#Bookkeeping catch-ups services | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heich0e · 2 years ago

Text

leave the light on - miya osamu/f!reader (haikyuu!) part 10 in the bff!osamu series tags: childhood friends to lovers, tw instant coffee mention, miscommunication, confessions, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Onigiri Miya closes early on Sunday nights.

It’s not for lack of business—the shop would certainly take in enough revenue to justify staying open regular hours an extra day per week, especially on a weekend. But in the early days of Onigiri Miya, when it was just a one-man show, Osamu needed at least one night that he could count on having off. The workweek business—office workers and students going through their routine hustle and bustle—kept him going, enough so that Sunday nights weren’t a make or break for him, and he was able to start shuttering in the early afternoon once per week.

He remembers those early days. Sweet talking vendors to bring down the cost of produce and haggling with the grubby, bleary eyed men at fish market stalls at the crack of dawn for a deal on the catch of the day. Promising suppliers that he’d be able to get them their money in a couple of weeks if they’d just give him some more time. Standing on the road, because Onigiri Miya was just a street stall back then, trying to coax people in and try his food. To convince them to take a chance on him. He remembers burns on his hands and cuts on his fingers and an ache in his bones that ran so marrow-deep he forgot what it felt like to not be so sore. Sunday nights were the only night he had to relax. The only night he had to sit down, to take off his hat, and to have a beer—or, even more frequently, pass out on his couch in his uniform at 8pm and sleep right through to his alarm the next morning.

Closing early on Sundays had been your idea, way back when— suggested to him gently while he rested with his head in your lap in your tiny student apartment after another 16 hour workday. He still remembers the worry in your eyes as you brushed his hair back from his tired face.

Nowadays things aren’t so hectic. Osamu’s got a good team of people around him to help Onigiri Miya run smoothly—a team who he trusts and values. It doesn’t all fall onto his shoulders in the same way that it used to: he doesn’t have to be there for every open and every close, his bills are paid, he’s not fighting to lure people in off the street just in the hope that he can scrape by for another week.

Now when he closes early on Sunday, it’s more for the sake of his staff than anything else. Occasionally Osamu will take the night off, too; he’ll go home and catch up on housework, run an errand or two, or even grab dinner—usually with you, though evidently not so much lately. But most Sundays he stays behind after his last employee heads out for the night; locking up behind them, switching off the sign in the window to tell the world the shop is closed, and then holing himself up in his office to do some admin. He’ll grab a plate of whatever’s leftover from the day’s service and a cold can of beer from the fridge, put on a rerun of Atsumu’s game from the night before, and get to work shuffling through the paperwork that he’s left to pile up over the past seven days.

Osamu hates paperwork.

It’s not that it’s particularly challenging work—the really hard stuff is left to his bookkeeper after all. It’s just tedious, a mindless task in many ways, and he always finds his thoughts drifting as he sorts through invoices and inventory registers: catching himself being inattentive halfway through a spreadsheet, and having to force himself to go back to the beginning just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything in his carelessness.

You used to help him with this kind of work, or at least keep him company while he got through it—sitting on the lumpy couch crammed into one corner of his little office and pretending like you weren’t asleep each time Osamu caught you with your eyes closed. More often than not, he’d throw his jacket over you to keep you warm while you napped and then rush through the last of his work so that he could wake you up and get you home. But just having you there on those late nights was enough for him; your presence was the thing that helped.

Coffee is his only saving grace, these days.

Samu shuffles out to the front of the shop on one such Sunday evening, taking off his baseball cap and ruffling the hair underneath tiredly. He’d finally gotten a trim, and he’s glad that things feel a bit more normal again as he rakes his fingers through it—his mother had been right when she remarked that it was getting too long the week before. He tosses his hat down on the front counter of Onigiri Miya, rounding the end to grab a sachet of instant coffee from behind the bar where he keeps his emergency stash.

The overhead lights in the shop are off, but there’s enough brightness filtering out from the still-lit kitchen that he doesn’t need to struggle to see as he prepares himself some hot water to add to the mug in front of him. He tips the granulated contents of his instant coffee sachet into the bottom after ripping it open with his teeth, tapping the empty plastic packaging against the edge of the cup to make sure it all comes out. The kettle behind him hums quietly as it heats to boiling, and Osamu sighs, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

He stares out at the restaurant—his restaurant, as hard as he still finds it to believe some days—his gaze sweeping over the tables with their corresponding chairs resting atop them. One of the staff had mopped the floors at the end of the night, which left them still slightly wet and glistening. There’s light filtering in through the front windows from the streetlights and the other shops that line the Osaka street outside, and their glow catches in the water that hasn’t yet dried from the tile.

Osamu’s eyes suddenly snap up to the glass that lines the front of the restaurant.

There’s a silhouetted figure—so familiar he could trace it even with his eyes closed, from memory alone—standing on the other side of the door.

Osamu blinks, thinking that the paperwork must have finally gotten the best of him, or maybe that the beer he’d had earlier is inexplicably hitting him too hard. But no matter how many times he squeezes his eyes shut, the familiar shape stays where it is on the other side of the glass each time he opens them again.

His heartbeat thumps, loud and wet, in his ears.

Like the shot of a gun, the man stumbles gracelessly into action: loping around the end of the bar and slipping slightly on the wet tile as he heads towards the door. He fiddles with the lock as he struggles to unlatch it, accidentally trying to force it the wrong way in his haste before eventually getting it right. When he finally throws open the door, a gust of cool night air flooding into the restaurant along with it, he takes in a deep, gasping breath.

“Hey.”

His voice is shaky when he greets you—mostly air and very little shape to the word.

You stare at him from a few paces away, your arms crossed firmly over your chest and a frown tugging down the corners of your mouth. Osamu thinks you look pretty when you’re mad. He always has. But it’s worse now because he knows all too well that he shouldn’t—because he knows you’re mad at him.

You seem to have something to say, he can tell as much from the almost spiteful glint in your eyes, but you stay tightlipped as you simply stare at him.

“D’ya… wanna come in?” Osamu asks, still holding the door open. He nods his head back into the shop. “Still got some stuff prepped, I could make ya—“

“You’re a jerk.”

Osamu blinks, taken aback.

“Yeah,” he agrees plainly after a moment, thinking it’s only fair of you to say given then circumstances.

His concurrence only seems to upset you more.

“Like, you’re a real asshole, y’know that?” You’re nearly spitting you’re so angry, your features twisted up in contempt. Your arms uncross and drop down to your sides, and Osamu watches as your hands ball into fists. He’s the one who taught you how to throw a punch, years and years ago now, and he’s wondering if he’s about to experience a practical demonstration of his teaching abilities firsthand.

“I don’t necessarily disagree.” He nods, agreeing with you once more, though this time his response is slower, more hesitant—not because he doesn’t mean it, but because he’s not sure that it’s what you want to hear.

“Ugh!” Your following exclamation is loud, and palpably frustrated, all but confirming his suspicions. “You…!”

Your tone is climbing with every passing second, and Osamu looks furtively up and down the road around the two of you. It’s late in the evening but there are still a few people out, and he sees heads turning in your direction at the commotion.

“Hey,” he says, his own voice dropping in volume but still pleading all the same. “My name’s on the door and we’re gettin’ some weird looks. I wanna hear everythin’ you have to say, but could you please just say it to me inside?”

You look at him blankly, your lips puckering into a petulant, unhappy pout. You seem like you want to say no, to keep causing a scene, and for a second Osamu really thinks you’re about to round in on him again. Instead you trudge forward, stomping past him over the threshold of Onigiri Miya.

Osamu hesitates for a moment after you pass, half in shock and half in relief, and then he lets the door swing closed and locks it behind him for good measure—he’s not sure he wants any unsuspecting people coming in search of onigiri and stumbling upon a brawl.

It’s dim in the restaurant when he turns to face you, but he can still see your fury burning in the dark.

Neither of you say anything.

“You can keep goin’ if you want,” Osamu is eventually the first to speak, and he means what he says. This is the least of the punishment he deserves, after all. And hearing you yell at him is markedly better than the silence.

“Martyrdom doesn’t suit you at all,” you mutter sullenly.

Osamu sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I just wantcha to say whatcha came here to say.”

You begin to pace as you work through your thoughts, slowly walking back and forth in front of the counter, picking at your cuticles. You’d put a fair amount of distance between the two of you, and he’s sure it was intentional. Osamu keeps himself confined to the entryway near the door, while you walk a path back and forth along the length of the service counter. His eyes follow every step you take, like a captivated child watching fish at the aquarium.

“I had a terrible dream last night,—” you finally force the words out, your feet stilling against the shiny tile as your pacing comes to a sudden halt.

Osamu decides to just do the right thing and shut the hell up for once, giving you the floor.

“—I was going to buy 30 kilos of rice from Kita-san’s farm—”

That’s a lot of rice, Osamu wants to note, but his lips part to let the words through and then he decides better of it.

“—and I was there, at the farm, and then Kita-san started telling me that you got married and had a baby. A baby, Samu! Kita-san standing there telling me all these terrible things with that big bag of rice in my hands, and I couldn’t even get mad at him because he’s Kita! So I just had to listen to him go on and on and on about the venue and the flowers and the baby name that you picked out. And the more he’d tell me the worse it was, and the bag of rice just kept getting heavier.” Your teeth bite down so hard into your lip as you suck in a breath that Osamu's amazed he doesn’t see blood. “I was hearing all of these things—terrible things—and all I could think was that I should have been there to see all of that for myself. I shouldn’t have been hearing about it from someone else. And I realized that you were living a whole life apart from me, a life that I didn’t know about or get to be a part of, and it just kept getting worse and worse and I woke up and I felt like I was going to scream.”

You’re out of breath by the time you finish your rambling thought, your chest heaving and your eyes wild and your mouth faintly wet. You look to him, and Osamu doesn’t see that same indignation in your eyes anymore, only hurt. He watches as the expression hardens again, whets itself like a blade—sharpened not in anger, but rather in resolve. In resignation.

“That day. I looked for you first.”

Osamu feels lost now. Are you still talking about that dream?

You understand without him saying it, and explain yourself further. “In high school. The day that I kissed Suna.”

Osamu’s stomach drops, all of the blood rushing to his head so quickly that the shop begins to spin a little around him. He can hear his pulse in his ears. He can feel it in his throat. He can’t help the twist of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, writhing and ugly though it may be, at the mere mention of his friend’s name. He doesn’t have the right to feel the way he feels, but it happens all the same.

“I looked for you,” you keep going, like you’ve broken a seal and have to let it all out. Osamu doesn’t dare try to stop you. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. He watches on like it’s a conversation that’s happening not with him but rather to him. “You were eating lunch with Tsumu in your classroom. I realized he would have had a fit if he knew that I was asking you and not him. I thought about asking him but…”

Osamu can’t feel his fingers from how tightly his hands are balled into fists at his side. His lungs burn in his chest—the breath he’s holding having long since lost the oxygen his body needs, though he can’t seem to draw in another.

“If it wasn’t you, I didn’t care who it was. So I asked Suna.”

The young man processes your words slowly. Incompletely. Like only every third word seems to register.

“Ya wanted me to be yer first kiss?” It’s not the question he ought to ask you but it’s the one his brain chooses to spit out.

Your reply is frustrated, but with an unmistakably melancholic rasp running through it. “Yeah. I did.”

Somewhere distantly, Osamu recognizes a sharp, stinging pain. An ache as part of him realizes that it could have been him. All along. All this time. Him. But the pain is muted, because part of him—most of him—still doesn’t quite understand.

“I think that was the first time I realized it.”

Osamu watches your face, maps the achingly familiar lines and dips and curves of your features as he tries to read meaning in the space between your words. But he still finds nothing.

“I liked you, Samu. More than I should have. Differently than I liked Tsumu, or Suna, or any other guy.” You laugh, but it’s a hollow, watery sound. “I realized it and it was awful.”

You’re waiting for him to say something, but Osamu is at a loss for words. No, that’s not quite it either. It’s not that he has nothing to say, but that he has everything he wants to say to you. To ask you. But he doesn’t know where to start, or how to sort through them, or even how to will his lips, teeth, and tongue to shape any of them.

“You… Y’know ya don’t have to say this,” his voice is tight, like a rope drawn to secure a knot not unlike the one in his throat, when he finally manages to speak. “Ya don’t have to pretend or convince yourself that you… felt the same as me. I care about ya too much to ever ask that.”

You laugh—a single, sharp, distinctly mirthless ha!—as you throw your hands up in exasperation. “There you go again not letting me have any say, Samu!” You punctuate your exclamation with a frustrated little sound. “Stop deciding things all on your own and just listen to me.”

That shuts him up again.

“I thought I was over it,”—you begin to pace once more, your steps slow and measured—“I really did. I told myself it would never happen and moved on because I never ever wanted to fuck things up between us. Between any of us.

“You told me that you’ve loved me your whole life, but you don’t know if or when something changed. I do. I had a singular moment that I could point to where I realized that if I did or said the wrong thing after that, I could fuck up something that meant more to me than anything else in the world. Even if you felt the same way I did, there’s no guarantee that something like that would work out. But if we tried and it didn’t work, we wouldn’t be able to just go back to how things were. So I told myself that no matter what I wouldn’t. No matter how hard it was or how awful it felt. I could get over it if it meant I never had to lose you. And it was fine. For years it was fine. We were fine. Everything was fine. And then I lost you anyway.”

You suddenly stop pacing and crouch down, your arms winding themselves around your knees as if to comfort yourself.

“That night, when you…” You swallow, and risk a glance up at him. “I don’t think I’m over it.”

Osamu feels like he might die. Maybe he did already. Maybe this is his life passing before his eyes, because it’s always been you anyway.

“But it’s scary, Samu,” your voice is so small, so vulnerable, when you speak to him again. You’re trembling as you hold yourself. “Aren’t you scared?”

Osamu is suddenly reminded of that fall day in the woods, so many years ago now. Reminded of two kids who didn’t know what they were doing. Who didn’t know anything. But who knew each other.

Slowly, Osamu crouches too—his joints cracking in protestation as he drops his body down to your level. Your eyes never leave his.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment. Soft but sure. “‘Course I am.”

You let out a soggy, incredulous laugh, but it somehow doesn’t feel out of place. He watches as you reach up and scrub at your eyes.

“I love you,” Osamu says, because it’s true. Because there’s no other words he can possibly think to say in this situation. Because it’s the only thing that he has in his mind.

You look over at him, sniffling a little, wiping at your running nose with the back of your hand in a way that Osamu absolutely should not find as endearing as he does. “How can you just say it like that? Like it’s so easy?”

Osamu wants to laugh too, like you did earlier, but he worries that the sound might come off as almost hysterical thanks to the misplaced hope he can feel simmering in the pit of his stomach. “Sayin’ it’s the hard part, that’s why it took me so long. But I’ve spent forever lovin’ ya. S’always been the easiest bit.”

You choke back a sob, your head hanging defeatedly as your body slackens. You’re a ghost of the angry little thing that was outside of his door only a few minutes earlier, but more yourself now than Osamu has seen you in weeks.

“What about you?” he poses the question so quietly he might worry you didn’t hear him if not for how silent the dark shop is around you both.

“What do you mean?” You know what he means. He knows you know what he means. You’re stalling, trying to buy yourself time that’s run out now.

“Do you love me?” he asks, praying to anyone who’s listening that he’s been a good enough man up until this point to deserve the answer that he wants to hear more than anything else in the world.

“Of course I do,” you say evasively, refusing to meet his gaze. But it’s not the same. It’s not enough.

“But are you in love with me?” Osamu finally dares to ask.

There’s a stretch of the most painful, profound silence that either of you have ever experienced. It goes on for an eternity, though the clock hands in the corner say differently.

You still refuse to look at him, your gaze fixed instead to a point on the wall on the other side of the restaurant. Osamu watches how the light from the windows catches in the tears that cling to your bottom lashes.

“Yeah, I am,” you say, barely a whisper. You speak the confession like it’s the most terrifying thing imaginable. Like it's wretched.

And it is maybe, but Osamu’s never felt happier to hear anything in all his life—he feels a rush of something so visceral and elated flowing through him, he thinks he might pass out.

“Can I touch ya?” he asks hesitantly, his voice thick and unlike its normal tone. He hardly recognizes it as his own.

You peek over at him for the first time, and Osamu revels in the feeling of having your eyes on him. Delights in watching you watch him and knowing that behind the gaze is the same feeling as the one he holds inside of himself. You consider it for a moment, and he doesn’t dare rush you, but eventually—mercifully—you nod.

Osamu inches forward slowly and wraps you in his arms. Your body relaxes into his hold instantly, and he pulls you into his lap on the tiled floor. He holds you so tightly that he’s scared he might break you, but he still can’t find it in himself to be more delicate. You cling to him anyway.

It’s the first time he’s touched you in months, but every inch of you is still known to him. Still familiar in every way that matters. You smell the same. You feel the same. You’re soft and warm just like always. Osamu buries his face into the crook of your neck, and your fingers eventually lift to play with the hair at his nape. He holds you, and holds you, and holds you more—sating a thirst that’s been building for longer than the time the two of you have been apart.

And you let him.

You hold him too, in the same way.

“If I kiss ya, you gonna cry again?” Osamu asks you quietly after a while, his lips brushing against your throat as he murmurs the words.

You snort, your fingers twisting into the material of his t-shirt at his shoulders. Osamu peels himself away from you and looks up, and finds that your faces are so close. Too close, in any other circumstance.

His palm lifts, cupping your cheek in his hand, running his thumb against the smooth skin underneath.

“Shut up, Samu,” you say, a little smile twisting up the corner of your mouth.

And Osamu happily obliges by pressing his lips to yours.

#osamu miya x reader #osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya #miya osamu #hq drabble #hq writing #writing #bff!osamu

666 notes · View notes

mochademic · 8 months ago

Text

100 Days of Productivity [Day: 89] || 100 Jours de Productivité [Jour: 89]

expect the unexpected; sometimes, it's going to be just what you needed.

this weekend I said welcome home to this little ragamuffin; a surprise [& early anniversary gift] from my partner. he's been keeping me on my toes, but life's been a little less lonely these days. my 3 month review at this new company went over well, & also came with a crazy promotion. hard work really does pay off, & it's nice to be working somewhere where my work does not go unnoticed.

the reason why I say this promotion is crazy, is because it's completely unrelated to my degree. I had been given various projects over the last few months – predominantly to do with bookkeeping & finances – that have resulted in me being selected to be the new company accountant. this work is not unfamiliar with me since it's something I do for my own small business, but to be doing this on a corporate level is humbling. it reminds me of a conversation I once had with my department head right before graduation. they were the person who I went to with many of my tearful vents and frustrations, & during this particular conversation they told me "do what you need to, but do more of what you're good at. that's how you bring the right things to your table." I held on to that for years. right now, I wish I could tell them thank you.

academic work:

-catch up on all unit reviews -re-write notes/organize

freelance work:

-catch up on all projects -continue signing up for markets -edit digital work -prepare shop listings

office work:

-answer all emails -complete payroll for tomorrow -review funding changes from last meeting -look at problems after system update

currently listening // Attention by Wyatt

Attendez-vous à l'inattendu ; parfois, c'est exactement ce dont vous aviez besoin.

ce week-end, j'ai souhaité la bienvenue à ce petit ragoût, une surprise [et un cadeau d'anniversaire anticipé] de mon partenaire. il me tient en haleine, mais la vie est un peu moins solitaire ces jours-ci. mon évaluation de trois mois dans cette nouvelle entreprise s'est bien passée et s'est accompagnée d'une promotion folle. le travail acharné paie vraiment, et c'est agréable de travailler dans un endroit où mon travail ne passe pas inaperçu.

La raison pour laquelle je dis que cette promotion est folle, c'est qu'elle n'a aucun rapport avec mon diplôme. Au cours des derniers mois, on m'a confié divers projets - principalement liés à la comptabilité et aux finances - qui m'ont valu d'être choisie pour être la nouvelle comptable de l'entreprise. Ce travail ne m'est pas inconnu, puisque je le fais pour ma propre petite entreprise, mais le faire au niveau de l'entreprise me rend humble. Cela me rappelle une conversation que j'ai eue un jour avec mon chef de service juste avant d'obtenir mon diplôme. c'est à lui que je m'adressais pour lui faire part de mes larmes et de mes frustrations, et au cours de cette conversation, il m'a dit : « Fais ce que tu dois faire, mais fais davantage ce pour quoi tu es douée. c'est ainsi que tu apporteras les bonnes choses à ta table ». J'ai gardé cela pendant des années. En ce moment, j'aimerais pouvoir leur dire merci.

travail académique :

-rattraper tous les examens de l'unité -réécrire les notes/organiser

travail en free-lance :

-rattraper tous les projets -continuer à s'inscrire sur les marchés -éditer le travail numérique -préparer les listes de boutiques

travail de bureau :

-répondre à tous les courriels -compléter la liste des salaires pour demain -Examiner les modifications apportées au financement depuis la dernière réunion -Examiner les problèmes après la mise à jour du système

chanson // Attention par WYATT

#100 days of productivity #day 89 #100dop #100 jours de productivité #jour 89 #100jdp #studyblr #study blog #studyspo #study motivation #study aesthetic #bookish #gradblr #langblr #language learning

64 notes · View notes

lamemaster · 1 year ago

Text

The Tale of Leren and Buthien

Pairing: Rog x GN Reader

Genre: Romance

Summary: The general makes dreams come to life with the play of ink and paper. The catch- the dreams are wet.

AN: No actual smut in a story about a smut writer this is what you call a true lazy ass. I am a proud woman. I mean look at this amazing title.

"What is it this time?" The hall full of elves buzzed with unfathomable tension. It wasn't a blinding gem, a delicate harp, or even a well-forged sword.

Instead, it was nothing more than a couple sheets of paper crudely sewn together.

"Oh my it comes with illustrations," an elleth fanned her flushing face as others around her peaked into the papers. "By Varda," another exclaimed breathing deeply but none looked away.

What was it that left the residents of Gondolin, millennia-old elves, gasping like teens undergoing puberty?

"It's the neighbor this time," someone added in an uncanny awe. "A peeking neighbor and a married couple who can't keep their hands off each other." Century-old elders in the room giggled childishly.

"The general never disappoints."

"The true pioneer of Edain must I say," everyone broke out into laughter.

All but one. Rog, the lord of the house of the warth of the hammer. As if glued to his seat, he sat with a tense back as the rest of the room cackled over the saucy novella.

Lord Rog had just been assigned his next assignment.

The general, the source of new weekly entertainment in Gondolin. You came with the host of Hurin and Huor. A warrior known for your might, you were respected, welcomed even by many. However, slighted by your appearance not once did the Gondolians expect you to carry another side with you.

Not until the first of your writings ended up in the hands of a flustered bookkeeper. A writing you proudly presented. Handwritten and bound by you.

Perhaps the bookkeeper had expected a mundane poem or war strategies, even something about the lives of Edain but never had the 658-year-old Ailya expected the raunchiest filth of a story of a night of pleasure shared between a king and their knight.

Let's just say that after a few years of peace and calm your story brought chaos to the streets of Gondolin. In the blink of an eye, every knight in the service possessed a copy of your creation. Even the whispers of your lewd tale were loud enough for the rest of the lords to find out. Some even gossiped about a copy in the king's office...

Surrounded by a babbling Glorfindel and an intrigued Penlod, Rog held it for the first time. Even as he wrapped his hands around the cool paper, written in the clean handwriting of an elven scribe, your original piece was an artifact at this point, Rog felt his fingers tremble with the weight of the mere sheets of paper that carried your words.

The general was an existence whose presence was announced by Ulmo, the Vala of water. Accompanied by Huor and Hurin came their close companion and the leader of their forces, you.

A mere human who challenged the wrath of his hammer with every breath of their existence.

"Did you hear Lord Rog moved his room?" someone whispered in the group huddled by the hearth.

"What? That's so random..."

Looking around they exchanged exasperated looks before continuing "You're as dense as him."

"What do you mean? We're not here decoding our Lord's every move."

The Vanya sighed trying not to beat up his clueless companion."Okay listen, the general wrote a piece about knights and the next day Lord Rog drilled all his knights until the general saw them, then the general wrote about a misfit rebel and the next day Lord was seen wearing an all-black armor with a very mannish braid. And now with the new neighbor piece, he moves into the room that faces the room general lives in."

The room fell silent. Everyone stared at the paper in their hands. Was their lord truly...with the general...

"Do you think our Lord would be able to keep up with the general...he might fade of pleasure," the dark-haired ellon groaned as a metal vase hit him square in the face.

Late at night when the stars in the sky dictate the sleep of men, Rog watches you write away hunched over your desk. A clear view from his window. Unhindered by curtains or your own trinkets lying around.

And when late at night your eyes accidentally seem to meet his, Rog finds himself flinching away from the smirk on your face before you go back to wreaking havoc on the paper.

A week later the streets of Gondolin fill with hustle and excitement. A new volume clutched in every hand.

However, this time around the whispers seem to be shuddering with a different energy. Thrumming with a pulsing tension carried in quivering lips.

To sate his curiosity, Lord of the House of the Wrath of Hammer grabs the volume.

Rushing back to his room, he allows his eyes to gloss over the title.

Hidden behind the curtain, you watch Rog glare holes into the volume clutched in his hands. A warm red settles on his cheeks as his ears twitch with his shaking pupil.

Perhaps the mannish retelling of the Lay of Lethian was not such a bad idea as Ailya had made it to be. Especially given the faces your elf was making reading it.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion x reader #noldor elves #silmarillion #rog x reader #rog #the general is the coolest fucking reader #this title is elite

29 notes · View notes

yacinthemorning · 11 months ago

Text

Tailored to Your Liking

Chapter 7

[First] [prev] [next]

Summary: Tumble Town attracts all sorts of misfits looking for a fresh start on the frontier, but everyone still needs clothes. Be it extra limbs or high temperatures, Jimmy caters to every hybrid's needs.

Ships: Jimmy/Tango (slow burn romantic), Grian/Mumbo/Scar (romantic), Joel/Lizzie (romantic)

Warnings: Implied traumatic events, awkward flirting, verbal fight, anxiety attack

Jimmy tapped at his desk, staring down at the skeins before him. A weepweave was laid out across the table behind him, waiting to be drawn into shapes. He’d worked out the patterns weeks ago. And adjusted for the weight Tango had gained since. If he could just get himself to work it could be done in no time.

But there in lied the problem.

He pulled from his breast pocket the little brass bird. A canary, like the ones they’d used in the mines Tango worked much of his life in since coming to this continent. The ornament was truly lovely, something Jimmy would cherish, but he knew the poor thing carried much more weight than that. It carried a culture Jimmy wasn’t especially familiar with. The weight of its material and its palm sized stature. Tango had given it to him, but he’d avoided looking at it since.

It hurt, just a bit. Irrationally. If it was a symbol of his intentions then what did it say to be so ashamed of it? Jimmy knew better than that, of course, but it didn’t help emotions. Especially not when Tango had begun to treat Jimmy much the same.

A glance informed him it was nearly five o’clock. Ten hours since he last saw Tango. Where was he? What job had he found that took up so much of his time? They better be paying him more than a few copper if they’re going to-

Jimmy took a deep breath. He pushed out of his seat, grabbed his hat, and abandoned his shop for the day. There was no point in driving himself mad indoors if he wasn’t going to be productive for it. There was something else he ought to do anyways.

He made it to the end of Main Street, where a large, white building lay quiet. Few people approached the town hall most days, not unless there was a holiday. Besides Lizzie’s family, in fact, only its two employees could be found in its vicinity. Their presence was part of the reason it remained so silent.

Taking unsure hops, it seems he was ever so lucky enough to catch them both reclining at the front desk. Two sets of glowing, cyan eyes immediately snapped to Jimmy the moment his talons brushed the wood floor. Cub was the first to offer a welcoming smile, though Jimmy always found it rather unnerving. Not so much due to the skulk that draped him, but the knowledge that Scar thought quite highly of him. A “retired” doctor beloved by a snake oil salesman was no one Jimmy had a desire to trust.

Luckily Pixl was the one to motion for Jimmy, greeting him with a silent nod. “Welcome, Mister Solidarity. How may we be of service?” He voice was soft, not even an echo forming in the grand hall.

“I was actually interested in accessing the library, though I don’t imagine I’ll find what I’m searching for.” Jimmy admitted.

Curiosity raised Pixl’s eyebrow. He nodded to Cub, their teal antlers vibrating. Nothing Jimmy could understand, but he was sure others felt similarly to how the avians in town flared and flattened their feathers. “Of course, follow me. Perhaps I can help in your search.” Pixl suggested as they made their way down the hall, leaving Cub behind. “If it’s a matter of history, I could be of great service.”

The pickings were slim. What wasn’t bookkeeping or dictionaries were the few documents and books brought in with arriving citizens. The worldliness of the collection could be attributed to the variety of folks that wandered their way into Tumble Town more than interest in the topics. It made the collection particularly eclectic despite its size, everything from children’s books to family trees and obscure novels in languages Jimmy had never seen before.

An album of miscellaneous photographs found its way in front of him. Some were from events, others collected upon deaths, many donated by Mumbo. Jimmy was nearly through the entire album before he spotted it. The photos were in horrid condition, even a bit burnt at the edges. Each portrayed one of two women, one elderly and the other a bit older than Jimmy’s age, both alike to one another. Their hair flowed like fire and their sharp ears were adorned with jewellery. Though the young woman wore a skirt similar in style to what Jimmy often made, the elderly woman dressed entirely differently. Thin layers of cloth draped her body, with some sort of shaping going on underneath. The shoulders sat loose under the clutches of gold ornaments, with a particularly intricate necklace. A favour. Jimmy absentmindedly rested his hand over his pocket.

There were a few others, including a photo of the younger in a similar garb, though the decor seemed to be of a different material and less intricate. It seemed to be some sort of celebration. There were short notes on the backs but they were all written in Pigling. Even in the black and white photos the gowns were gorgeous. He continued to flip through the dozen photos, trying to figure out their make. The waist pulled in but there was no seams visible anywhere on the outer layer. Not at the visible angles. Their trousers, too, were tailored into anklets. There was no embroidery or decorative stitchwork in the cloth itself, and no patterns. Were the layers different colours? Knowing the material they were likely made of they were most certainly vibrant...

So entranced was Jimmy that he didn’t notice Pixl approaching until a loud thud made him jump up out of his seat. A stack of three books had been placed on the table. Pixl shrugged in apology. “These are all we have that mention in any capacity the Nether or Netherborn, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you.” Jimmy muttered in a daze. As he flipped open the first few pages, it occurred that he had never told the sculkling what he was looking for. He whipped his head up to give some type of indignant remark he had yet to think of, but Pixl was already gone. In a huff, he gathered up the books. It was getting late, and whether Tango came home or not, Jimmy needed to make dinner for at least himself.

To his surprise when he reached home, Tango’s shoes and jacket were there at the entrance. More surprisingly, there was a smell wafting out from the kitchen. Jimmy poked his head past the door. Seeing Tango at the stove momentarily brought out a moment of panic, but there were thankfully no metallic smells, only the scent of spices and chicken.

A curious tweet slipped out of the avian. Tango jumped so high Jimmy worried he might hit his head on the ceiling. He spun around, spilling whatever had been in the ladle in his hand across the floor. And his foot. He jumped a second time, curses spilling out of his mouth, until his knee hit the back of a chair and they both went down. In a panicked flurry Jimmy went to the poor man’s aid, himself almost slipping on the spilled substance in the process.

“My goodness, are you alright?” Jimmy squeaked.

Tango was still dazed, though his face had contorted in guilt or pain, likely both. “Just peachy. Ah!” His neck cracked as he rolled it. It seemed unsatisfying, but he left it to return tending the large pot on the stove. “At least I didn’t knock anything important over.”

“What are you doing?”

Instantly Tango shrunk in on himself, held himself like a scolded dog. Was Jimmy’s tone so accusatory? He couldn’t deny being more than a bit frustrated with the man’s indecisiveness. “Well, I’m making dinner.”

“Yes, I can see that. But why?” Though Tango often helped in the kitchen he’d never taken the initiative to cook himself. It was never clear whether it was out of the delusion that what he chose to make would be poorly received, the nonsense idea he had no right to use the ingredients Jimmy bought, or the only reasonable explanation that he simply didn’t enjoy cooking.

Tango didn’t look up from the pot. “You weren’t here when I got back, so I thought I should.”

Jimmy hadn’t been there because Tango hadn’t either. There was nothing stewing because Jimmy had been too distracted thinking of the party. Tango always picked up more chores when he was feeling useless. There were many things Jimmy could say, but, perhaps for the best, they were all stuck on one another in his throat. “What are you making?” He asked instead, approaching the pot.

“You like curry? It’s sort of like curried chicken. Except not. They call it Nether peppered chicken here I think, but there’s no Nether peppers in it. It’s...”

“Tasty?” Jimmy offered an out, which Tango graciously took with a nod. “I’m guessing a Nether dish?”

The tuft of Tango’s tail swept against jimmy’s leg in absentminded agitation. “Sorta. It’s actually something I learned from a workmate after I first arrived here. It’s...” He tilted his head back, brows knit. “Like, it’s hard to get certain spices and vegetables here, so people make due, and it sorta turned into its own thing. I guess I did, too. I had this friend for a while, Brody, he couldn’t handle the spiciness, so I started making it differently, less spicy more bitter.” He paused to pour a mixture of ground spices and greens into the pot. “It’s why I like making it, probably.”

Because you can’t say you made it wrong, Jimmy managed to not say aloud. Was it reasonable to be envious of a man’s relationship to his dinner? Most likely not, but that was the only way Jimmy could describe the melancholic lump in his chest as he watched Tango stir the pot without tension in his shoulders.

“It looks delicious.” He murmured. Tango hummed in reply. While he continued to stir Jimmy placed the cutlery and plates and sat down. Something dropped into the pot with a pop. “... You know, you can make it as spicy as you please.” Jimmy’s voice pitched up, “I don’t mind, it doesn’t bother avians.”

“The peppers in the market aren’t very spicy, it’s better this way with what w-you have.”

“Oh, okay.” Jimmy adjusted his wings around the back of his chair. Feather wrapped over his arms. The ladle scraped against the side of the pot. “How was work?”

Tango paused for a moment, tail twitching with anxious energy. “Fine. Just helped Etho and Pause with some barn repairs at Beef’s ranch. Was done by noon so I helped Impulse with bottling his beer. Then Chef let me help load the coal wagons going to the station for a couple gold.”

“That’s nice of him...”

“It is. Way more than I ever got paid as one of Fwhip’s guys for the same job. Funny that.”

“Funny that.” Jimmy repeated mindlessly, talon tracing the pattern of the table cloth. Why did it always have to go back to money lately? He knew why. “Have you made anything recently?” He asked, hoping there was some odd little redstone scheme boiling in Tango’s mind ready to spill out into hours long explanations Jimmy could barely wrap his head around.

But there was none. “Not really. Been busy.” Tango shrugged.

“The shop’s closed tomorrow, we could go down to Joe’s and see what he’s selling?”

“I don’t wanna waste money-”

Both jumped as the silverware crashed down against plates. It took Jimmy a heartbeat to realize it was his own fist against the table that had caused it. He mumbled out an apology, not daring to return the blazeborn’s gaze.

“Jim-”

“It’s nothing. I’m sorry.”

Tango had abandoned dinner, now leaning against the chair beside Jimmy. “Jimmy.”

Why did talking have to be so difficult all of a sudden? “You don’t have to take so many jobs in one day.” He managed to choke out.

“Well... I had the energy, I guess.”

“You didn’t want to come back.”

Tango’s tail wrapped around his leg, frown twisting with guilt as he was now the one who couldn’t look at the other.

Jimmy felt his stomach sink. “I’m not... I understand, but I don’t get it.”

“Why I work?”

“Why you won’t let yourself be good enough.” Jimmy reached out, hesitating when Tango leaned away. “And I don’t know what you need to help you.”

“Then I got bad news for what it’s like being stuck with me.”

“Tango...” He was right. Jimmy couldn’t do anything to help Tango if Tango wasn’t willing to be helped. Perhaps he couldn’t help even if he wanted to. This wasn’t something Jimmy could bull-headedly push through like usual.

Tango approached the table, plating their food. As he placed the ladle back down, Jimmy reached out for his hands. He stared at the avian. Surprise, confusion, then concern. “You know you’re a wonderful man, right?” Jimmy asked. It was returned with a dumbfounded shake of Tango’s head. Jimmy almost laughed. Almost. He clutched Tango’s hand closer. “You’re the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, with your strange machines and inventions. And you’re too kind. You’re always helping other folks, I swear there isn’t a single person in this town that hasn’t something sweet to say about you-”

“What are you doing?” Tango asked, tugging weakly against Jimmy’s hold.

Jimmy gave him a sad smile. “You need to know, even if you don’t listen to me right now.”

Quiet fell over them, Tango not replying. Trapped somewhere between peace and tension, they ate dinner in silence.

Weepweave splayed out across Jimmy’s work station, its natural matte crimson colour darkened ever so slightly. It would suit Tango, easy to see long before Jimmy carved it into clothing. There were a few other materials, hoglin leather and twist, but the dark crimson weepweave was what he had the most to work with.

Tango hesitated at first, but his hand ran with fascination over the material. “This is nice.” He said with genuine surprise.

Jimmy shrugged, “Well, when it take this long to import we can’t have it falling apart on you after a few weeks. Otherwise you’ll be right back where you started!” He adjusted the fabric, giving one more once over. “There’s more than enough for three outfits. Four if we pushed our luck but I think it’s best to save some for future repairs.”

A gesture was enough for Tango to fetch the chalk while Jimmy turned the fabric over. Slowly the shapes of an outfit began to appear across the various pieces. Tango remained to help where he could while Jimmy worked.

It continued on through the morning, until the afternoon sun beat down through the windows. Jimmy could feel himself beginning to overheat. In a brief lull, he began to remove his vest, piling the tools that had begun to accumulate in its pocket down beside the cloth. By the time he’d placed the vest aside Tango had also frozen up, staring at the ground. Among the piled treasures was the metal bird.

Jimmy bit his tongue, picking it back up carefully while he sat down in his stool. Silence stretched out. “You know,” Jimmy tentatively broke it. “Avians are also known for their favours.”

“Oh?” Tango murmured back.

“Yes, a feather.”

This captured his attention. “A feather?”

Jimmy nodded, thumb rubbing over the canary’s wings. “Our own. Usually from along the spine, those aren’t quite as large.” He looked up to his companion, who was staring with knit brows at Jimmy’s yellow wings, befuddlement clear. “False will tell you there’s ceremonies and words to go with it but Grian simply handed them over one day to Scar and Mumbo. I suppose it’s one of those flock to flock things. Still, feathers are special to an avian. There’s many traditions involving our feathers, but I suppose you could call it the biggest one.”

“But…” Tango stumbled, seemingly unsure of his next words.

“It’s important it’s your own feather, that it’s a lovely one any damage to can be seen. I think it’s quite lovely, trusting a part of yourself to someone, and being trusted the same.”

“… I suppose.”

He was once more turned away. Jimmy worried his bottom lip. Had he come across as condescending? It was not his intention.

A great sigh escaped the blazeborn as he reclined onto the bench. “Not everyone has feathers to give, though.”

Jimmy’s heart sank. “No, I suppose they don’t. But the purpose is-”

“Gold’s quite common in the Nether, you know.” He continued, as if Jimmy hadn’t spoken. “In very small bits, but it’s everywhere. It’s more of a time investment. If you spend the time, you’ll have enough, eventually.” His gaze downcast. “But time is money, as they say.”

The little metal bird thunked against the table, muffled by the weepweave between them. Tango’s chest heaved as he tried to keep himself calm, and Jimmy wanted nothing more than to get up and go to his side to comfort him.

When Tango’s breath had evened out again he continued. “There was a moment, back with Brody, when we went out to the market together. We’d had nothing but stale bread and stolen eggs for a whole week. But we finally had thirty-four copper between us. That was the first time I was able to purchase everything on my own without messing up my words. At least, not bad enough that I was looked at funny or told to repeat myself. I thought, ‘This is it. I worked hard, I can speak the language, I can finally get a real job here.’ I was a real stupid kid.” His face twisted as his fists clenched the hem of his shirt, tail waving wildly beside him. “Guess I’m still stupid, cause I kept telling myself that until there was nowhere else to go. Doesn’t matter what words I say, or what continent I’m on, I’m still just some netherborn in rags. I can’t find a way to be more than that.”

Tango threw his hands out wide. “This is literally the peak of my life. I can’t-”

The blazeborn choked. Jimmy jumped out of his chair to Tango’s side in an instant, tucking the bird back into his breast pocket to free his hands to hold his companion. “Oh, Tango.” He tried desperately to soothe.

“I could see it, y’know. Last time you opened that vault, it looked like less.” Smoke billowed out like breath on a cold day, small sparks living for a fraction of a second within them. “And you’re here, working with the nicest material I’ve ever owned, and I shouldn’t own it. You shouldn’t have bought it. You shouldn’t be working on this instead of Katherine’s tea dress, or Mumbo’s coat. And I-” His hand shot out with desperation, ripping the bird out of Jimmy’s pocket and shoving it in both their faces. “-I shouldn’t be making prototypes for something I’m. Never. Going to get to make! I let myself get stupid ideas again, and dragged you down with me.”

Blazeborn couldn’t cry. Perhaps that was why they produced smoke, so that those around them could cry for them. Jimmy certainly was, clutching tightly to Tango for dear life as he tried to put together anything he could say. Minutes past, however long Tango needed to pull himself back together.

“Sorry.” He sniffled, to which Jimmy shook his head. Because he understood. Everyone in Tumble Town did. Not for taking the same road, but for winding up in the same place. Somewhere where problems didn’t go away, but they didn’t seem as big.

Jimmy glanced back over at the fabrics, all the shapes perfectly traced out for another well-fitted suit. He buried his cheek into Tango’s warmed hair, cooing comfortingly. Whatever bit of help Tango was willing to take, he’d make the most of it.

“How does it feel?”

Tango stepped back, turning in the mirror as he examined the vest. The last piece of his first outfit. He did a spin, tail training after him hotter than usual. No cloth caught aflame. He smiled bashfully over to Jimmy. “Feels good. Feels fancy. I’m scared people might start mistaking me for Scar’s assistant.”

Jimmy muffled his laugh against his sleeve, though the bell drowned it out for him in the end. “Why, what would scare you about that! It’d be a great compliment to be my assistant!” The man of the hour declared, clacking his cane against the floor for emphasis. A strange little noise escaped Tango in response.

“Good afternoon, Scar.” Jimmy greeted, unable to hide his amusement. “We were just finishing up, doesn’t Tango look handsome?”

Scar hummed and pulled his top hat down to his chest. “Why I’d say he is absolutely dashing! You’ll have every little canary in town swooning.”

Both men turned pink. Jimmy took advantage of his closer proximity to their menace to smack him across the shoulder. “Hush!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Timothy, but I’m afraid I cannot!” Scar announced dramatically, producing papers from within his coat. There was a paused in his theatrics, during which he sent Jimmy a wink that straightened the avian’s spine. “I, in fact, came to speak to you Tango. There’s a job I need your assistance with.”

Tango’s tail twitched, “Oh yeah? What’s the job?”

“A bit of work we’re doing with the Luxo Company. Fwhip informs me you were quite the handyman in the mines, and there are some drafts for the new rail line and station that need an extra hand in drawing up.”

“Uh, sure, but,” Tango glanced awkwardly between Jimmy and Scar. “I mean I’ll be glad to help but I would have thought you’d ask Mumbo.”

Scar waved dismissively. “Oh, Mumbo is off on one of his cycling trips right now, he won’t be back for a few months at least! And this needs to be done now. It’ll be a couple weeks’ work once the materials are delivered.”

Anxiousness vibrated through Tango’s tail, “No offense Scar, but it is you. What’s the catch?”

“No catch! Just some honest work that needs doing, and not a lot of qualified individuals in this one-horse town. Good pay, too.”

Tango finally threw his hands up in surrender. “I mean if you’re okay with it. I’m not exactly qualificated myself, I learned this stuff hands on, on the job.”

“That just means you have experience!”

“Alright, Scar. You got a deal.”

“Great, great!” The papers were placed down on Jimmy’s desk. “I’ll come by and grab you in a few days if Jimmy’ll be willing to let go.”

Jimmy scoffed. “Excuse you.”

“Excusing myself!” He agreed, rushing out the door. “Have a good day, fellas!”

“That man, honestly.” Huffed Jimmy, shaking his feathers flat. Tango didn’t reply, scanning the papers with his nose scrunched up. He peered over the shorter man’s shoulder. “Do you need help?”

Tango jumped. “Huh? Oh, no, it’s just. My name’s on here?”

“Pardon?”

“My name’s in the contract.” He repeated, holding up the page. Indeed, among the many printed letters instead of something neutral it specified ‘Mr. Tek’.

It took everything Jimmy had not to audibly groan. “I suppose he had faith in you.”

“Yeah…” Muttered Tango distractedly. He shrugged and put down the papers.

Tango spent much of the next two weeks off somewhere with Scar for most of the afternoon. Scar couldn’t work very long but they did the best they could with what time they had. Before and afterwards Tango would take other jobs, no matter how much Jimmy told him he didn’t have to. Catalogues were easy to find and he’d calculated what he owed Jimmy on his own. Some questionably true assurances convinced him to lower it at least a bit, to about half of what Jimmy might normally price his work at. Still, he was determined to pay.

At least Scar’s job took a good bit of the burden off. It was paid for by the Luxo Company who’d trusted Scar’s scouting. They didn’t need to be informed the details of the individual he scouted, so long as the plans were good. And Jimmy had all the trust in the world that Tango would make good plans.

More importantly, when he returned home in the evening he didn’t look like walking misery. Dead on his feet, sure, falling asleep in his dinner, but not defeated like he had the previous few weeks, which a horrified Jimmy had only realized after how familiar he’d become with it.

He was nearly done paying for the second set of clothes when they were done. The silhouette was looser, perhaps not as fashionable, but Jimmy could tell Tango was more comfortable. It was more like what he enjoyed wearing.

Tango had his hands shoved into the pockets, swaying back and forth in the mirror with a wide grin. “My gods, he’s done it again.” He declared, tilting his head to look at Jimmy.

“Stop it.” murmured the avian, swatting at the man with his wing. A raspy giggle was his response.

“Have you ever made this many clothes for one person in such a short time?”

Jimmy smiled, reaching out to adjust Tango’s skewed collar. “Can’t say I have… Tango?”

“Hm?”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask about your last outfit.”

This got a curious glance. Flexing his wings nervously, Jimmy ushered them over to his desk. Ensuring Tango was paying attention first he pulled out a pattern, one he’d only finished piecing together the night before. He rolled it out. Tango’s eyes went wide. “This…”

“I wanted- is it too much?” He worried. “Or, wrong, maybe. I had to make some choices. I can use another pattern if you’d prefer. I’d understand.”

Tango’s hand was pressed the pattern. He looked back up to Jimmy, eyes round and disbelieving, before they softened. “No, this is good.” He said, almost too quiet for Jimmy to hear. “Jim… This is good.”

Warmth fluttered in Jimmy’s chest as relief washed over him. “I’m glad.”

But Tango sighed. “Jimmy, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Jimmy knew. It was something he was waiting to happen for the last few days. So, he sat down at his desk, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay. What is it?”

“Scar’s job will be done this week. I’ll get my last pay the day after.”

“Yes.”

Tango looked away. “It’ll be more than enough with my other jobs to finish paying for this before it’s done.”

“And you’ve been saving some for yourself?” Jimmy asked, though he already knew. Some part of him wanted Tango to say it just so he was sure.

Tango did just that. “Yeah, just a bit. Enough.”

Enough. “For what?”

A bristled tuft wrapped around Jimmy’s leg. Jimmy reached out to lay his hand over Tango’s, nudging him to continue. “Scar says they’re looking to build some new infrastructure for the railway. New engines, new machines to build those engines. That sorta thing. They got a lot of new jobs opening up ‘cause of it. He thinks with my work for them so far I got a shot above the rest. At the very least they can put in a good word for me somewhere else. But-”

“But none of that work is here.” Jimmy concluded, willing his heart not to give. He tried to smile.

Tango winced back, “Yeah.”

He took a deep breath. “I understand.” His voice cracked anyways.

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, and as he choked back the first sob, he couldn’t help think about how ridiculous this all was. It’d not even been four months since they first met, not five before they would part ways. He’d patently refused Tango at several points just to avoid being like his thoughtless brother, yet here he was anyways. There was a blooming of relief through his chest that contradicted everything else, from the thought that this could possibly be it for Tango. Jimmy couldn’t help him, but someone else could, and more importantly would.

He’d only received news he already knew was coming, yet it all seemed too much.

“Sorry.” He hiccuped, wiping his wrist over his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m happy for you, I promise.”

Tango’s arms tightened around his shoulders, a soft hum vibrating through Jimmy as his head rested into Tango’s throat. Somewhere he’d heard that cats purred when they were hurt as well as happy, to do with comfort instead of contentment, and he wondered in that moment if blazeborn were the same. “I know.” Tango said, his own voice breaking. “I know.”

The last outfit took Jimmy the longest, long enough for confirmations to happen and Tango to finish preparations to leave. It wasn’t that Jimmy was putting it off, if anything he’d worked so diligently. Others in town were accommodating, happy to accept that their orders would be put off for a while. The pattern and even some techniques were completely new to Jimmy, things he’d never tried. He was no grand artist making the next biggest trend or a high end dressmaker creating something everyone would talk about for weeks to come. He was a simple tailor for a small town in the middle of the frontier, who specialized in accommodating those that did not fit the mould. Maybe, by that description, there was something he could have been doing that he completely overlooked.

A very particular feeling overwhelmed the avian as Tango stepped out of the changing curtain. Like seeing the world’s most beautiful painting jump to life, filled with colours and textures and shadows that seemed too rich for reality. In a sense that was exactly what happened. Loose crimsons and warm grays draped down the man’s form, shaped as Jimmy had only seen in photos until now, no need for modifications for any part of the man.

It looked good on Tango. It looked really good. It was perfect for him, more than just the right colours could ever be. He’d never worn clothes so comfortably before or seemed so assured that he was wearing something unquestionably his. There were alterations, from where Jimmy could not figure out the way to recreate certain things, or where decorations had to be compromised for material’s sake, or where Tango had given input for his own preferences and insights. In front of Jimmy was a netherborn, and the most beautiful man Jimmy had the pleasure to meet.

“How’s it look?” Tango asked, though Jimmy didn’t think he needed to say anything from the smug grin on his face.

Jimmy was still too stunned to come up with something clever. “You’re perfect.” He said a bit breathlessly.

That seemed to knock the man out of his element a bit, smirk shrinking to something a bit shy that matched his reddening cheeks. His tail curled around his ankle before twisting back out. “Then, maybe I should wear it out today.”

“I thought you’d already planned your outfit for today?” Jimmy laughed while Tango bounced up to his side.

“I’ll wear it tomorrow.” He snickered, running a hand over the weepweave. “Can’t not show off my little birdy’s gorgeous work, now, can I?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Tango, all your clothes are my work.”

“True. Maybe I should wear them all every day.”

“You’re going to have to do a lot more laundry if you try.”

“True, true.” He sighed, but continued to smile.

Jimmy smiled right back. “Oh,” He suddenly realized, looking around his workshop. “There was, um, there’s one more thing.”

Tango watched him curiously as he ran over to one of his drawers, one he knew Tango never used himself. There it was. Nervous energy ran through his wings. He approached Tango slowly, hands behind his back. “If you would, I was hoping I could trust you with this.” Gathering his nerves, he held out his hands, delicately folded fingers unwrapping from around a bright yellow feather, as perfectly preened as he could manage. Wrapped around the base was nothing as nice as the bird Tango had made, a simple gold chain attached to a series of metal beads which held the feather in place. Tango stared down in wonder, carefully accepting the feather into his own hands while anxiety prickled down Jimmy’s wings.

Clawed finger rose up to Jimmy’s cheek. He leaned into it as they ran themselves through the feathers around his ear. For a moment Jimmy closed his eyes and basked in the warmth radiating from the man. “You’ll come visit now and then, won’t you?” He asked. Pleaded.

When he opened his eyes Tango eyes were warmer than he’d ever seen. “I’ll come back.” He promised instead, far more than Jimmy cared hope for in the days leading up to his departure. Tango’s hand fell away, instead resting over Jimmy’s breast pocket, the metal bird tucked within pressing into his palm and Jimmy’s heart. “Could you… Would you hold onto that? Until I do? Until I come back with a proper one?”

“This is the proper one.” He chuckled, placing his own hand over Tango’s. “But, if you insist, then of course.”

“Then I’ll take good care of your feather, and the clothes you made me.” Tango said, a determined spark flying from his tail. Jimmy grinned.

“Please do.”

#team rancher #solidaritek #rancher duo #trafficshipping #hermitshipping #tangotek #jimmy solidarity #goodtimeswithscar #traffic series #mcyt #fanfiction #fanfic #western fantasy #alternate universe #hurt/comfort #sharing a slice of cake

19 notes · View notes

simpingcowboy · 2 years ago

Text

Un Millón de Primaveras//A Million Springs

Pairing: Pero Tovar x GN!Reader, no use of Y/N, ambiguous Spanish speaker don't worry translations are provided, reader runs an innn

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Yearning! Softness!! Kinda enemies to lovers??? Stalkerish tendencies, mentions of people drinking, Pero being annoying and weird

Summary: Since his first day at your inn, Pero Tovar has dutifully followed you without either of you knowing why.

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day!!! Enjoy Pero and reader both not knowing how to deal with their feelings. Can y'all tell I like making songs into fics lol? I am not super great at Spanish so if any of this is wrong please don't be afraid to correct me I am well aware that Pero is a Spaniard idc he loves Vicente Fernández. Ranchero music sLAPS

Everyday.

Everyday since Pero had arrived at your inn, he'd been following your every move.

Stalking you in the kitchen.

Watching as you swept the main hall.

Peering over your shoulder from the front desk.

Even doing his morning sparring routine off the side of your cabin, waiting to see you first thing in the morning.

All of this and yet, Pero had barely spoken to you. Most of his communication came in grunts and nods. His silence drowned out by his companion, William's, sweet talk and polite conversation.

It hadn't always been like this. It started slowly. The first few days upon their arrival you'd discovered the mercenary lurking outside the kitchen before meal time. Glaring up at you through the service window, barely out of view. You'd only noticed him as you moved to set out dishes. He catches you off guard, almost making you drop the bowls you held.

"Oh Pero! You know food will not be served for another hour, right?"

"Yes, I know." He said in his usual monotone tone. His glance shifts to the dishes you've set on the counter. He takes a bowl in hand. "I will wait."

You shrugged it off trying to rationalize his odd behavior. Pero was usually first in line anyways…and always came back for seconds when available. Maybe life as a mercenary had made him weary of eating food he had not seen be prepared. Maybe he really was just that eager to eat your cooking. It could be plenty of things you suppose. As long as he kept out of your way, you could live with it.

And then- you'd noticed him taking a peak at you at the front desk. You were sitting at the desk, doing some bookkeeping when a creaky floorboard alerted you to someone approaching the desk. When you looked up, Pero, wide eyed and silent, stood a couple feet off the desk.

"Pero, can I help you with something?"

His right hand fidgets at his side. "No." He says solemnly.

"A-are you sure?" You ask curiously, unsure of why he'd be here if he didn't need anything. He still had another month paid for so he needn't worry about that.

He responds with a grunt and a nod, "Mmm."

"Okay…well I'm here if you need me."

He nods again before turning on his heels and settling over on a chair in the far corner of the lobby. Pero simply sat, busying himself with cleaning his weapons. Every couple minutes you'd caught him staring up at you. He remained there until the end of the day, waiting to see you off. You wished him a goodnight as you stepped out to return to your cabin for the night. Even as you turned back to look at the inn, you swore you saw Pero's silhouette watching you through the window.

After that night, you decided to ask William a bit more about Pero. Eager to get some answers about this strange man. You tried not to make much of a habit of bothering guests, but this was a more than reasonable exception. You managed to catch him alone when Pero went off to the bathhouse.

"William? I'm sorry to bother you, but may I ask you a question or two?"

He offers you a bright smile in turn. "Of course! How may I be of assistance?"

"It's about Pero."

The blonde man chuckles when you mention Pero's name. "Is he causing you trouble?"

"Not exactly, he's just been…around alot. Around me alot to be exact. I was just wondering if I've offended him or anything? If you know?"

William flashes you a slightly mischievous grin. "Offended? Oh no not at all. In fact, I'd say he's rather fond of you!"

"Fond?" You repeat.

He nods "Very fond."

It continued on through the weeks. You'd slowly grown accustomed to Pero's silent presence. Making use of him once or twice a week to help around the inn. Putting his body to work to help clear the snow, or set the dining hall for more formal dinners. If he was going to be in your way, the least he could do was help out a bit. You'd learned more about him. Learned the most whenever you watched him work.

Pero was a quiet man, this was certain. His strengths are not so much in his tongue. Nor charm. Nor sensibility. No- that was where his partner shone. Pero's qualities were not so surface level. It took a bit of pressure to reveal his best qualities. The first you noticed, grace.

Though he trudged through the house with all the elegance of a drunken fool, when given a task he moved so beautifully. Reorganizing furniture as if it were the sole key to your heart. With total care and efficiency. You saw it in his sparring too. Pero had absolute control of his body, and welded his weapon with an unimaginable ease. You'd learned he was once a bull fighter. Though it was obvious by his tone, he did not care much to discuss it.

Secondly, you saw more of his character. How noble he was. "A sellsword with morals!" William had laughed at you when you said as much. But it was true. Pero would steal, yes. Fight, often. Even kill, for the right price. Yet through it, he'd maintained his empathy. His honor. You'd seen him stand up to brutish figures who'd picked on those weaker than themselves. Witnessed him aid a child who was lost late at night wandering the halls. Pero Tovar was not a good man…but certainly not a bad one either.

The last quality you grew to admire had appeared rather abruptly on a cold winter morning. You and Pero had grown into quite the routine. Every morning long before the other guests had awoken, Pero would be waiting patiently at the door for your arrival. Greeting you with a silent nod as you entered. You did your usual opening tasks at the Inn, before settling in and making your cup of coffee. Which had since grown to two cups of coffee. You rounded the kitchen, two mugs in hand, to sit with Pero by the fire when the strangest thing happened.

In the soft light of the fire, Pero's eyes looked so bright…so warm, so inviting. Suddenly, you wondered how his nose would feel nuzzling against yours, how his arms would feel wrapped around you. An urge awoke to sit in his lap, and play with the loose ties of his undershirt. Even the menacing scar he wore on his eye transformed into the perfect line to run your kisses across.

"Coffee." He grumbles, turning his face to you.

"Hmm?" You respond, snapping out of your day dream.

Pero sniffs the air, "You have our coffee, no?"

"I-I yes! Yes, I do." Your words stumble over the butterflies in your stomach. You jolted over to his side handing him his cup before taking your place next to him.

He silently takes a sip. "It's good."

"Thank you…" you murmur.

You realize, Pero Tovar is so handsome.

So yes, you'd grown well accustomed to his presence…maybe even enjoyed having Pero around on occasion. Perhaps you even missed him on the days he and William would go to town to do some work. Maybe you missed him even more when he would be away for a day or two, no doubt working to earn more coin in preparation to leave come Spring. Only in the quiet moments without him by your side did you think it was not so bad to have him around. Maybe you even silently wished Pero would stay by your side.

But what were you to say to the ill-tempered Spaniard…Tales of affection and romance? Admit your feelings and make a mockery of yourself; of your business? So, you remained silent. Willing the loneliness away that came without Pero. Remembering that come Spring, he will leave and you'd likely never meet again.

The last couple days had been excruciating. Several things in the inn had broken and needed repair. Some drunken guests had made a mess of the dining hall. The incessant snowfall meant continual clearing of both walkways and entrances. Not to mention the need for extra firewood. The last snowfall of the year was typically heavy and this year was certain not to disappoint. Though you knew it best to keep your mind on your tasks, your mind betrayed you with thoughts of Pero instead.

William had taken Pero off to town to be bodyguards for some state officials who'd come to visit. Right now you envision Pero in his armor, glaring menacingly at an empty hallway guarding the statesmen while they slept. Huffing his annoyance out at William for making them take this job. The vision makes you smile. You can't imagine he was in a good mood for the trip, considering how he left that morning.

"You will be okay?" He asked quietly as he saddled his horse.

"Yes, Pero I'll be fine." You roll your eyes at his sudden protective streak.

His dark brown eyes find yours "You do not need more wood or-"

"Pero!" Called William, already mounted on his horse. "Come on! You're gonna make us late!"

Pero shoots the blonde man a glare before turning back to you. "Take care, Girasol…" he sends you off with a nod before mounting his horse. "I will be back!"

That was four days ago…this was the longest you'd gone without him. It was beginning to feel like a lifetime. Silently you wondered, how you would ever survive Spring without him.

But for now, the snow fell. And the world was still cold. So you rest. Perched on a chair outside, overlooking the snowy forest surrounding your home. Letting your body sink into the padded chair. A February breeze sends chills up your spine with each low whisper. The rustling of the pine trees play their dashing melody. The air is seasoned with the first of Spring's pollen. You think maybe the first of the animals has awoken from their slumber, as the soft crunch of snow is heard. You smile for the first time in days. Finally free of the heavy burden these past days had presented you with.

He watches in admiration…catching glimpses of you from around the bend of your home, not wanting to frighten you. As soon as Pero had returned from his job, he came to find you. Wanting to asure to himself that you had been just fine without him, as you'd need to be soon when he was gone. Pero finds himself smiling at your cheerfulness. He feels at home.

The dark of night quickly catches up to you. A yawn escaping from your throat. As you turn your head to stretch you see him.

"Pero!" You screamed at the unexpected intrusion, causing you to jump out from your chair.

The mercenary steps out from the shadows into your view, hands held high. "Mira, it's okay mi coraz-"

You snap. The stress finally breaks you down, "Why do you always do that?"

Pero stood up straight when you yelled at him, a dumbstruck look on his face. "Do what?"

"Follow me everywhere. You're always watching me! You don't think maybe I would like a second with you not breathing down my neck, huh?"

Pero is quiet for a moment, eyes flicker between your eyes and the floor. "I- ¿Te molesta?" He asks, his voice sounding much softer than usual. "It bothers you?"

For just a moment, you feel a bit guilty. Seeing the big scary mercenary be humbled so quickly. "I well, only sometimes."

"I am sorry. I will go." Pero goes to turn on his heels back to the inn, head hanging down.

"W-why?" You manage to squeak out.

"¿Qué?" Pero turns his head back to you, slowly shifting his body back around.

"Why do you always follow me? I asked William and he said well…I haven't done something wrong have I?"

Pero's usual scowls scrunches up more into a look of annoyance. "No."

"Then why?"

Why? Why? Why? Pero thinks to himself. It's the same question he's asked himself everyday since arriving. Why do you make his brain go all blurry? Why does he have such an incessant urge to be near you every moment of the day? Why does he pray that Spring never comes?

And no answer came. At first he felt suspicious of you. His instincts telling him you were something nefarious. So he watched. Watched and watched. His permanent scowl matched with squinted eyes as he observed you. And nothing. You were not the evil innkeep his mind had made you out to be. No. You far exceeded his suspicions of you.

As he watched you work he learned just how incredible you were. Strong. Kind. Reasonable. Respectable. Pero watched in awe at the way you handled the inn and kept everything running smoothly. You were serious like him, but equipped with more than enough pleasantries about you to not frighten off every patron that came through your door. Far from the evil he once believed you to be.

It wasn't until that first cup of coffee he really understood. Pero lingered out by the front desk, keeping an eye out for you as you did your morning tasks. Dark eyes quickly fixate on you as you remerge from the backroom. Two cups of coffee in hand instead of your usual one.

"Pero, if you're gonna get up with me you might as well have some coffee." You say, sliding one mug towards him. You'd noted the grimace on his face at the offering. "Are you alright?"

Pero froze. No, he was not alright. The warm bright smell of coffee hitting him like a train. And his stomach flips again, as it did the first time he laid eyes on you. And finally he understands. His body did not react to you with distrust, but with desire. All at once, Pero Tovar's world fell apart.

The question swirls again in his mind, "Why do you follow me?" It was simple. Because you were far more than he'd ever seen before. More great than the royals of the Spanish court. More beautiful than the ocean shores. Stronger than any bull he'd slain. Kinder than any nurse who'd tended to him. Worth more than any coin. Rarer than black power. He followed you, because there was no greater honor than serving at your side.

He huffs, averting your gaze, eyes shifting around the blank snow. Mind racking with how to explain himself. Searching for those perfect fairytale romance words that always won the prince the heart of their beloved. But all Pero can muster is, "Solo falta un millón de Primaveras…" muttered under his breath.

Only a million Springs

"What was that?"

"Only a million Springs." He repeats in English. Dark brown eyes matching your gaze, a look of wonder captivating him. As he looks upon you, his words and his world falls back into place. Pero marches through the snow, standing before you. His chest threatens to push against you. "Please wait, mi amor. Sí te molesta que I follow you." His eyes look into yours, a large hand cupping your cheek.

Please wait, my love. If it bothers you that I follow you.

"Pero I don't-"

Another hand greets your waist, pulling you in against him. "Solo falta un millón de Primaveras. A few centuries he de adorarte. Give me that at least, Hermose." He pleads.

Only a million Springs. A few centuries I have left to adore you. Give me that at least, gorgeous.

A warmth spreads through you. The look of annoyance on your face washed away with his touch. "Only a million Springs, huh?" Your arms move to encase Pero in your grasp.

He nods, the most subtle of a smile on his face. "Sí."

You smile back to him. "And after that?"

Pero smirks, his wide hand rubbing up your spine, "Después de eso…I'll never bother you again."

After that…I'll never bother you again.

"And if I want you to stay?"

"My time here…" Pero falters, wishing his words were not true, "William and I will need to go back to work, but after. Next winter, I will return for you."

"And begin our Springs?" You ask, eyes full of hope.

Pero's eyes relax as he looks down at you, joy radiating through his body. "Sí, mí amor…let there be a million of them."

Spring.

Summer.

Fall.

Winter.

You waited patiently. Looking over the hill each day in hopes of seeing your mercenary bounding over the fallen leaves. The shortened days grew long and weary, but you remained eager. Knowing once he returned, he would never again depart.

You'd seen lakes thaw and freeze again. Seen ducklings be born and since leave. The leaves turn green, then red, then yellow, then fall off the trees. You'd seen the wonders of each season, yet you only dreamt of Spring.

Just dreams…until one early morning, after making your cup of coffee.

"No coffee for me?" A voice comes from behind where you sat in front of the fireplace.

A faint tear pricks at your eye at the voice. It's one you'd know anywhere. "Pero!" You jump out of your chair in excitement, tossing your mug haphazardly on the side table.

"Aye, mi alma!" He greets you, enrapturing you in his arms. "Knew you'd wait for me…" he whispers into your neck.

"Of course, Pero." You snuggle as close as possible into his body.

He smirks teasing lightly "I thought maybe…te olvidaste de mí. Maybe you forgot about me."

"I could never forget about you…not in a million years."

"No?" He chuckles.

"Never."

And though the snow had just begun to fall, the whole world felt like Spring. With Pero back in your arms, you only wished for a million more.

#Am writes #pero tovar #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x Gn!reader #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar x M!reader #pero tovar fanfic #pero tovar fanfiction

94 notes · View notes