that is the problem,” Dream says. “I think. I have been running so long. I simply cannot anymore. Effort, itself, is not a problem for a marathon runner. But duration eventually becomes exhausting.”

“I know. It’s okay. Might need a bit longer of a break, is all.”

“I do not know how,” Dream says.

“You let everyone else at work take breaks, don’t you?”

“I used to not,” Dream says. “Not enough of them. Until Lucienne made it quite clear that I was being unfair to them. I was not trying to be. I was simply… used to my own work patterns and did not realize the strain it was putting on them.”

“But you changed it,” Hob says. “You can change it for yourself, too.”

“Perhaps,” Dream says.

“Hire someone who can do some of your tasks and then give yourself a little break. Go somewhere warm and sit on a beach and drink sugary cocktails.”

Dream laughs. “I don’t know if my brain is suited to that.”

“Exactly why you should do it.”

“Will you come with me on this… health retreat by the sea?” Dream asks, some humor back in his voice.

“Course. I’ll take a sabbatical and go with you. But also. Do you think you might want a bit of time to yourself?”

“By myself?” Dream questions. “I do have time to myself. I am already quite solitary.”

“I know. But. Do you think you’d want a bit of extended time to just do what you want to do?” It would hurt, to be away from Dream for an extended period of time. But he wants Dream to have that, that freedom to be completely unburdened, to have no expectations, if it will help him.

“Hmm.” Dream considers. “Perhaps a bit. But I like to be with you.”

“I like to be with you, too, my love. Think about somewhere you’ve always wanted to go. And we’ll go. Or if you just want to rest here, that’s fine, too.”

“You don’t have to do all this,” Dream says quietly.

“I want you to be well,” Hob says. “More than anything, I want you to be well.” He kisses Dream’s forehead. “Besides if you don’t think I’m already imagining us on a beach—”

Dream laughs. “I see.”

“Come now, you want to see me shirtless, don’t you?” Hob teases.

“I see you shirtless every day,” Dream says dryly.

“Don’t you want to get extremely drunk and naked and fool around in a luxury villa?”

“What counts as ‘extremely’ naked?” Dream asks. “Taking off my skin?”

“Dream.”

Dream chuckles. “I do. That sounds enjoyable. I would like to leave my laptop at home and perhaps wander around a seaside village, drinking wine until I have killed all of my brain cells.”

“Now you’re getting into the spirit of it,” Hob says.

“Hob,” Dream says, serious again.

“Yeah?”

“What if I take a break,” Dream asks, quietly, “And then I cannot convince myself to go back?”

There’s true grief in his voice, but still Hob counters, “What if you take a break and you feel better?”

Dream smiles, faintly, Hob feels it against his skin. “Always the more positive attitude.”

“One of us has to.”

“But what if,” Dream continues, “I take a break and I learn that I never wanted to do any of it at all?”

This is a stickier question. “Why would you have done any of it, if you didn’t want to? You must have wanted to on some level.”

“I don’t know,” says Dream. “It is just what I’m used to.”

“Maybe you’ll want to again,” Hob says. “Maybe you won’t. Can’t we take it one day at a time?”

Dream lets out a long, aggrieved breath. “You are so nonchalant.”

“Thought that’s one of the reasons you liked me.”

“It is,” Dream says, sounding incredibly frustrated about it. “Yet I do not understand it in the slightest. You truly just… have faith that everything will work out regardless?”

“I have faith we can figure it out,” Hob says. “And that I’ll always have your back. That you’ll never have to work through it alone.”

“You are a wonderful partner,” Dream says. Then, “I would like to go out tonight.”

“You… would?”

Dream nods. “I would like to remember what it was like when we first met. And I feel sorely lacking in romance and I’m well aware it’s my own doing. I know it may not feel the same right now but I want to... try. And. I miss you. Will you take me out on a date?”

Hob is thrilled by this turn. “Of course I will. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Can you also tell Lucienne I will be out sick this week and then hide my laptop and phone somewhere I will not find them?”

Hob laughs. “Alright, darling. Get some rest for today, hm? We’ll go out for drinks or something later. I have missed you. I’ve missed seeing you cheery.”

“‘Cheery’ may be pushing it,” Dream says, with a small smile. “However. I would like to have sex tonight.”

Hob bursts out laughing, not at the idea, but at the absolutely flat way Dream says it. He really does have a way about him.

“It’s been too long,” Dream whines.

It has been too long. “Oh, don’t think I’m saying no,” Hob says, and slips a hand up under Dream’s shirt to feel up his back. Dream laughs, snuggling closer to him. It’s so good to hear him laugh.

“Anything you want, anything that will make you happy,” he says. “I love you more than anything.”

Dream leans up to kiss him, long and sweet, then collapses atop him again, as he has nearly every day for weeks. Except this time it doesn’t feel quite so defeated. It feels like it could maybe be rest.

[candyswirls]

Space Marine Cuddle Pile Pt 4

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Writing Master post

Cuddly boys are back! Come join in the pile!

@lazywriter-artist @wolf-feathers12

Imagine:

A chaplain sitting on the floor. One Astartes leaning against him. Another rests their head on his lap. A third rests again the Chaplains back. He has his arms around the two marines he can reach. They witnessed their brother torn apart by daemons then be possessed. They had to grant him the Emperor’s mercy. It is the chaplain’s job to comfort and guide them.

A very disgruntled Ad Mech. They’d been warned. Several times. They’re drinking. Don’t go in there. You won’t be able to do any work. Yet they brushed it off. Now they were pinned against a Space Wolf’s chest, the arm of one and the leg of another on top of them. They all drooled snd snored loudly as they curled up with one another. The Ad Mech was stuck there for a bit. They would not be finishing their tasks anytime soon. The one whose chest they were on wrapped his arms around them and sleepily nuzzled their head.

A Sanguinary Priest holding onto a blood Angel that experienced the Red Thirst for the first time. Comforting the battle brother as he cries for the terror of it or if he caused any casualties.

A Drukhari is absolutely mortified. What they initially thought was an attack was not. They stand there, stiff as a board and utterly confused and not sure if they should be disgusted or not. The warband of chaos marines they had been with suddenly surrounded them then plopped themselves on the floor and wrapped their arms around each other. Drukhari in the middle. Is… is this some new… kind of torture? Psychological warfare?? It’s so warm and they seem.. happy?? These are the same marines they had flailed people with not even hours earlier and now they were doing… this.

The Lion and Guilliman have just reunited. There’s been official ceremony between both of their legions. Speaking to inquisitors and imperial high lords. Then the paperwork. Throne the paperwork. Then a feast. It’s been so much but now… it’s just the two of them. The only moment they’ve had since finding each other again. There’s so many unspoken emotions. Both positive and negative. The two brothers stare at each other, weary of what the other will do. Yet there is relief. Relief of no longer being alone. Neither can seem to find the words so they go off of instinct. The longing to embrace and be embraced. The two hug, standing in silence. There’s nothing that action can’t speak for in this moment. Resting heads against each other, arms tight and fully encompassing the other. The imperium was slowly rebuilding. There were so many enemies. But it was okay. They weren’t alone. They were brothers. They’d support each other.

Every so often an “unlucky” custodian ends up surround by imperial fists. There’s no cause for alarm or defensive stance though. The Custodian just sighs and allows the Fists to lead them to where they’ve strategically set up various blankets, pillows, mattresses, and tapestries. Armor racks await near it to be used. All remove their armor and snuggle up close to the Custodian. Custodes are bigger than Space Marines. Being held by one feels safe and a bit like being held by a Primarch. It doesn’t happen too often and there’s always at least one custodian who will oblige. Plus, holding marines like babies is cute to them. The Sisters of Silence said so.

The invasion had been stopped. Carnage of tyranids lay everywhere. There’s one lone space marine that is in your village. Cut off from their squad as they defended you and your people. He waits patiently for his brothers to find him. You go up and place an arm over his, wishing to comfort him. This is what led to him lying on the ground with as many villagers he can hold. Since he saved you, you decide not to question it.

The Ravenguard have a set room for cuddle piles. It’s lovingly referred to as the nest. The softest blankets and pillows possible. Shiny objects decorate the walls and floor. It’s very well taken care of. No armor allowed in to prevent crushing anything or tearing fabric. You better have cleaned yourself up and gotten all that grime off of you before you step in. The chaplain is watching. It seems small but so many ravenguard can fit in there like sardines in a can. Curled up in blankets and around each other. Don’t tell Kayvaan but some marines have actually forgotten where their room is because they always sleep in here.

The Emperor claimed he had no regrets. But now he most certainly had one. He lay there, dying and fading away. Sanguinius’s body is off to one side and the body of Horus to the other. He thinks back to the vow he made. He wouldn’t get attached to his sons. It caused weakness. He would not hug or embrace them. This was too important. Yet now his heart ached. He wished he could have held them all at once in his arms when they were babies. To have greeted them with an embrace. Call them all to his room and roost around his bed as he held them. He wished he had. At least once. Especially the ones now dead. Two and eleven included. He had no strength left. He couldn’t crawl to the two bodies near him and hold them. After all, he was a cuddly man by nature. The Astartes and primarchs all got it from somewhere.

Even after turning to chaos, Fulgrim had days where memories and emotions overwhelmed him. Sending him into deep melancholy. It was these days that N’Kari would wrap themselves around him and clasp their arms around him. Have him surrounded by soft warmth. Some days he just wanted to be held.

A few orks once spotted a space marine cuddle pile. It must be some sort of strategy or trick. It seemed to make those beaky gits fight better. They don’t know its purpose or what it’s for but they attempt their own cuddle pile. The biggest lays down first then the others and finally the gobbos. It’s silent for a few moments as they try to figure out what it does. One snorts and struggles to hold in laughter. It’s followed by snickering and hushing. It’s another that breaks first. It’s now just a big pile of laughing and giggling shrooms.

[runningracingdancingchasing]

It was difficult to gauge how long the walk back to the tower took. When she was there all day, she had the clock, and the angle of the sun, but walking through the dense forest made it difficult to see the moon, whose passage would have been giving her the markers.

But the good news was that she wasn't utterly exhausted by the time they got back, so they couldn't have been walked that long. Maybe a few hours. Oh, it really was difficult to say.

As they reached the tower's valley, Rapunzel looked up at the building. It looked so foreboding with the surrounding cliff's shadows cast over it. Rapunzel knew, now, that it wasn't just her home, it was also her prison. She looked at the back of Gothel's head as they walked in silence. She knew what she had to do, but she had to figure out the exact sequence of events, and time everything just right. Would she be able to get back to the kingdom in time? Oh, she hoped so. If Audwin was killed when she had the power to stop it...

"How are we supposed to get up?" Rapunzel wondered.

"The same way I got up when you were but a babe, when your hair was much to short to be let down to me." Gothel led her around the base of the tower to a gaping doorway with stone rubble all around it. "I returned early from my trip to get your shells when I caught wind that that horrible Owl Sorcerer might have gotten his claws on you, and aren't we fortunate? Now you won't have to unbrick the door for me."

Rapunzel stared. There was a door. All this time, there had been a door in the tower! The fury burned inside her, and for once she was glad that Gothel took little notice of her moods as she glared at the back of the woman's head while following her up the spiral staircase that took them both up to their living space. She could feel Pascal's claws digging into her shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but she was very aware of his barely-contained rage.

Once they were in their home, Rapunzel looked around at the old and familiar and felt... empty. All of her things were here, her art, her life, and she didn't want any of it. She wanted to get to Audwin, keep him from getting executed. She shivered softly.

"Now then," Gothel said perkily as she removed her cloak and hung it on the hook by the window. "Why don't you sing for Mummy, then I'll make your favorite dinner while you change out of that ridiculous dress. It is still your birthday, after all."

Something inside Rapunzel snapped.

"No," she said, as she gazed, unmoving, at the painting she'd done of herself watching the lanterns from a distance. The last painting she'd made here, and there wasn't an inch of space to paint anything else. Her life here was over. This gallery was closed. The lanterns had been her dream, but she had a new dream to chase, now. And a new family. Her real family.

Gothel scoffed. "Again with the mumbling! When will you learn to speak up?"

Rapunzel turned, her green eyes cold. "I said no," she answered clearly. "No, I won't sing for you. No, I won't change out of this beautiful gown Audwin made for me. No, you won't make my favorite dinner because it's my birthday. No, I won't stay. No, I won't do this anymore, No!"

As she'd spoken, standing tall and glaring, Gothel had stared, her own grey eyes wide with shock.

"Audwin was right!" Rapunzel went on, advancing on the woman who called herself her mother. "I am the Lost Princess. You're just the witch who kidnapped me to use my hair! All the things you'd warned me about and shielded me from... you are all those things! You're selfish and greedy and a liar and a kidnapper! You are the cruel world I need protecting from. I see you with open eyes, and I won't let you use my hair ever again!"

With that she turned to head up to her room and pack her things. She still had time, and she never intended to return. There were things she wanted to bring with her, and she had time before dawn.

"Wait!" Gothel called after her and strode forward. "Where will you go? He won't be there. He is to be executed! You might as well stay with me where you'll be safe!"

"I am the Lost Princess," Rapunzel replied, and passed through the curtain that secluded her room. "I'll live at the palace." Still, Gothel's words struck a nerve, she needed to get to Audwin as soon as possible!

She put her guitar on her bed, and her little doll she'd hand-sewn as a child. She didn't need clothes or books or paints -- the king and queen would provide, she was sure. Still, she threw open her wardrobe and looked at her knitting basket. Were there any projects she wanted to finish?

Suddenly, there was a sharp tug on her hair, and she yelped and stumbled back.

"You're not going anywhere," Gothel sneered, and wrapped the hair around her hand for a better grip. Pascal squeaked in alarm, then ran along the length of Rapunzel's hair to attack Gothel with tiny claws and toothless bites. With a snarl, she flung her hand to the side, sending Pascal flinging against the mirror in Rapunzel's room.

For her part, Rapunzel grabbed her hair with both hands and pulled, determined to get herself free from Gothel. Her heart pounded as her bare feet skidded on the tile floor. Now that the secret was out and she had no intent to stay, Gothel was dropping the facade of sweet, loving mother.

"No!" she gasped as she pulled. "I won't stay with you! Let me go!"

"Never!" Gothel hissed. "You are mine! My flower! My life! I won't let you leave!"

Her flower. Her life. Her hair! Scrambling back, Rapunzel spotted her sewing scissors in her wardrobe and lunged for them.

"No!" Gothel shrieked as iron whipped around.

Rapunzel took a deep breath and sheared her hair off just behind the nape of her neck. It was an unsettling feeling, cutting her hair. It had always been forbidden, and yet Rapunzel had always wondered what it would feel like. It was as if she could feel each and every strand breaking under the blades, and time seemed to slow as, all at once, the golden tone of her hair turned brown, like the opposite of when she healed. It made her feel sick to see. Her hair was everything, the only thing she'd been worth! But it had also been her tether here, the chain of her servitude.

The old woman let out a wordless shriek, desperately gathering the rapidly browning hair into her arms. And then, whatever youth she had began to drain away, just like the magic did. Gothel staggered out of Rapunzel's room with her armloads of hair, and Rapunzel followed in alarm, just as the old woman stumbled down the stairs.

With a gasp, she hurried after her, but by the time she reached what should have been a body, it was nothing more than a pile of hair and clothes and dust. Gothel was gone. Staring in horror, Rapunzel backed away, then sobbed. This wasn't what she had wanted!

And yet, she had no time to mourn. Suddenly a harsh caw caught her attention, and she spotted Audwin's crow flying in her window. With a gasp, she held out her hand for it to perch on.

"How's Audwin?" she asked.

The crow cawed at her, and she nodded. "I'll just be a moment."

She hurried back up to her room to check on Pascal, who was dazed, but unhurt, then grabbed the few things on the bed. There was no time for anything else.

The crow had followed her, and led the way back down the stairs now with raucous cawing. "A horse?" she confirmed, and looked at Pascal, who shrugged at her. She ran to the window and spotted a white horse waiting at the base of the tower, peering up expectantly.

With a nod of determination, she headed back for the stairs she'd taken up only minutes before.

With an aching groad, Audwin opened his eyes. His head was pounding, and he hissed in pain as he rolled onto his back and onto the bump on the back of his skull. Or he would have hissed if there wasn't a gag tied around his mouth. He sat up with a start, attempting to reach up and snatched the binding away but his hands were tied behind his back. As he looked around and found himself in a dark, stone room with only a door of bars as the means to get out, and he felt the pain in his shoulder, it came back to him. He'd been arrested.

That wasn't all. As he twisted his wrists, he found that his skin was exposed to the ropes. They'd taken his gloves. The guards were probably worried he had things hidden up his sleeves. Typical. And his cape as well? Splendid. He pushed his back into the wall to force himself up off the ground and onto his feet. His bare feet met cold stone.

Great... they'd also taken his boots. What in blazes did they think he was going to hide in those?

He stumbled closer to the bars, and fell against the wall near them to listen to some guards down the hall. They were speaking to someone, a superior of some kind. His shadow was tall and regal looking figure. The king by the sounds of it.

"We're taking every precaution, your majesty" a rugged voice said. It sounded like the captain audwin had faced earlier. "He isn't going to slip through our fingers again."

"Have the others found anything? Is there any evidence at all of what happened to my daughter?"

"It's not much, but one of our men just returned with this."

Audwin scooted closer to the bars and leaned over so he could see what the captain had. It was Rapunzel's lilac dress. Those bastards were snooping around in his tower! ... Why? Where was Rapunzel? She didn't make it to her parents? ... No. No, no, no, no. If she hadn't made it to the castle that meant ... oh, gods. That damned harpy!

The wizard slammed himself into the bars to get their attention, trying to shout through his gag. The two men down the hall jumped and turned to look at him. The captain scoffed.

"Look who's finally awake," he chided, marching over. The king waited a beat before hesitantly following, "Comfy? We couldn't have you casting any spells and getting away again."

"You stupid bastards!" Audwin wanted to shout, but it came out as garbled nothing. "Let me out of here! I have to find her!"

"Careful, Owl Sorcerer," the captain warned, drawing his sword and placing the tip right between Audwin's eyes, "You're already lucky to still be in a cell. Don't make me execute you early... After what you did to the princess, maybe I should."

What he did with the-... Audwin looked between the men, obviously confused, but neither of them seemed to care. He looked at the king, who looked a combination of furious and mournful.

"Easy, captain," the king gently said, putting a hand on the man's armored shoulder. "We don't kill prisoners in their cells. No matter how vile their crimes. We wait until dawn as planned."

As the sword lowered slightly in the man's distraction, Audwin used the sharp tip to move the gag away from his mouth.

"You're both fools!" He snapped, "Your princess is doomed if I stay here. She'll be stuck in her tower, and none of us will ever see her again."

"Silence! Don't try to manipulate us, Audwin," the king barked, "My soldiers have searched your tower, and my daughter was nowhere to be found. That ploy won't work on us. My daughter is gone... because of you. Guards! Restrain him again!"

"Not MY tower, you lumbering oaf!" Audwin lunged forward as a less important guard came and opened his cell. He was caught easily and forced back in, but the king still flinched, "Get off of me! You have no idea what you're doing!"

Audwin was forced to the ground on his injured shoulder to make him stop resisting as they put the gag back on him.

"We are executing an evil sorcerer for his constant assault on our kingdom as well as the kidnapping and murder of the princess."

Audwin froze, and his eyes blew wide as the king spoke. His breath caught in his chest as his heart began to race. There was no mistaking those words for jest. They thought he killed the princess. They were going to execute him. That's what they were waiting until dawn for.

The guards left Audwin lying on the floor of his cell but his eyes never left the king's. Audwin would never beg for his life. Most days he didn't care whether he lived or died... There was a flash of fear, not for himself but for Rapunzel that crossed his eyes as he laid there. However it was quickly covered with a seething rage that lit up his magenta eyes an ominous red. The king's Stern expression faltered only slightly before he turned and hastily walked away.

That old moron. He was condemning his own daughter by refusing to listen.

But it was too late for Audwin to do anything about it. He could only lay there and stare out the pitiful barred window as he waited for the dawn. At least he had been given one good day in his life before it ended...

[u6is]

part 2!

warning: cheating

—kylian mbappé x reader: angst

In the thriving heart of Madrid, the cobblestone streets shimmered under the warm glow of the streetlights, and the vibrant colors of the buildings seemed to dance as shadows played along their facades. It was a typical evening in the city, one that promised adventure and romance to those who sought it.

Unfortunately, you are not in the mood for either. You had been looking forward to this vacation with your fiance, Ben, for months. But the trip had taken a sharp turn when you found out it was a work trip for you, and you had been swamped with meetings and deadlines ever since you both had arrived.

The one night you had hoped to carve out for a romantic dinner together had turned into a battle against your inbox.

Now, standing in the doorway of the quaint Spanish restaurant you had planned to visit, your eyes searched the dimly lit room for Ben. Your heart sank when you spotted him at the counter bar, surrounded by a group of giggling women, a cocktail in hand and a twinkle in his eye that was not reserved for you. The scene unfolded before you like a movie you hadn't paid to see. You had been running late from your last meeting, your heels clicking against the pavement as you rushed to make it in time. But it appeared you wasn't the only one Ben had been waiting for.

The host, a charming Spaniard with a thick accent, looked up from his podium with a smile that quickly faded when he noticed the tension in your posture.

"Table for two," you murmured, trying to keep the disappointment from your voice.

He led you to a small, intimate table in the corner, and as you sat down, you couldn't help but feel like the walls were closing in. The candlelight flickered, casting eerie shadows across your face as you stared at the empty chair across from you, willing it to be filled with someone other than the man you had caught red-handed.

Ben looked up, his eyes briefly locking with yours before he feigned surprise. He excused himself from his newfound companions and sauntered over, planting a kiss on your cheek that felt as forced as the smile you returned.

"You made it," he said, sliding into his seat with the ease of someone who had not just been caught.

You picked up the menu, trying to focus on the words printed on the page instead of the storm brewing in your chest.

"I did," you replied curtly, "but I see you've already started without me."

He chuckled, a sound that usually melted your heart but now just made your blood boil.

"Just passing the time, babe. You know how it is when you're stuck waiting." His casual attitude grated on you like sandpaper on skin.

Ignoring the simmering anger, you focused on the menu, pretending to scrutinize the options as if you hadn't already decided on the seafood paella hours ago. The waiter arrived, a concerned look on his face as he sensed the tension. Ben ordered for both of you, choosing the most expensive bottle of wine without asking for your input. You nodded stiffly, not trusting yourself to speak.

As the waiter left to fetch the wine, Ben reached for your hand across the table. His touch was cold and clammy, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room.

"I'm sorry you had to work so much, baby," he said, his voice a blend of insincerity and rehearsed charm. "I've just been trying to make the best of the situation, you know?"

You pulled your hand away, your eyes never leaving the menu.

"I see that," you said, your voice flat. The air between you felt thick and oppressive, the laughter of the other diners seemingly amplified in the quiet space you had created.

"So, how's your vacation been?" you asked, the sarcasm dripping from each word like honey from a spoon.

Ben's smile faltered for a moment before he regained his composure.

"It's been great," he said, his eyes darting to the group of women at the bar. "Met some interesting people around town."

The waiter returned with the wine, pouring a glass for each of you with a flourish. Ben took a sip, his eyes never leaving yours as he swirled the liquid in the glass. You took a deep breath, trying to ignore the knot in your stomach.

"I'm sure you have," you said, your voice as cool as the evening air outside.

As the conversation stalled, the background music grew louder, filling the void with a Spanish melody that seemed to mock the tension at your table. You couldn't bring yourself to look at Ben, instead focusing on the flickering candle in the center, watching the shadows play across the crumpled napkin. The smell of garlic and olive oil wafted from the kitchen, taunting you with the promise of a meal that was now ruined.

The first course arrived, a platter of tapas that you had been looking forward to sharing. But the sight of the food only served as a reminder of the distance that had grown between you. Ben made an effort to engage you in conversation, telling a story about a hilarious misunderstanding he'd had with a taxi driver earlier that day. But his words fell flat, each syllable bouncing off the walls of your disillusionment.

You picked at the food, your appetite nowhere to be found. The tangy flavors of the olives and the crunch of the croquetas were lost on you as you dissected every moment of your relationship, trying to pinpoint where things had gone so wrong. Was it the long hours at work that had driven you apart? Or was it something deeper, a fundamental lack of respect that you had been ignoring?

As the minutes dragged on, you felt your anger coalesce into something colder, something harder to ignore. You set your fork down with a clink and met Ben's gaze. "You know, I've been thinking," you began, your voice measured and calm.

He leaned in, a hint of hope in his eyes that you might have forgiven him. "Yeah?"

You took a deep breath, the scent of his cologne, once comforting, now suffocating. "Maybe we need a little break," you suggested, your tone even. "Just to cool things off a bit."

Ben's face fell, the color draining from his cheeks. "What are you saying?" His voice was a mix of shock and desperation.

You took a sip of water, buying yourself a moment to gather your thoughts. "Just that maybe we need some space," you replied, your gaze unwavering. "A chance to figure out if this is really what we both want."

Ben's handsome features contorted into a frown. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching yours for a hint of a bluff. "Are you serious, what about the wedding?"

You nodded, keeping the smile on your face, though it felt like it might crack any moment. "I am," you said, your voice steady.

"The wedding is a big deal, and if you can't even manage to keep your eyes on me during a simple dinner, then maybe we need to reevaluate."

Flashbacks to your carefree days in Germany flooded your mind. You remembered the time you had caught Ben with another woman at a street fair, their heads close together as they laughed at some shared joke. You had felt a pang of jealousy, but he had quickly introduced her as "just a friend" and you had chosen to believe him, to dismiss it as an innocent encounter.

You had been so in love, so willing to overlook his flaws, so eager to build a life together that you had convinced yourself it was nothing. The memory was a stark contrast to the man sitting across from you now, his eyes still lingering on the group of women at the bar.

When the bill arrived, Ben reached for his wallet, but you were quicker, slapping your credit card down before he could react. "This one's on me," you said, your voice filled with an icy finality. He didn't argue, just nodded as you signed the receipt, the pen feeling like it was made of lead in your hand.

The argument that had simmered under the surface of your dinner grew more heated as you stepped out into the night. The laughter of the other diners followed you out the door, a cruel soundtrack to your unraveling relationship. You both walked in silence, the cobblestone streets echoing with the sound of your footsteps. Madrid's vibrancy seemed to mock the darkness that had settled in your heart.

When you reached the hotel, Ben's hand found yours, but you pulled away. "I think it's best if we just go to our room and talk," he said, his voice strained. You looked at him, his eyes pleading, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of doubt. But then you remembered the way he had looked at those other women, the way he had made you feel like you weren't enough.

"Actually, I've decided to book another room," you said, your voice firm. "I need some space to think."

The shock on Ben's face was palpable, his grip on your hand loosening as the reality of your words sunk in. "What? You can't be serious."

You nodded, your eyes reflecting the glow of the streetlights. "I've never been more serious, Ben." With that, you turned away from him and flagged down a taxi, the vibrant lights of Madrid blurring into a colorful haze as the car pulled up. The driver, an older man with a kind smile, opened the door for you and you slid in, the leather interior cool against your heated skin.

You checked in with a curt nod to the night clerk, who seemed to sense the tension coiled around you. He handed over the key with a knowing look, and you took the stairs to your room, eager for the solitude it promised.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, you let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. You tossed your bag on the bed, kicked off your heels, and headed straight for the shower.

The cool water washed away the grime of the day, along with the last traces of your shattered illusions. As you stood there, letting the droplets cascade down your back, you felt a strange sense of relief. It was as if a weight had been lifted, revealing a truth that had been hidden beneath layers of hope and denial. When you emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, the room was quiet, the only sound the faint murmur of the television.

You padded over to the bed and sat down, opening your laptop with a sense of purpose. The screen flickered to life, revealing a slew of unread emails and documents that needed your attention.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to get lost in work, the familiar tasks a soothing balm for your bruised ego. But as you scrolled through the endless sea of virtual paperwork, your thoughts kept drifting back to Ben.

The TV in the background was tuned to a local channel, and the sound of a football match grew louder as the commentators' excitement reached a crescendo.

You had never been much of a sports fan, but in Madrid, it was hard to escape the fervor of football. You glanced up, noticing the score on the screen. The match was between Real Madrid and some other team, but what really caught your eye was the name of the player who had just scored an impressive goal: Kylian Mbappé. The crowd erupted into cheers, and even though you were alone in the hotel room, you couldn't help but feel a spark of sadness.

Kylian.

Once, he had been yours. His name had rolled off your tongue like a sweet melody, the very thought of him bringing warmth to your heart.

But that was before the painful argument that left both of you fractured, before his face had graced billboards across the globe. Back when you were both in the peaceful apartment you owned in Paris, dreaming of a future filled with love and simple happiness.

But those days were long gone, buried under the avalanche of his newfound fame.

You leaned back against your bed. You had read about his successes, watched from afar as he climbed the ladder of football stardom, his talent shining brighter with each passing year. But you had never imagined you would be in Madrid, in this moment, feeling the sting of his ghostly presence as you navigated the wreckage of your relationship with Ben.

The heartbreak from Kylian felt like a distant echo now, a wound that had scarred over but never fully healed. You crossed paths in the innocence of youth, a fleeting connection etched in time.

You had shared a love so pure and innocent it had seemed untouchable. But as his career took off, so did he, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart.

To him, perhaps, those moments have faded, lost in the haze of forgotten rhyme.

You had moved on, or so you thought. But here you were, in Madrid, watching Kylian's name in lights, and feeling the ghosts of what could have been.

And it hit you like a soccer ball to the gut - Ben had secured tickets to the match you're currently watching on television.

He had talked about it for weeks, his excitement palpable every time he mentioned about the match.

You had never told Ben about your history with Kylian. It was a part of your past that you had kept hidden, a secret that would never resurface. But as you watched the game on the television, the players' movements a blur of color and light, you couldn't help but think of the countless times Ben had talked about his admiration for Mbappé, oblivious to the fact that you had once shared a life with the man.

Ben had been so excited about that match, his eyes lighting up when he had presented you with the tickets.

"It's going to be amazing, babe," he had said, his voice filled with the kind of enthusiasm that could make even the most mundane tasks seem like an adventure.

"You'll love it, I promise."

Ben had always talked about football and Mbappé with such admiration, his eyes lighting up when he spoke of his skill on the field. And you had listened, nodded, and even pretended to share in his excitement, all the while keeping your true feelings tucked away. It had become a game of sorts, a dance of omission that you had perfected over the years.

But as you watched Kylian score another goal, the cheers of the crowd echoing through the TV, you couldn't ignore the hollowness in your chest.

The first half of the football match had just ended, leaving the second half still to be watched.

Those tickets to the match, and maybe watching the game with Ben, might be just what you need to mend the rift between you two.

Fueled by a sudden burst of determination, you chose to surprise him. Rather than sending a text, you sprang up from the bed and quickly changed into something casual—a pair of jeans and a simple blouse. Your pulse quickened as you slid into your flats, grabbed your purse, and headed out, anticipation buzzing through you.

The taxi ride to Ben's hotel was a blur of flashing streetlights and the murmur of the city. As the car pulled up to the grand entrance, you took a deep breath and stepped out, the cool Madrid air a stark contrast to the heated tension of the evening.

You walked into the lobby, the plush carpets muffling your footsteps as you approached the reception desk. The clerk looked up with a practiced smile that faltered slightly when he saw the determination etched on your face. "May I help you?"

You gave a firm nod. "Yes, I had a reservation for two with Ben Stevenson," you said, your tone steady yet resolute. "I need to see him in person. It's urgent."

The clerk hesitated for a moment before handing over the keycard with a look that was both sympathetic and cautious. "Room 312," he murmured.

You took the keycard, your hand trembling slightly. The elevator ride up to the third floor felt like an eternity, each floor that passed a reminder of the decisions that had brought you here. When the doors finally slid open, you stepped out into the quiet hallway, the plush carpeting muffling the sound of your racing heart.

Room 312 was at the end of the corridor. You paused outside the door, listening for any signs of life within. The sound of the TV was faint, the murmur of a football match just audible. You took a deep breath and slid the card into the lock.

The click echoed in the emptiness, and you pushed the door open, your heart racing with anticipation to surprise him.

The scene before you was like a punch to the gut. Ben was sprawled across the bed, the crumpled sheets a testament to his infidelity. A girl from the restaurant lay beside him, her laughter from earlier now replaced with the soft rhythm of sleep. The sight of her bare shoulder, the way her hair fell across the pillow, the smell of her perfume mingling with Ben's cologne, it all hit you like a ton of bricks. Your hand tightened around the keycard until your knuckles turned white.

You felt your breath catch in your throat, a mix of anger, pain, and disbelief coursing through your veins like molten lava. For a moment, you were frozen, unable to move or speak.

Your foolish hope that he might still be thinking about you gnawed at your mind. Guilt crept in as you replayed the moment you left him alone in the bedroom you were supposed to share, the tickets he bought for both of you lingering in your thoughts. It was all because you couldn’t help being a fool.

Then, something inside you snapped. You marched over to the bed, your heels clicking against the tiles with each step. Ben stirred, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours, filled with shock and guilt.

The girl beside him gasped, her eyes going wide as she scrambled to cover herself. But you couldn't even look at her, your gaze was locked onto Ben's, the man who had promised to love and cherish you until the end of time. The man who was now betraying you in the most intimate of ways.

Ben sat up, his eyes darting between you and the girl. "Babe, it's not what it looks like," he stammered, but the words sounded hollow, a pathetic attempt to salvage what was clearly beyond repair.

Ben, now fully awake, was desperately trying to explain, his voice a jumble of words that made no sense. "It just happened, I didn't mean for it to... I don't know what came over me." His eyes searched your face for some sign of understanding, but you had none to give. You had seen this play out before. The same lies, the same empty promises. But this time was different. You had enough.

"The wedding," you said, your voice shaking with emotion, "is off." The words hung in the air like a shattered chandelier, glittering with the shards of your broken dreams. You pulled the ring from your finger, the diamond catching the light from the bedside lamp. "Here," you said, thrusting it towards him. "You can have it back."

Ben's face was a picture of shock and desperation. "Babe, no," he pleaded, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist. But you were already turning away, the cold metal of the ring feeling like a weight lifted from your soul. "This isn't what you want," he said, his voice hoarse with sleep and fear.

With a shake of your head, you pulled away from his grasp, the tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. "You don't get to decide what I want," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

"This is who you are, Ben. And I can't marry someone like you."

You turned and strode out of the room, the door slamming behind you with a finality that echoed through the hallway. The tears fell like rain now, each one a painful reminder of the love you had lost. You didn't bother to wipe them away, letting them mix with the anger and disappointment that painted your face.

When Ben had proposed, you had been swept off your feet by the grandeur of it all. The ring, the candles, the whispered promises of forever. You had looked into his eyes and seen a future that seemed so bright, it had temporarily blinded you to his flaws.

After Kylian, you had been desperate for something stable, something real. And Ben had offered you that.

But now, as you stepped into the elevator, the walls closing in on you like a tomb, you couldn't help but question everything. Ben was the safe choice, the reliable one.

As the elevator descended slowly, each floor a reminder of the life you had thought you were building together. As the doors opened to the lobby, you stepped out, the weight of your decision dragging at your heels like a heavy burden. You walked out into the night, the cool air a slap in the face after the stuffiness of the hotel room. The city was alive around you, a stark contrast to the deadness that had settled in your chest.

You had done it. You had ended it with Ben. But as you stood there, the reality of your decision hit you like a ton of bricks.

You had been so focused on the betrayal, on the anger and pain, that you hadn't allowed yourself to consider what came next. The future you had so carefully constructed with him had crumbled to dust, leaving you alone in a foreign city with nothing but the echoes of your shattered heart.

And now, you couldn't help but think of Kylian. You had buried that heartbreak deep, promising yourself that you would never let it resurface.

But now, in this moment of betrayal, it bubbled to the top, a bittersweet reminder of a time when love had seemed so much simpler. When you had thought you knew what you were getting into.

—

Real Madrid claimed victory, their triumph echoing through the night. After the match, Kylian and Brahim sought solace in an exclusive restaurant, a haven of calm amidst the chaotic streets. The air inside was serene, a stark contrast to the tumult beyond the glass doors.

Seated together, their conversation flowed like a gentle stream—talk of the match interwoven with shared laughter and fleeting jokes. Amid their meal, Kylian’s gaze wandered, drawn to a solitary figure at the bar.

The woman sat quietly, her silhouette etched against the dim glow of the bottles. He couldn’t see her clearly, yet something stirred within him. She felt familiar, a memory he couldn’t place, a face he couldn’t forget.

You sit at the bar, a drink in hand, telling yourself it’ll just be a few. The weight of what happened with Ben presses heavily on your chest, its edges sharp and unyielding. The ache feels unbearable, so you seek solace in the amber glow of the glass before you. Perhaps, just for tonight, it will dull the pain, let you forget—if only for a little while.

Kylian shook the thought away, determined to let it go. Tonight was meant for celebration, not for dwelling on shadows of the past. With two goals to his name and a hard-fought victory behind him, he had every reason to revel in the moment. This was his night, a triumph to embrace, not a time to be haunted by memories of you.

After finishing that single glass, you reconsidered, you chose to stop refusing to let the alcohol take hold of you.

Quietly, you paid for the drink, pushed back your chair, and rose to leave. The night still held its weight, but the rest felt like the better escape. With a sigh, you turned toward the solace of sleep, leaving the bar behind.

It was you.

Kylian’s heart thundered, a storm unleashed within his chest.

As you stepped out of the restaurant, the faint light caught your face, and in that fleeting moment, recognition struck him like a bolt.

"You alright? Do you know her?" Brahim asked, his words cutting through the air.

He had been mid-sentence when he noticed the sudden change in Kylian’s expression.

Kylian’s reaction was swift—a quick shake of his head, an attempt to dismiss the moment. But his heart betrayed him, answering with a silent, undeniable yes. Of course, he knew you.

"Let’s go," Kylian said, forcing a casual tone.

"I’m stuffed. Great choice of restaurant, by the way."

—

Sitting in his car, Kylian’s gaze lingered on you as you stood by the curb, patiently waiting for a taxi.

Your hair was different, shorter now, but your face remained unchanged. How could he forget? Those eyes, that smile, the echo of your laugh. The memory of your scent, your touch, your taste, all rushed back, relentless and vivid.

He gripped the steering wheel, frozen in place. Should he approach you? The thought churned in his mind, but fear held him back.

He didn’t want to scare you, not again.

The argument between you still haunted him, its sharp edges cutting through the calm of the night.

The weight of it pushed him to start the car, ready to drive away.

But then, you turned. His breath caught. He knew you couldn’t see him, yet he instinctively shrank into the driver's seat, hoping to remain unseen.

And still, as he watched, one thought remained clear.

You were as beautiful as ever.

To the heavens, or to whatever force had heard his prayers, he gave thanks. For though the years had passed, you returned, haunting him still. Not as a ghost to torment him in dark, eerie ways, but as a beautiful woman, walking the earth, a presence that would never fade.

note: i want to express my apologies for including cheating as part of this story’s plot. It’s not something i condone or intend to portray in a romanticized way, and ive made the decision to steer clear of this theme in my future works. thank u for your understanding

part 3 soon !! <3

[tacticaldiary]

Dead Flowers Don't Grow

PAIRING: Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader

SYNOPSIS: "You can't fill the void with gifts. Flowers. You...it's like you're giving me these things to shut me up so I stop complaining you're never there-"

NOTE: All fanfic is timsekip. I'm taking requests!

MASTERLIST

"Make a diamond."

She jumps at the voice, clutching the ball to her chest. Kuroo stares at her, leaning against the doorway with something akin to a sheepish smile quirking his lips.

"...What?" She questions, not quite meeting his eyes because everything didn't just magically fix itself after a night of sleep. The wound their argument tore was still fresh, still hurting despite the half hearted compromise they'd come up with last night, a promise to deal with it in the morning.

She's been antsy all day, has taken to cleaning out their storage room. The ball in her hands was packed away in a box they never opened, worn and proudly used.

"Your hands. Make a diamond with them to set." Her husband studies her for a moment, before pushing off the doorframe to approach. Warm hands encompass her own, tug them up to hold the volleyball above her head. He positions her hands correctly under it, arms wrapped around her. "Like this, see?" He says quietly, because there's no need for raised voices in a space so enclosed, with emotions already teetering on a tightrope.

A glance over her shoulder earns her a glimpse of those familiar eyes, wrinkled at the side from smiling, a gaze as sharp and analytical as it is warm and playful.

It takes a lot to not lean into his warmth. She's still angry at him, still feeling the burn of humiliation and the sympathetic stare of her waitress.

"You did this a lot?" She mumbles, pushing the ball to her fingertips, then back into her palm. Kuroo doesn't move away, lets his hands rest on her waist instead, loosens out a silent sigh of relief when she doesn't push them away.

"Nah. Kenma was our setter, I was a middle blocker."

"Kenma?" He stifles a laugh at the incredulous tone.

"Can't imagine him running around, can you?" He smiles. "He was pretty damn scary on the court though. Hinata and him had a weird rivalry thing going on."

She hums, brings the ball down to her waist and silence follows.

It still stings, the wound is fresh. There's nothing like being forgotten that makes you sober up.

"Can we talk about it?"

Her husband's voice is soft but a crack in the silence, thumbs rubbing up and down her waist.

"What's there to say?" She shrugs, pointedly staring at the floor. "You forgot about me. Again."

"I didn't-"

"You did." She cuts him off. "You did, Tetsurou. It was the first date we planned in weeks and it ended the same it did the last two times."

"I'm sorry."

Frustration bubbles up in her chest, the muttered words make her flash back to the quiet, fresh bouquet of roses on their dining room table, the box of expensive chocolates on her nightstand when she woke up .

"You can't fill the void with gifts. Flowers. You...it's like you're giving me these things to shut me up so I stop complaining you're never there-"

"No, that's not...never, I'd never." He cuts her off, because the thought that he'd do something like that is disgusting, and doesn't speak to what his character actually is. "That wasn't my intention, sweetheart." He tugs her around by her shoulder so he can look her in the eye, show her there's nothing but honesty and guilt and regret etched into the lines of his face.

"Tetsurou." She sighs, and it goes straight to his heart. "I want you. You. My husband. I sat at that restaurant for an two hours yesterday waiting, thinking you couldn't have forgotten again, or that you'd at least text me you'd be late or something."

He nods immediately. "I was stupid-"

"You were."

"But it's no excuse-"

"It's not."

"And all I can say right now is that I'm sorry." Kuroo pleads with his eyes for her to let him speak and after a moment she allows it. "I know you've heard it a thousand times, but I promise this is the last one. I didn't...hadn't realised how bad it had gotten until today." He really does look remorseful, guilt lining the tension in his shoulders that she fights the urge to knead away at. Instead she loosens a slow exhales, lets the ball drop at their feet.

"Is it so hard to want to spend time with me? To work a normal amount like everyone else?" The questions comes out tired, a little small and damn if that doesn't break Kuroo's heart into splintered that hurt.

"Fuck, of course not." He says quickly, hands cupping her cheeks. His thumbs stroke across her cheekbones, eyes a little wide with alarm. "Of course not, I want the best for you, want you to be happy."

"I don't want the best, then." And when she looks at him there's such earnest honesty in her eyes. "I want you. It's enough, Tetsurou. You're enough for me."

Kuroo doesn't quite seem to know what to say to that. His mouth opens and then closes, silence hanging in the air. It's obvious her words have taken him aback, and it makes her soften, quells some of the frustration from before. Slowly, as if trying not to disturb the silent processing going on, her hands come to circle loosely around his wrists, head tilting ever so slightly into his palm.

It's almost a full minute later that she sees him swallow harshly and nod. "Okay." It's quieter than before.

"Okay." It's a promise and a reassurance in one.

This time she allows Kuroo to pull her in, winds her arms around his neck as his face burrows into her hair, lips pressed to her head. One strong arm curls around her waist, the other cups the back of her neck and she's perfectly content to stay there.

Things were far from okay, but results were only rewarded through consistancy and effort, traits she knows her husband has buckets full of to give to others. He was odd, sometimes, got in his head and took responsibility for things he didn't need to, but maybe that's why they worked so well.

A boat and his anchor.

An anchor and her boat.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

(20/11/2024)

[jacelandon]

November DWC 2024 Day 4 - Tranquil

He had assumed her to be a spirit at first. She wasn’t the first nor would she be the last unfamiliar soul that Jace encountered in these parts; it was common knowledge among the carnies that should you perish on Darkmoon Island, it was difficult, if not impossible, to leave. It wasn’t a frightening sight, nor unusual for the ghosts to gain enough energy and show themselves every now and then, especially during the witching hours. 

She didn’t notice him watching her, nor did she seem to have any qualms about stepping into that dark forest, hand extended in front of herself as if she were being led. Curiosity got the better of Jace and he quietly followed; he was one of the few that had nothing to fear here, and if she were just a spirit, neither should she. He wrapped his arms around his core to aid in keeping the warmth in, the forests could get chilly during the night and despite the thick canopy of trees and foliage, it had always felt colder here than anywhere else on the island. 

Her movements were graceful, almost like those of a trained ballerina, and her opalescent, sheer gown did nothing to shield her against the frigid temperature; not that she seemed to care. When she reached the clearing at the center of the forest, she paused, unblinking. There she stood and stared for what felt like hours at something unseen; light, wavy hair billowing in the breezeless space. It was completely devoid of sound here, almost as if one were inside of an anechoic chamber. The fauna knew to avoid this cursed place, making it all the more unsettling. Jace could hear the sound of his own heart beating and blood circulating through his veins, even with shallow breaths, he could hear his lungs and diaphragm expanding and contracting with each gentle rise and fall.

It was always uncomfortable, but he was mesmerized. 

Eventually she stepped closer to the center of the clearing, arm extending and reaching for something he couldn’t see. With a slight shift of his weight, a branch creaked beneath his boot and the spectral woman startled and stumbled backwards, an expression of horror replacing the previously tranquil one. But she wasn’t looking at him, she was still staring at something unseen to him and suddenly vanished.

Jace stood up straighter and briskly made his way towards the space she had previously occupied, looking around for something, anything. He wasn’t even sure what. 

She was gone.

He made his way back towards his camp with a melody in his head that demanded to be written down: Her theme. Everyone had their own theme, and sometimes it took a while for him to determine what would fit a specific person. However, once he had his empty staff paper in hand, the entire song flowed freely.

~ 1 ½ Years Later ~

Jace sat on the ledge at Fancy Cakes, sipping quietly on his coffee as he watched the other patrons. Indulging in some sweet treats was an excellent way to begin a night of busking, and he tried to make it a habit to come here at least once a month. 

The evening was relatively quieter than usual, but he never minded just chilling and being with others. Deep blue eyes watched as the blonde-haired woman wandered up the steps to give her order to Braedyn, and when she turned around he nearly choked on his coffee. He didn’t give himself away, his poker face had grown too strong throughout the years of working for Silas Darkmoon. It had been well over a year now, but he knew. The theme came back into his mind the moment he saw her face.

This was her. The ‘spirit’ he had seen in the Darkmoon Forest. Alive and in the flesh. How could this be possible?

This references a story you can read ---> HERE

@daily-writing-challenge @karaamberlight

[burritello3000]

Age Gap au Mikey discovers the fourth wall…

( @pezhead Your Mikey is so cute, I couldn’t help myself)

[faaun]

procrastination is starting to have its consequences finally

[an-absolute-trainwreck]

Who else havin a meltdown tonight 😍

[tbcanary]

category 100000 roy harper moment

[euthymiya]

“Did you know—”

“I don’t care,” Sukuna interrupts, wholly disinterested. It’s half past three—(which is, of course, his fault, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less tired).

But you, wholly uncaring, promptly ignore him. “—That some female spiders eat the male ones after mating?”

“What do you want me to do with this information?” He looks at you irritably, glaring at you from the corner of his eyes. You flash him a grin—it’s a mischievous little thing, your lips curled in a cheeky, flirty way that warns him silently that he’s about to risk popping another vein. He seems to do that around you quite often, and it certainly feels like it’s underway once more.

(And, as it always is, his intuition would be right).

“It’s a warning,” you hum.

He snorts, raising a clearly disbelieving brow as he hums, “oh yeah? For what? Are you gonna—wha-hey!”

Not a lot catches Sukuna off guard. You giggle as he barks out a surprised yelp of your name, harshly shoving you away from his chest. There’s a nice, fresh, very crystal and very clear outline of your teeth marked right on the flesh surrounding his nipple.

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asks incredulously.

You let out a soft, amused little giggle that sounds through the room before he feels your weight shift and fall onto him, making him grunt as his arms steady you and his eyes stare up at your hovering face with an agitated purse of his lips.

“I’m eating you,” you say cheekily, “see?” For emphasis, you leave an equally as shocking bite to his bicep, your head leaning down to get a mouthful of his bare arm. He lets out a low, startled grunt before one large and very firm hand grabs the back of your neck and yanks you off.

“Have you completely lost it?” He hisses.

“We just mated—”

“Who on Earth talks about sex like that? We are not animals who—”

“—And now I’m going to eat you after mating. Like a female spider.”

“If you’re going to be weird, just go the fuck to sleep,” he grumbles lowly.

Sukuna is tired.

(And yes, the reason is partly because he’s a bit inexhaustible once he’s felt the velvet heat of your walls, and yes, it’s technically his own greediness that’s worn him out so physically for the night. But that’s all been the cost for something of greater benefit to him. Something he doesn’t exactly mind draining his energy for.

Bur your odd, unsettling, abnormal and very plainly weird schemes are not a part of the list of things he’s willing to sacrifice his energy for. There isn’t much pleasure in entertaining your nonsense most of the time.

If anything, there’s pain—the stinging bite marks on his skin can attest to that.)

“I’m not tired,” you hum.

“Then let me make you tired,” he offers smugly, lips tugging into a cocky grin as he looks up at you.

“If you didn’t manage that the first time, what makes you think that’ll work the second?” You tease.

He doesn’t seem to like that very much, because with a growl, he pushes the back of your neck until your face falls into the crook of his neck, a strong, bulky arm wrapping around your waist and keeping you in place against his body.

It’d be awfully intimate, and awfully sweet if he didn’t mumble, “I love when you sleep because it’s the only few hours of the day I get to hear you shut the fuck up.”

“Maybe if you’d just appreciated my fun fact—”

“You bit my fucking nipple.”

“I could bite the other one, too, if you want,” you pipe up with an excited grin. He can feel it pressed against his skin as your face buries deeper into the space between his neck and shoulder.

Sukuna is tired. Most of the time, it’s because of you. All of the time, he chooses to allow it because he likes having you around for a good fuck.

(And, of course, there’s all that bullshit about love and affection, too. But that’s just that odd stuff you like to babble about—that odd, unsettling, abnormal and very plainly weird emotional part of you that somehow ropes him into being the same way every once in a while.

He doesn’t like it.)

“You need a lobotomy,” he mutters, wincing when you bite the skin of his neck in response. Not in a manner he likes, either—very much in a manner that makes sure he feels the sharpness of your incisors.

“Don’t be rude,” you scold, “I’m biologically meant to be your predator.”

“You biologically give me fuckin’ migraines.”

You grin—it’s a smile that’s easy. Smooth. Maybe a little giddy, too. It comes out only around Sukuna. Him and his gruff, rugged way of accepting your affection, and his double as rough and crude way of giving it back. His callused hands and toughened knuckles that brush along your cheeks carefully. His crass and undignified words that are carefully thought out enough to never cross the line. His downturned lips and narrowed eyes that only ever soften at the sharp corners around you.

“Next time, I’ll eat you for sure,” you murmur, settling against his chest and getting comfortable. He wraps both arms around you, warm and tight enough that you almost think you can forgo the blanket altogether. “Assert my dominance.”

“You can’t even open the pickle jar.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s only a matter of time until natural selection gets you,” he snickers quietly. You huff, biting back a smile as he yawns.

Gently, with a kiss over the bite mark you left against his neck, you say softly, “goodnight. Love you.”

“Night.”

“I love you.”

“For the love of—love you too, holy fuck. Go to sleep.”