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cybernaght · 1 year ago

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The fandom echo chamber: fanon, microanalysis and conspiracy brain

As someone who has been in fandom spaces, on and off, for 20 years, I find some fascinating trends popping up in the last decade that I thought to be fandom-specific but clearly aren’t. So, I would like to do a little examination of where those things come from, how they are engaged with, and what it says about the way we consume media. This is a think piece, of sorts, with my brain being the main source. As such, we will spend some time down the memory lane of a fandom-focused millennial.

This is largely brought about by Good Omens. But it’s also not really about Good Omens at all.

Part one. Fanon.

The way we see characters in any story is always skewed by our very selves. This is a neutral statement, and it does not have a value judgement. It’s simply unavoidable. We recognise aspects of them, love aspects of them, and choose aspects of them to highlight based entirely on our own vision of the universe.

Recognition comes into this. There is a reason so many protagonists of romance novels have a “blank slate” problem. Even when they do not, we love characters who are like us or versions of us that we would like to be. And when we say “we”, I also mean, “me”.

(I remember very clearly this realisation hit me after a whole season of Doctor Who with writing which I hated utterly when I questioned why I still clung so incredibly hard to Clara Oswald as my favourite companion. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh. Well. That would do it, wouldn’t it?)

Then, there is projection, and, again, this is a neutral statement. Projection exists, and it is completely normal and, dare I say it, valid way of engaging with — well, anything. Is the character queer? Trans? Neurodivergent? Are they in love? Do they like chocolate? Are they a cat person? Well, yes, if this is what the text says, but if the text does not say anything… You tell me. Please, do tell me. Because, in that moment of projection, they are yours.

And then, there is fandom osmosis, and that is the most fascinating one of them all, the one that is not very easy to note while you are inside the echo chamber. It’s the way we collectively, consciously or not, make decisions on who or what the characters are, what their relationships are, and what happens to them.

(Back when I was writing egregiously long Guardian recaps on this blog I actually asked if Shen Wei’s power being learning actually was stated anywhere in the canon of the show. Because I had no idea. I have read and reread dozen of fanfics where that is the case, and at some point through enough repetition, it became reality.)

We are all kind of making our own reality here, aren’t we?

Back when things were happening in a much less centralised manner - in closed livejournal groups, and forums of all shapes and sizes - I don’t remember there being quite as much universally agreed upon fanon. Frankly, I don’t remember much of universally agreed upon anything. But now, everything is in one place: we have this, and we have AO3, and it’s wonderful, it really is so much easier to navigate, but it’s also one gigantic reality-shifting echo chamber, with blogs, reblogs, trends, and rituals.

Accessibility plays its part, too. If you were, say, in Life on Mars (UK) fandom between seasons, and you wanted to post your speculation fic, you had to have had an account, and then find and gain access to one of the bigger groups (lifein1973 was my poison, but ymmv), and then, if you feel brave you may post it, but also, you may want to do so from your alt account if you wanted to keep yours separate, and then you would have to go through the whole process again. And I’m not saying that fan creations then were somehow inherently better for it than fan creations now (although Life on Mars Hiatus Era is perhaps a bad example - because some of the Speculation Fic there was breathtaking), but there is something to say about the ease of access that made the fandoms go through a big bang of sorts.

(I mean, come on, I can just come here and post this - and I am certain people will read it, and this blog is a pandemic cope baby about Chinese television for goodness sake.)

The canon transformations that happen in the fandom echo chamber truly are fascinating to witness as someone who is more or less a fandom butterfly. I get into something, float around for a bit, then get into something else and move on. I might come back eventually when the need arises, but I don’t sustain a hiatus mind-state. This means that when I float away and return, I find some very intriguing stuff.

Let’s actually look at Good Omens here. Season two aired, and I found it spectacular in its cosy and anguished way; deliberately and intelligently fanfic-y in its plot building; simple but subversive, and so very tender. (I will have to circle back to this eventually, because, truly, I love how deliberately it takes the tropes and shatters them - it’s glorious). And, to me - a person who read the book, watched the first season, hung around AO3 for a few weeks and moved on - absolutely on-point in terms of characterisation.

So imagine my surprise when the fandom disagreed so vehemently that there are actual multi-tiered theories on how characters were not in possession of their senses. Nothing there, in my mind, ever contradicted any of the stated text, as it stood. This remained a strange little mystery until I did what I always do when I flutter close to an ongoing fandom.

I loaded AO3 and sorted the existing fic by popularity. And there it was, all there: the actual earth-shattering mutual devotion of the angel and the demon; willingness to Fall; openness and long heart-aching confession speeches. There was all of the fanon surrounding Aziraphale and Crowley, which, to me, read as out of character, and to one for whom they became the reality over the last four years, read as truth.

Again, only neutral statements here. This is not a bad thing, and neither this is a good thing, this is just something that happens, after a while, especially when there are years for the fandom-born ideas to bounce around and stew. I can’t help but think that so much of what we see as real in spaces such as this one is a chimaera of the actual source and all the collective fan additions which had time and space to grow, change, develop, and inspire, reverberating over and over again, until the echoes fill the entirety of the space.

Eventually, this chimaera becomes a reality.

Part two. Microanalysis

Here are my two suppositions on the matter:

1. Some writers really love breadcrumb storytelling.

Russel T Davies, for instance, on his run of Doctor Who (and, if you are reading it much later - I do mean the original one), loved that technique for his seasonal arcs. What is a Bad Wolf? Who is Harold Saxon? Well, you can watch very very carefully, make a theory, and see it proven right or wrong by the end of the season.

Naturally, mystery box writers are all about breadcrumb storytelling: your Losts and your Westworlds are all about giving you snippets to get your brain firing, almost challenging you to figure things out just ahead of the reveal.

2. We, as humans, love breadcrumbs.

And why wouldn’t we? Breadcrumbs are delicious. They are, however, a seasoning, or a coating. They are not the meal.

Too much metaphor?

Let’s unpack it and start from the beginning.

Pattern recognition colours every aspect of our lives, and it colours the way we view art to a great extent. I think we truly underestimate how much it’s influenced by our lived experiences.

If you are, broadly speaking, living somewhere in Western/North-Western Europe in the 14th century, and you see a painting in which there is a very very large figure surrounded by some smaller figures and holding really tiny figures, you may know absolutely nothing about who those figures are, but you know that the big figure is the Important One, and the small ones are Less Important Ones, and the tiny ones are In Their Care. You know where your reverence would lie, looking at this picture. And, I imagine, as someone living in the 14th century, you may be inspired to a sense of awe looking at this composition, because in the world you live in, this is how art works.

If you, on the other hand, watch a piece of recorded media and see the eyes of two characters meet as the violins swell, you know what you are being told at that moment. You don’t have to have a film degree to feel a sort of way when you see a green-tinged pallet used, when cross-cuts use juxtaposing images, or notice where your focus is pulled in any given shot. This stuff - this recognition of patterns - has been trained into us by the simple fact that we live in this time, on this planet, and we have been doing so long enough to have engaged recorded media for a period of time.

As humans, we notice things. Our brains flare up when they see something they recognise, and then we seek to find other similar details and form a bigger picture. This often happens unconsciously, but sometimes it does not. Sometimes we do it on purpose: finding breadcrumbs in stories is a little bit like solving a mystery. It allows us to stretch that brain muscle that puts two and two together. It makes us feel clever.

So yes, we love breadcrumbs, and, frankly, quite a lot of storytelling takes advantage of this. It’s very useful for foreshadowing, creating thematic coherence, or introducing narrative parallels and complexity. It’s useful for nudging the viewer into one or the other emotional direction, or to cue them into what will happen in the next moment, or what exactly is the one important detail they should pay attention to.

Because this is something media does intentionally, and something we pick up both consciously and not, it is very hard to know when to stop. We don't really ever know when all of the breadcrumbs have been collected. It becomes very easy to get carried away. There is a very specific kind of pleasure in digging into content frame by frame, soundbite by soundbite, chasing that pleasure of finding.

But it is almost never breadcrumbs all the way down. They are techniques to help us focus on the main event: the story. I truly believe those who make media want it to reach the widest possible audience, and that includes all of us who like to watch every single thing ever created with our Media Analysis Goggles on and those who are just here to enjoy the twists and turns of the story at the pace offered to them. And I think, sometimes in our chase to collect and understand every little clue we forget that media is not made to just cater for us.

One can call it missing a forest for the trees. But I would hate to mix my metaphors, so let’s call it missing a schnitzel for the breadcrumbs.

Part three. The Conspiracy Brain.

If you are there with me, in the midst of the excited frenzy, chasing after all those delicious breadcrumbs, then patterns can grow, merge together, and become all-encompassing theories. Let’s call them conspiracy theories, even though this is not what they truly are.

So, why do we believe in conspiracy theories?

One, Because We Have Been Lied To.

All conspiracies start with distrust.

If you are in fandom spaces - especially if you are in fandom spaces which revolve around a queer fictional couple - especially-especially if you have been in such spaces for a period of time, you have most certainly been lied to at one point or another.

We don’t even have to talk about Sherlock - and let’s not do that - but do you remember Merlin? Because I remember Merlin. Specifically, I remember the publicity surrounding the first season, with its weaponised usage of “bromance” and assertions that this whole thing is a love story of sorts, and then the daunting realisation that this was all a stunt, deliberately orchestrated to gather viewership.

And, because we were lied to in such a deliberate manner for such an extensive period of time, I genuinely believe that it forever altered our pattern recognition habits, because what was this if not encouragement to read into things? Now we are trained to read between the lines or see little cries for help where they might not be. Because we were told, over and over again, that we should.

(Yes, I think we are all existing in these spaces coloured by the trauma of queer-bating. I am, however, looking forward to a world where I can unlearn all of that.)

Two, Cognitive Dissonance.

The chain reaction works a bit like this: the world is wrong - it can’t possibly be wrong by coincidence - this must be on purpose - someone is responsible for it.

Being Lied To is a preamble, but cognitive dissonance is where it all originates. In so many cross-fandom theories I have noticed a four-step process:

A) this is not good

B) this author could not have made a mistake

C) this must be done on purpose

D) here is why

(Funny thing is, I have been on the receiving end of the small conspiracy spiral, and it is a very interesting experience. Not relevant to this conversation is the fact that a lot of my job revolves around storytelling. What is relevant is that my hobbies also revolve around storytelling. And one of them is DnD. Now, imagine my genuine shock when one of the players I am currently writing a campaign for noticed a small detail that did not make a logical sense within the complexity of the world, and latched on to it as something clearly indicating some kind of a secret subplot. Their thinking process also went a bit like this: this detail is not a good piece of writing — this DM knows how to tell stories well — this is obviously there on purpose. It was not there on purpose. I created a clumsy shorthand. I erred, in that pesky manner humans tend to. And, seeing this entire thought process recited to me directly in the moment, I felt somewhere between flattered and mortified.)

This whole line of thinking, I think, exists on a knife’s edge between veneration and brutal criticism, relentlessly dissecting everything “wrong”, with a reverent “but this is deliberate” attached to it like a vice, because it is preferable to a simple conclusion that the author let you down, in one way or another.

Three, Intentionality

I believe that there is no right or wrong way of engaging with stories, regardless of their medium, and assuming no one gets hurt in the process. While in a strictly academic way, there is a “correct” way of reading (and reading into) media, we here are largely not academics but consumers; consumption is subjective.

However, this all changes when intentionality is ascribed.

The one I find particularly fascinating is the intentionality of “making it bad on purpose” because, as open-minded as I intend to always be, this just does not happen.

It certainly does not happen in long-form media. Even in the bread-crumb mystery box-type long-form media.

When television programs underdeliver, they also underperform, and then they get cancelled.

If all the elements of Westworld Season 4 that did not sit together in a completely satisfactory way were written deliberately as some sort of deconstruction for the final season to explore, then it failed because that final season will now never come.

(There will likely never be a Secret Fourth Episode.)

And look, I am not here to refute your theories. Creativity is fun, and theorising is fantastic.

But, perhaps, when the line of thought ventures into the “bad on purpose” territory, it could be recognised for what it is: disappointment and optimism, attempting to coexist in a single space. And I relate to that, I do, and I am sorry that there is even a need for this line of thinking. It’s always so incredibly disappointing that a creator you believed to be devoid of flaws makes something that does not hit in the way you hoped it would. It’s pretty heartbreaking.

Unfortunately, people make mistakes. We are all fallible that way.

Four, Wildfire.

Then, when the crumbs are found, a theory is crafted, and intentionality is ascribed, all that needs to happen is for it to catch on. And hey, what better place for it than this massive hollow funnel that we exist in, where thoughts, ideas and interpretations reverberate so much they become inextricable from the source material in collective consciousness.

Conspiracy theories create alternate realities, very much like we all do here.

So where are we now?

I am not here to tell you what is right and what is wrong; what is true, and what is not. We are all entitled to engage with anything we wish, in whichever way we wish to do it. This is not it, at all.

All I am saying is… listen.

Do you hear that echo?

I do.

#fandom thoughts #fanon #good omens #good omens 2 #bbc sherlock #merlin bbc #think piece #it's been years and I still have no idea how to tag #conspiracy theories #fandom content #all fandoms

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bet-on-me-13 · 2 years ago

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Dp X Injustice AU's

So, we have seen the frankly insane about of Dp x Dc AU's that have been spawned over the years. But I never really see any Injustice AU's

And then I thought, which Dp x Dc AU would you actually use for an Injustice AU?

Let me give some examples:

Justice League Member Danny: Danny is a part of the Justice League by the time Superman goes insane. He decides to step in when Shazam is nearly killed by Superman, but gets hurt himself in the process and is thrown in jail. This causes some of Superman's supporters to doubt him, since Danny is just a 16 yr old kid and Clark nearly killed him.

Danny is sill a Solo Hero: Danny is still just a Solo Hero from Amity Park in this. When Superman takes over the world, he goes to Amity to try and recruit Phantom. Danny refuses, and they butt heads. Danny eventually promises that he will continue to just act as a small time Vigilante in return for not joining Batman's side. This changes years later, when Superman is responsible for the death of Jazz Fenton.

Danny is a "Villain": Danny is seen as a Villain because he is a Ghost. At least, that's what the outside world thinks, but the situation in Amity is different. Danny has been seen as a Hero for years now, it's just the rest of the world that doesn't want to accept that fact. So when Superman takes over the world, and tries to execute every Villain, he goes after Phantom. Only for the Entire Town to try and stop him.

@little-pondhead Everlasting Trio Villain AU: So, take Little Pondhead's Villain AU and put it in the Injustice Universe. Danny can be the insane megalomaniac Villain he always wanted to be and not feel guilty because this is a Dictatorship. (Although it does remind him of Dan before his parole). He just has fun, messing with Superman, building insane crazy inventions, messing with Superman, enacting fun Villain plots, messing with Superman, and of course messing with Superman. Meanwhile Superman is just having a horrible time because there is just this random Villain, doesn't even seem to have powers, and he Just. Can't. Catch Him! Batman is looking for Fenton to recruit, meanwhile Fenton is literally here to Not be a Hero. It gets even worse when he brings in his Friends and Ellie.

Danny is the Ghost King: Danny is the Ghost King by now, and Batman's side try to Summon Him to deal with Superman during the whole "Super Pills" event. He shows up just in time to save Green Arrow, but isn't trong enough to kill Superman. He himself gets extremely injured in the process and gets forcibly summoned back to the Ghost Zone to be healed. Now the entire Dimension is gearing up to attack the Living World as revenge for their King being so hurt.

Old Man Danny AU: My own AU. Danny is still an Old Man just living in Gotham when Superman takes over. At one of his rally's to try and garner support and stop the rebellions, Danny stands up in the middle of the crowd and calls him out on all his Bullshit. This causes the whole crowd to start yelling at Superman, which in turn causes Superman to have a Homelander Moment. He kills Danny, who just laughs as he falls to the floor, and causes a riot. What Superman doesn't know, is that Danny was slated to ascend to Godhood at the moment of his Death, so now he has a God of Death chasing him to fulfill his "need to be avenged" urges (its like hunger pangs for ghosts)

Danny as a Medium: Danny is a Traveling Ghost Speaker, like the guy you pay $5 to pretend to speak to your dead loved ones, but he can actually speak to them. Superman is patrolling the world, just making the rounds now that he had conquered the Earth, and comes across Danny's Tent. He stops by in curiosity and asks to speak to his dead Wife. Danny asks if he really wants to put himself through that, but Superman insists. So Danny, instead of just speaking for the Ghost like normal, actually Summons Lois Lanes Ghost to talk to Superman. They have a heartfelt conversation about how it wasn't his fault, and how he shouldn't blame himself, but eventually they get to the topic of Clark talking over the world. She isn't proud, but understands if this is what it takes for him to be happy. She leaves, and Superman is left finally second-guessing himself for the first time in years. Because it doesn't make him happy. (*ahem* Danny still wants to be payed, soooo......)

#Dp x dc #Dpxdc #Danny phantom #Dc #Dcu #Injustice #Injustice AU #A bunch of Injustice AU's #Villain Danny Phantom #Villain Fenton #Everlasting Trio Villain AU #Superman #Batman #Medium Danny Phantom #Ghost King Danny Phantom #Ghost King AU

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avastrasposts · 3 months ago

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Memories made, memories lost

Plot: Before Pero Tovar and his friend William Garin set out in search of black powder, he found himself doing something he never thought he would - falling in love. But what waits for him as he returns from his adventure after all this time?

Mercenary!Pero x female reader

Warnings: Angst and grief, loss of virginity (it's all consensual and it's not the main trope of the fic), explicit smut. No use of y/n, the reader is pretty much a blank slate.

Word count: 7.9k

This is written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope Wiriting Challenge where I requested a trope for Pero Tovar and got Amnesia A big thank you to @i-own-loki for the lovely banner! What would I do without my Canva Pro friends!?

Marriage was not something that was ever on the cards for Pero Tovar.

He left his hometown while he was still a young boy, and after that he never stayed long enough in one place to put down roots. Let alone find a woman who would want to throw her lot in with a mostly penniless mercenary soldier who relied on powerful lords always finding a new enemy to fight. Who would want a scarred battle dog with a permanent scowl and dangerous look to his appearance? And even if someone did, how could he care for a wife? A family? He moved from town to town, from country to country, seldom returning to the same place twice unless the pay was very good.

But then, one autumn in southern England, when the fighting season was over and the mud was too thick for both men and horses to march in, something changed. He was no longer young but in his fighting prime, hardened, and hard, by years of fighting other men’s wars. He had no other plans than to spend the winter in this small English town with his friend William Garin, wait for spring and the call to arms for another war or rebellion or crusade. He was going to fill his belly, hone his weapons, train the younger men and spend his evenings with a whore or two, and that was it.

Marriage was not on the cards.

But fate wanted a different path for him. And you quite literally fell into his arms as you tumbled from your horse on the outskirts of the small town.

“Curse that nag!” you yelled crossly, struggling to free yourself from his strong grip, “let go, I can stand on my own legs!” You pushed at his chest as the dark haired man let go of your waist, stepping back with a chuckle.

“And what fine legs they are,” he said, his grin wide.

You sneered at his comment, “Too fine for you either way.”

You glared at him as you brushed your dress, “I should thank you, I guess. You saved me from a much greater fall, that stupid mare is spooked by the smallest twig and throws me twice a week at least.”

With a sigh you looked at your horse who’d decided that the twig wasn’t an immediate threat and had begun to graze the last of the summer grass just a little while down the country lane.

“If that’s the case, you best go and claim your horse before she decides one of farmer Ned’s cows has fangs and means to eat her,” Pero chuckled. He liked your spirit, and the way your eyes blazed as you glanced at him.

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” you said with a shake of your head, “I best be off, thank you again, sir.”

Tovar gave a small nod and crooked smile at your retreating back.

Later that evening, as he’d eaten and gone back to the room he shared with William, he wondered why the chance meeting on the country lane wouldn’t leave his head. He felt as if he might’ve been bewitched, one moment walking down the country lane on his way out to the smithy for a repair of his armour, the next he had a woman in his arms as her bay horse bolted down the road. You’d smelled of apples, a rich, sweet scent clinging to your hair as it brushed over his face when you both landed in the dust. The soft yield of your flesh under the rough linen dress, it was as if he’d put his hands on the softest down pillow, he’d wanted to grab hold of it and not let go.

As you rushed away from him, scolding your skittish horse, he’d watched the way your hips swayed with each step, bright hair bouncing with frustration. You gripped the horse’s bridle and pulled it around, even at a distance he could see the way your nose crinkled in annoyance as you berated the poor animal. When your anger trickled out as quickly as it flared up, your face softened and you gently stroked the animal’s nose, giving its neck a pat before swinging yourself up into the saddle again. You caught him staring and gave him a quick smile, before turning again and nudging the horse into a slow trot.

He’d made his way to the smithy and then back to the rooms he and William had rented for the winter. And when he laid down on his bed, the vision of you filled his head, soft curves, sweet smile, quick temper and a sharp tongue. He would very much like to see you again, be that close to you again.

The next day was a Sunday and he joined William at the church for mass with the rest of the village. He let the familiar Latin incantations wash over him, the rituals the same here as in his hometown as it was in every other town he’d ever visited, irrespective of the country or the ruler. The power radiated from Rome and although the churches looked different, the rituals were the same and it brought a strange, albeit dull, comfort to him.

When mass was over the congregation filtered out of the church, slow in leaving, catching up with neighbours and sharing gossip. Pero tried to scan the crowd surreptitiously but William caught his wandering eye.

“Who are you looking for? The mysterious horse woman?” he asked, looking around at the villagers and the mercenaries who were wintering here just as they were. Pero had told him of the encounter, not being able to hide how you’d remained on his mind as he returned to the rooms.

“I don’t remember seeing her here before,” Pero replied, trying to appear unphased, uncaring, as he continued to scan the open space in front of the church, but without success. When he couldn’t see her, he followed William back to their lodgings. The Lord’s day should be spent in rest and was not wise to anger the local priest.

But Pero found himself too restless to sit still, fiddling with a troublesome chainmail. He left William to it and ventured outside instead, vying to find a secluded spot in the woods to get some practice in without being scolded by someone spotting him working on a Sunday.

The autumn forest was golden, the air crisp and clear as the sky stretched endlessly blue above the trees as Pero wandered further in than he meant to. It felt good to be away from people, from the crowded town and the small rooms he shares with William.

The clank of metal on wood reached his ears and he furrowed his brows, no one would be out here felling trees on a Sunday unless there was some strange business. He moved silently through the underbrush towards the sound, and came upon a clearing, drawing breath at the sight in front of him. You had stripped down to just your slip and a pair of men’s breeches, your arms bare and glistening with sweat as you raised the heavy sword and parried an imagined attack, and hit the thick beech trunk. The sword lodged in the wood and with a grunt you pulled it free, backing up a few steps and repeating the exercise.

Pero watched you for a few minutes, your technique was good, someone has clearly taught you the basics, but the sword was too heavy for you.

“You have some skills with that sword, señorita,” he called, just as you dropped your arm, letting the sword hang by your side as you took a deep breath.

His voice made you jump and swing around, the sword quickly raised.

“Do not worry, I mean you no harm,” he said, walking towards you with both his arms raised, “We’ve met before, with your troublesome mare.”

“I remember,” you answered, the tone of your voice betraying your wariness as his sudden appearance, “What are you doing here?”

“The same as you, señorita, I think,” he replied, “seeking a place away from unwelcome eyes to hone my skill on a Sunday.”

Unclipping his cloak and satchel and placing them on a log near the edge of the clearing, he then turned and nodded at the sword in your hand.

“You have some skill, but the sword is too heavy for you.”

“What do you care?” you snapped at him, the sword still lifted as he approached.

“I train the younger soldiers, when a sword is too heavy for the user, the technique suffers. And I hate to see a bad swordsman. Or woman.”

With a fluid movement he pulled both of his swords from his back, the left one spinning in his hand, the handle held out towards you.

“Let me show you, borrow my sword, it’s more lightweight.”

You regarded him with suspicion, not lowering your own sword.

“Why do you want to help me?”

“Why do I want to help a woman become a better fighter?” he countered, still holding out the sword to you, “Because those without swords can still die upon them. I learned that a long time ago. So better the women know how to fight too.”

You regarded him with caution, the dark haired, dark eyed man with a strange accent and a menacing scar across his eye. But something in his face, the way he looked at you with a cocked eyebrow, encouraging you to take the sword he was still holding out to you, made your trepidation waver. Slowly you sheathed your own sword, and grabbed the handle of his. He gave you a crooked smile and a quick nod.

“Good. Now show me what you can do.”

With a quick movement he brought up his own sword and attacked, and you just about parried in time, the two swords ringing out through the empty forest as they met.

Marriage was not something that was ever on the cards for him. But sometimes fate wills it differently.

And before that Sunday afternoon in the forest, you’d never considered marrying someone either. At least not for any other reason than your father telling you that a man was needed to run the farm when he was gone. But the dark haired Spaniard with the scowling face, menacing and imposing, he was the one who made you see that marrying didn’t mean settling for one of the local boys.

His dark eyes glittered with mischief as he taunted your sword skills, easily smacking your arm with the flat side of his blade as you failed to anticipate his next move in the early days of your training. But it was the way he smiled with pride when you managed to disarm him and put your blade to his neck, that smile made your heart melt. He was proud of you for a skill any other man you knew would shame you for, even attempt to lock you up for. It was like taking a deep breath of air for the first time, the way he treated you like an equal in a way no ever had before.

It was mesmerising how a hardened soldier with such a menacing scowl could transform into the most handsome man you’d ever seen. It stunned you, and locked you in place, the first time you stood toe to toe with him, his back against a thick oak, your sword resting against his neck. Surprise flashed across his face first, then he smiled, his eyes shifting from the hard concentration of battle to soft warmth as his lips pulled up in a proud grin.

“I knew there was a warrior in you,” he said, holding his sword arm up in defeat as you pulled the blade away from his neck, “with my training, you’ll beat almost any man.”

“Almost any man?” you replied, your eyebrows lifting as you moved your hand and rested the blade against his neck again.

Pero chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked down on you, glancing down his sharp nose as you made him tilt his head back again.

“Any man, guerrera,” he smiled and again the pride in his voice made warmth and elation shoot through your body.

Sweat was dripping from his forehead, you could feel the heat of him against you, the rise and fall of his chest, your own short breaths against him as an errant drop slipped over his lips and his tongue came out to catch it. Your eyes drifted to the pink tip as he licked his bottom lip, watching it disappear into his mouth again. When you looked up, his smile was gone, replaced by something more hungry, his eyes darker as they seemed to study your face. There was no need for you to be so close to him still, the fight over. But as he brought his hand up and carefully pushed your sword away from his neck, you only let your hand drop, not stepping back. You felt rooted to the spot with his eyes on you, the warmth of his body like a magnet to your own.

“Señorita…” he almost growled, a half whisper from the back of his throat, as he slowly leaned closer, his eyes moving to your lips before his gaze fell on you again. Dark and warm, it was like being pulled in by the last of the dying embers of a fire. Pero glowed and burned hot under your palm as you put your hands on his neck and pulled him to you, your sword falling to the floor of the forest with a soft clatter.

He wouldn’t let you go, and you clung to him just as eagerly, the dry leaves rustling as you pulled him down, he rolled you over, caging you in under his strong arms.

“Señorita…” he growled again, it was all he could press out before your lips found his, soft, pliant and sweeter than anything he’d ever tasted, addictive in the way they felt against his mouth, his jaw, his cheeks as you found new places to kiss him, your fingers winding through his hair, keeping him locked in place against your lips, taking as much as you wanted from him and he never once stopped you.

He was lost. So utterly lost. And he’d never felt more at home.

You plucked last year’s leaves from your hair and cloak all the way home that day. Pero followed you to the edge of the forest as always. But this time you pulled him behind a tree and made him press his hard body against you, pinning you against the trunk. The way he groaned into your kisses made your body heat up, your need for him growing with every slow roll of his hips, hands roaming to feel as much of him as you could, his hands kneading your hips and caressing your curves.

If your lips were swollen and your hair dishevelled, your father said nothing of it when you came home. When Pero came by one Sunday after church and asked permission to marry his daughter, he wasn’t surprised.

There had been no war or rebellion to pull Pero away from you that year. William left, serviced under a local lord, but Pero stayed and put what little money he had left into buying the small farm next to your father’s. When the time came, the two could be merged and provide a good life for the two of you and any children that followed. When the small cottage was his by law, only then did he go to your father, who said yes without hesitation to the large Spaniard.

“As if I could deny you the man you’ve clearly set your eyes on, even if he wasn’t a great, big hulking warrior,” your father had said later that same night after Pero had left, “With him in your house, I know you’ll be safer than with me. And if you truly love him too, well then I have no objections.”

“I really do love him, with all his scowls and menacing looks, he is a very good man underneath it all, father.”

There had been strange looks from the villagers, but that had hardly mattered. You’d always gone your own way, and marrying a dark haired outsider with a thick accent seemed to be something that the gossiping wives had expected of you. Either way, when you exchanged your vows outside the church on the intended day, you were surrounded by smiling faces, the old priest beaming down at you as you entered the church with Pero by your side to be blessed by by God.

The feast lasted most of the day but by the late afternoon, you both left your father’s farm and was escorted by the priest, William and a few other villagers, to your new home, the cottage that Pero had worked so hard to turn into a home for you both. His first home since he left the place he was born, and now the place where he intended to live out the rest of his life as a happy man. When the marital bed had been blessed too, Pero closed the door to the cottage and you were alone as husband and wife for the first time.

“Come here, husband,” you smiled at him as he turned back from the door. You didn’t need to beckon him, nothing would keep him away from you tonight, but you liked the sound of his new title - husband.

“Mi esposa,” he grinned as he crowded you against the sturdy oak bed he’d built with the aid of the local carpenter, “my wife, finally.”

His eyes went soft, his mischievous grin replaced by a tender look as he cupped your face with his warm palms, “Never in my life did I think I’d call someone ‘my wife’, I never thought this was the way my life would be, and then I found you,” he ran his thumbs over your cheeks, leaning his forehead against yours as your breaths mingled, ”Te amo, mi amor,” he whispered.

“I love you too, Pero,” you whispered back, your fingers finding his soft curls as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Gently he pushed you backwards, making you lay down on the bed, your bed, as he moved to cage you in under his arms and wide shoulders. Many training sessions in the forest had ended this way, time slipping away as you kissed each other breathless, but it had never gone further. You’d feel the thick weight of him pressed against your thighs, felt how he sometimes rolled his hips to seek a brief relief, but he'd always pull back.

“Amor, I won’t take you on the forest floor,” he’d muttered when you asked him to stop caring so much about your virtue, “I want you in a bed, our bed, when I’m your husband and you’re my wife.”

Now here you were, in your bed, and you called him husband as he slowly removed all your layers, caressing every sliver of skin that was revealed to him. He pressed kisses to your soft breasts, moaning as he felt them pebble under his touch, his strong nose trailed across the downy hairs of your belly, and when you giggled at the way his beard tickled, he nipped at the warm skin of your thighs. The thick slide of his tongue through your heated centre made you arch your back and gasp, your fingers scrambling for purchase in his hair. You could hear him chuckle against you, the tip of his nose circling the epicentre of your pleasure, he seemed to know this part of your body better than yourself and he soon had you moaning his name as you fought to catch your breath.

When he had you drenched and dripping, he rested his head on your soft thigh and tapped your leg.

“Amor, look at me,” he invited. Through half closed lids, clouded with pleasure, you watched him slide a finger through your liquid, coating it before he slowly pushed in. It slipped in easily, and when he curled it, caressing your insides, your eyes fell closed of their own volition. Suddenly you wanted more, more of his fingers, more of him and you whined, your hips rolling over his finger.

“Please, Pero…” you whimpered, your voice hoarse and pleading.

“What do you want, esposa,” he asked as he moved his finger gently back and forth, making you gasp again.

“More…I think…more…” you mumbled and Pero smiled. Seeing you fall apart for him, slowly showing you how good he could make you feel, how he intended to spend every long winter evening, it filled him with a happiness he’d never felt before. It was like a hot burning fire inside his chest and it would keep him warm when he had to leave, he knew these memories would be the ones he returned to on long cold nights alone.

“More?” he asked, “I can give you more, amor.”

The smile in his voice made you look up at him as he moved to lie at your side, putting his arm under your shoulders and finding your lips with his own. As his tongue slipped inside your mouth, he gently pushed a second finger into your heat. He felt you arch up against him, whimpering into his mouth, your fingers digging into his arms as he slid his own in and out, setting your body on fire with every slow drag.

He moved so slowly, it was like your body was turning into molten metal, heat flowed through you, all coming from where Pero’s fingers sunk into you. Your hips rolled of their own accord, your core clenching hard around him and a tension was building up inside you. But just as you felt as if you were about to snap, like a thread pulled too tight, Pero slipped his fingers from you and caressed your side, his hand leaving a sticky trail on your skin.

“Amor,” he mumbled, moving over your body so that he once again was caging you in, his warm, dark eyes glowing as he looked down at you, “Amor, I’m going to enter you now, tell me to stop if it hurts, you are so tight.”

You nodded and made room for him between your legs, you knew this might hurt, you’d heard the wives talk and the gossip. But no one had ever mentioned it feeling this good to be with a man, this aching need to be filled up by him. It had you panting with impatience, your core clenching around the emptiness left behind by his fingers.

Pero kept his eyes locked on you as he coated himself with your silky liquid and lined himself up. Your brows furrowed as he pushed the thick head inside, and he dropped his forehead to yours, taking a deep breath.

“Does it hurt?” he whispered, slowly rocking himself back and forth, just the tip moving inside you, and you shook your head.

“No, it was just a little tight, I want more,” you replied, spreading your legs wider for him. He reached down and hooked your leg over his hip.

“Squeeze me, pull me in if you want more,” he said, gritting his teeth as he felt your contract around him, fighting the urge to push in harder, “you feel so good, amor, so good to me.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist and Pero rocked slowly, pushing in deeper with each short thrust. His face was pinched with concentration, his mouth half open as he licked his lips. With your arms wrapped around his neck, his forehead against yours, each breath you took was his and your world shrunk down to only Pero. Only his warm body above yours, his hips heavy between your legs, driving himself into you and creating ripples of pleasure through every fibre of your being with each thrust deep inside. Your eyes wanted to close but you forced them to stay open, to see your husband as he looked at you, his eyes hazy with lust, dark and burning, every movement making him groan as your body pulled him in. The tight string started to pull taught inside you again, your body moving against Pero’s, making him pick up his pace.

“Amor, can you feel that?” he mumbled, his forehead still resting against yours, “can you feel your body getting ready to fall?”

You nodded, it felt like a lightning storm ready to break, just over the horizon. Tightening your grip around his waist, you pulled him in and he understood, driving himself deeper, a little bit harder into your tight core.

“Pero…” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he grunted in response, his hand grabbing your leg and finding a new angle.

“Amor, let me feel you come around me, give me this…” he panted, “the first time…I want it-”

Before he’d even finished you cried out under him, gripping him tight, your body trembling as the string snapped and lighting coursed through you, Pero’s thick cock driving hard into you, pushing your pleasure higher as he gasped and grunted. With a cry he broke, a loud groan, and he spilled himself inside, your legs like a vice around his waist as he rocked himself deeper.

He was heavy on top of you, the warm sweat of his torso gliding against your own chest as you buried your face against his neck and took long, deep breaths.

“Pero…my love…” you whispered softly into his ear, his wet kiss against your own neck was his exhausted response as he slowly came down from his high. Your arms were still wrapped tight around him, as were your legs, locking him in place. Not that he wanted to leave, he would stay here, in this bed, between your legs, until moss grew on him like an old boulder that no farmer could move.

He was home.

Endless miles stretched out behind them, thousands if they cared to count them. Pero did not. All he could see was the white cliffs in front of the ship, like a beacon, a sign that their long journey was finally coming to an end.

They returned, not as poor as they’d set out, but not as rich as they thought they’d be, but the only thing that mattered to Pero was that he was returning. He’d fought with his friend, felt betrayed by him, even abandoned him in the end, so strong was his need to return home. It had almost cost him his life, caught by the very army he was trying to escape as he left William behind, brought back and then thrown in chains. He thought he’d die there, locked up in a dungeon, never seeing you again.

It burned in his chest as the chains gnawed at his wrists, to never see you again, to leave you behind in this world without a word. He could see your face as he closed his eyes, conjured it up in his mind and remembered the tears clinging to your lashes as he pulled back one final time and turned for his horse. Riches or not, he was a damn fool for leaving you, he should’ve been content with what he had.

In the end it was only by the grace of God, or maybe by William’s good heart, that he’d been freed by the very friend he’d betrayed and allowed to leave and make the long journey home.

Now he stood on solid ground again, readying his horse for the final stretch home.

Home.

A word he’d never thought he’d be able to say and for it to mean something worth fighting for. A woman he loved. A house where he could keep her warm and protected. A place to raise a family.

Home. He was going home. He knew he never should’ve left.

The last ride was easy and he drove his horse fast, the afternoon barely past its prime as he saw the cottage at the end of the path, tucked in among the heavy oak trees. It looked well kept, but the door was shut tight and no animals roamed around the yard.

“Mi amor!” he called, spurring his horse on for the last few yards, “Mi amor!” he called again as he swung himself from the saddle.

But the door was shut tight and wouldn’t budge and a lap around the small house showed him that it was indeed as empty as it looked. He mounted his horse again, not yet uneasy, and set a fast pace down the lane, towards your father’s farm a mile through the forest.

Here there was life at least, chickens in the yard, a dog pulling on its leash and the door open. Again he swung himself from the saddle, throwing the reins around the gate post and striding forward.

“Stay back!”

Your sword was raised. Your sword? No, his sword, the one he’d left with you. Held up by you now, threatening him to not take another step forward.

“Mi amor, it’s me, Pero,” he smiled, spreading his arms wide and taking long strides to you, wanting nothing more than to pull you into his arms and feel your soft body melt against his after so many months.

“Stay back!” you snarled, taking a step back and settling into the fighting stance he’d taught you and Pero floundered, stopping in his tracks.

“Amor…Have I changed that much? Don’t you know your husband?”

“I don’t have a husband,” you replied, your sword still raised, “Now, leave before I set the dogs on you!”

Pero felt a cold dread rise in his chest, confusion clouding his mind, he didn’t understand why you didn’t know him and he dropped his arms, his face a pained mask.

“Mi amor, it’s me, I left a year ago on a foolish mission, you were my wife when I left and I have fought so hard all this time to get back to you and…” he trailed off as your eyes showed no recognition, no flash of relief. Just a hard stare at him.

“Tovar!”

A voice called out, an elderly man coming around the corner of the cottage, his white hair in tufts around his ears and neck and his face concerned.

“Tovar, it’s good to see you safe after all this time, my boy!”

The man forced a pained smile at Pero before he reached you.

“Daughter, lower your sword, he is a friend, he just hadn’t been past here in some time,” the old man put his hand on your arm and gently made you lower the sword, “Go inside and make sure the stew is not burning, I will speak with Tovar and join you shortly.”

Pero looked on in confusion as you sheathed the sword, smiled at your father and turned back into the cottage.

“John, tell me what’s going on, why does my wife not know me?”

“Come with me,” he replied and gestured towards the edge of the farm yard, the low stone wall serving as a seat as he sank down. Pero remained standing, glancing back at the cottage. Part of him wanted to storm into the cottage and grab you, shake you and make you see him, see him, your husband. But John’s hand landed on his arm and pulled his attention back to the old man.

“It began not long after you and William left, her memories have been slowly going and neither the priest nor the physician know why or what caused it.”

“What do you mean, her memories are going? She doesn’t know me?” Pero gripped the handle of his sword, not a threat, just a comfort, to hold on to something familiar as he rubbed his thumb over the pommel, “I am her husband, she loves me, how can she forget me?”

“I don’t know, Pero,” John sighed, rubbing his weathered hand over his face as he shook his head, “she just doesn’t. And it’s not just you, she seems to forget most new things from one day to the next, a new neighbour, the cow giving birth to a new calf, selling a few of the chickens, she just forgets,” he looked over at the cottage where a thin tendril of smoke rose slowly from the short chimney, “She remembers her childhood, her brother and mother dying, after that it all becomes hazy.”

John looked up at Pero again and Pero could see the toll the past year had taken on his father-in-law as pain flashed across his face, his usually bright eyes sunken and dark.

“I’m sorry, son, she doesn’t even remember meeting you, nothing of your life together, and not you leaving.”

It hits him like a dagger to the chest, piercing in its pain and wrenching his chest open; he left, she begged him not to, but he left and this is his punishment. Her mind is protecting her from the pain he caused. With a groan he turns around, sinking down on the wall, his head buried in his hands, it feels as if his throat is closing up, a sob tearing its way up, like broken glass cutting him open.

“I left her,” he groaned, choking around his words, “She begged me not to go, that last night before I left, and I thought I had to and left her anyway. I broke her heart and this is my punishment, her mind has removed me from her so she doesn’t have to live with my betrayal.”

“Son…” John said, his voice choking too, but he put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “We do not know the will of the Lord, you did what you thought was best.”

The hand on Pero’s shoulder burned like fire, guilt over taking him and he stumbled to his feet, shaking off the other man’s grip with a shrug.

“I’ll leave, it’s for the best,” he replied, striding towards his horse without looking back, his jaw tight around his words, “Take care of her for me.”

“Tovar, wait,” John called after him and hurried to his feet. He grabbed the reins of the horse just as Pero swung himself into the saddle, “She loves you, still. I know she does, she just needs to remember you.”

“Remember how I broke her heart and left her? What kind of a husband was I? No,” Pero shook his head and gathered the reins, making John let go of them, “Let her have a good life without me.”

The door of the cottage creaked as he spoke the last words, making him look up towards it. You were standing in the opening, an empty water bucket in your hand, your eyes on him.

“Are you really my husband?” you asked, glancing over at your father, but finding Pero’s eyes again. Pero felt his throat close up again as he saw the way you looked at him, a complete stranger, not a trace of recognition.

He just nodded in response, not trusting his voice.

“He is, my dear,” John replied in his stead, “Do you remember me telling you about him when your mind first started to go?”

You shook your head at that, your eyes still on Pero.

“I’m leaving,” he said, a deep furrow in his brow as he ruefully shook his head, “I caused you both enough hurt.” He nudged his horse to turn around, walking it through the gate and out onto the road, avoiding John’s look of pity.

“Wait!”

The call came just as he was about to spur his horse on, away from your empty stare.

“Wait,” you called, hurrying after him, stopping as he halted his horse and turned in the saddle. You came up to stand by its neck, looking up at him, “Stay at least the night, I…I know I lost so many memories, but...if you’re my husband then you should stay, maybe something will come back.”

“No,” he shook his head, looking away from you and down the road, “I caused too much harm, I don’t want you to have to relive the pain I caused you.”

“Please, my life has been cut in half, I can’t remember it, but I know something big is missing. I will gladly take the pain again if I can have the rest of my life back,” you put your hand on his horse’s neck, tilting your face up to him as you waited for his reply, “Please.”

He couldn’t resist looking down at you and he felt his resolve weaken as your eyes met his. Such a familiar face, the one he loved so deeply. The colour of your eyes was seared into his mind, the small imperfections on your cheeks that he’d mapped with his lips so many nights, the shape of your perfect nose that he’d traced with his calloused fingers when you complained that it was all wrong. So many long, cold nights, picturing this face in his mind’s eye as he tried to do what he thought was right, the desperate moments when he thought he wasn’t coming back to you at all. Facing monsters from nightmares in overwhelming numbers, even as he fought for his life, this face was floating before him. You were the one he was fighting so hard to get home to.

Now you were looking back at him, pleading with him, and he knew he had no choice. The last time he denied your request, he’d almost lost his life and you’d lost your memories of him. He would stay. The pain he would feel at seeing you look at him like a stranger would be a small price to pay compared to the pain he’d put you through with his greed and stubbornness.

He gave you a nod, a short movement of his head as you held his gaze. He searched in vain for a glimmer of recognition, a flash of the woman you were before he left, but there was nothing. Just a small, uncertain smile as you dropped your hand from his horse’s neck and took a few steps back.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, glancing back at your father, “my father will be glad to have you with us too, he’s probably tried to make me remember you so many times.”

Pero slid off the back of his horse and took hold of the reins as he turned to you. His rough fingernails dug into the palm of his hand as he clenched his fist, the familiar scent of your skin washing over him as he got closer. He could feel every bone in his body aching to reach out and pull you into his arm, bury his nose in the soft skin of your neck and breathe you in, feel your hands on him again. He could feel himself torn in two; the urge to bolt when you took a step back from him, the need to stay near and never leave again.

“Amor…” he mumbled, tearing his eyes away from you as you took another step back, the pain and emotion plain on his face.

“I’m…I’m sorry…” you whispered, “I don’t know what that means…”

For a few moments you looked at him as he refused to meet your eyes again, his gaze wavering as his hand closed around the reins of his horse. His knuckles were pulled taught, the tension in his still form clear, and you took another step back.

“Please, put your horse away and I’ll heat up water for you to wash. Father said you’ve travelled far, you must be weary. There's good stew cooking too,” you raised your hand and gently put it on the neck of his horse, “Come, please.”

He followed you into the house once he’d put the horse away, your father leaving to bring the small herd of cows in for the evening. Water was heating over the fire and you mixed it with the cooler water from the barrel as Pero stepped over the threshold with his heavy saddle bags by his side.

“You live with your father now,” he said, a statement rather than a question, but you nodded, wiping your hands and turning to the stew pot.

“Yes, well, I don’t remember living anywhere else but he tells me the cottage down the road is where I lived before…” you trailed off, putting your hand to your temple as your brow furrowed, screwing up your eyes as if trying to search for a memory. Pero shifted by the door and you turned to him with a surprised look on your face.

“I-I guess…that’s where we lived?” you asked and a look of anguish flashed across his face.

“Yes….yes, we lived there,” he replied, still holding his heavy bags, looking like he was almost on the verge of leaving again. “We moved there on our wedding day and I… Do you ever visit it now?”

You shook your head but hesitated, “Never…but maybe I have been back, but I forget from one day to the next, I know it’s there but if I see it now, it’s like I see it for the first time.”

Pero dropped his bags on the floor and rubbed his hand over his face, his shoulders slumped as if under a tremendous weight.

“Amor…” he said to the floor before looking up at you again, “I don’t know if I can do this. We lived there, you and me, they were the happiest days of my wretched life, and now it’s all been taken from us. You look at me like a stranger and I can’t stand it.”

You didn’t know what to say, the man in front of you was a stranger, nothing in his voice or face was familiar. The only reason you asked him to stay was your father telling you he was your husband, and that feeling in your chest of something missing, that empty space in your mind, a big piece of your life’s memories missing.

“I’m sorry…” you said again, but he shook his head.

“Don’t. It’s my fault, I did this to you. And I’m staying until you tell me to leave.”

“I might not remember you in the morning,” you said, “I often forget meeting new people.”

New people

It cut through him like the sharpest blade. He’s ‘new people’ to you now, not your husband, or even a friend. Just a stranger in your house.

He nodded at the large bowl that you’d filled with water, “I’ll get cleaned up now, do you want me to go outside?”

The cottage was familiar, he’d spent much time here before the wedding, and not much had changed in the year he’d been gone. It had only two rooms, and he presumed you were sleeping in the bed nook against the back wall, your father in the other room. The small cottage didn’t hold much space for privacy.

You shook your head and turned back to the fire, “I’ll keep my back turned, I need to watch the stew.”

He stared at you for a beat, the achingly familiar shape of your shoulders, your hips and the way you cocked one out to the side as you leaned forward over the large pot. How many times hadn’t he come up behind you, run his hands over your soft shapes, pushed your hair to the side and pressed kisses to your neck as you giggled at the way his beard tickled your skin. Now you stood with your back to him to not see as he pulled off his clothes, something you’d done to him almost every night. Unlaced his shirt, pulled it from his breeches and caressed his skin with your soft hands.

The dirty shirt dropped to the floor with a soft sound and you heard him wring the washcloth as you added the last of the herbs to the stew. You couldn’t help yourself, you glanced over your shoulder and stole a look at him. He was a stranger, but supposedly your husband, and either way, he was handsome. Under that layer of grime and sweat, he was a striking man, unlike any you’d ever seen. Or, at least, unlike anyone your mind would let you remember. So you glanced back at him and was struck almost dumb by the sight. Broad shoulders, a muscular back tapering into narrow hips where his breeches hung low as he rubbed the washcloth over his abdomen.

The back of his neck was tanned golden, his back lighter and marred by a long scar that shone bright in the dim light. It looked like a painful injury, old and long since healed over, and you wondered if he’d ever told you what had happened to him. Had you run your fingers over as he told you the story? You realised you must’ve spent countless nights next to this man in your marital bed, his hands on you, your hands on him. This man, this stranger in your father’s house, would know you better than anyone else, every inch of your body and your most intimate secrets.

As if he could sense your eyes on him, he glanced back over his shoulder and met your eyes, and he seemed to hold his breath for a moment. Then he turned fully to face you, the washcloth forgotten in his hand.

“Amor…” he whispered and you bit back a sudden sob. His eyes were so hopeful, you wanted nothing more than to remember him, to have all the memories of him flood back into your mind as he dropped the washcloth and took two quick steps across the floor.

“I don’t remember,” you sobbed as his arms wrapped around you, “I don’t remember anything about you.”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t let you go. Instead he let you sob against his chest, holding you close as he rested his chin on your head. His heart was beating wildly, thrumming so hard you could hear it as you pressed your cheek against him, and even though he was a stranger, his arms felt safe around you, the scent of his skin comforting and soothing.

With a small movement he rubbed your back, slowly up and down, “It will come back, amor, it will. And if it doesn’t, I will make you fall in love with me again and tell you about all the memories we have.”

You nodded against his chest, your sobs subsiding, but you didn’t pull away from him, and he didn’t let his arms drop. He held you just as tight, reluctant to give up the feeling of having you in his arms again after all he endured to get back to you.

“Although…I’m still not sure how I made a woman like you fall in love with a reckless mercenary like me, how will I manage that again?” he said, a small smile to his voice and you looked up at him. He’d lifted his chin from your head and was looking at you with a sad smile, tears clinging to his dark lashes.

“Promise me you’ll try,” you said, your voice low and broken.

“Every day for the rest of my life, amor,” he whispered, “I will make you fall in love with me again and then we can make all those memories one more time.”

A/N - I hope you enjoyed this bitter sweet little story! Bonus points to anyone who caught the LotR reference :)

Tagging some of my fellow Pero lovers:

@nerdieforpedro @din-cognito @harriedandharassed @morallyinept @inept-the-magnificent

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @lady-bess @angiewatson @cozylittlepigeon @604to647

@survivingandenduring @for-a-longlongtime @gnpwdrnsnshine @wintersquirrel @grogusmum

#pedro pascal #pero tovar #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar fanfic #pero tovar x you #roll a trope challenge

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hedge-rambles · 1 month ago

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It's also, in my opinion, better than the Edge Lane one. And yeah you're not dealing with the mess that is getting a bus to the Edge Lane shopping park thing.

I was going to go to B&Q today but it's been snowing and it's cold and it always plays merry hell with the buses so we'll see

#spent like two months trying to get slate chips from edge lane b&q #their stock management thing is shite #if it says in stock it's probably still on the delivery bay #went to aintree and just picked up all the bags we needed #plus it's just like a larger shop #and yeah there's a Hobbycraft

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schlock-luster-video · 9 months ago

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On April 9, 1973, Clay Pigeon debuted in Sweden.

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yespleasetommyshelby · 11 months ago

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Before he cheats - Modern Tommy Shelby x reader

I've had this song stuck in my head for days and it's gotta go 😩 This literally took me all of 2 hours to plan/write/post and it hasn't been proofread so bare with!

Enjoy! 🥰

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"56, 57, 58, 59, 60, that's it, I'm done." I huffed as i threw my phone onto the sofa besides me, frown on my face as I sighed. "That's two fucking hours!" I muttered to myself stamping my feet into my trainers I threw my coat on before picking up my phone on some final hope that I'd actually had a reply, but low and behold, obviously not.

"Fucking Thomas Shelby always thinking with his mother fucking dick." I continued to mutter under my breath as I left my home on Watery Lane slamming the door behind me, my chest burning in anger. Stepping out onto the path I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, fists clenched as I headed the short distance down the road to the house where I'd practically grown up.

"Watch where you're fucking going!" I screeched as a teenager flew past on his bike almost knocking me into the road. "Fucking males and their fucking shit." I continued to slate each and every male that came into view in the 2 minutes it took to get to my destination, 'men are all the bloody same' my mum used to say, 'honestly, get yourself a women, their much easier.' Looking back maybe I should've taken her advice.

"Where is he?" I asked as I pushed open the doors to the betting shop that sat in Watery Lane, the punters and staff going silent as I watched with my hands on my hips. "Oh come on, you know exactly who I'm talking about!" I all but yelled into the silent room, after being with Tommy for 2 years now I had almost as much authority as him, almost.

"Y/n, not here." Polly's voice had my head on a swivel, finally spotting her in the doorway to John's office I stormed over ignoring the looks I was getting from everyone.

"Where is he Pol?" I sighed as I flopped down into Johns office chair. "And why are you in here?" I asked noticing that John wasn't in his own office.

"He's disappeared with Esme somewhere, honestly these Shelby boys and their dicks are ridiculous." She mumbled, lighting the cigarette she held in her hand.

"Tell me about it." I sighed, knowing that if Tommy wasn't in the office he was only going to be in one other place. "He's at the Garrison then." I asked, watching as she froze slightly before shaking her head.

"I think so, yeah, what's he done this time?" She sighed as she rubbed her eyes, having dealt with nothing but pissed up (and off) men and women placing bets they can't afford all morning, dealing with her nephews love life was definitely not on her to do list.

"Nothing Pol, he's done nothing which is the fucking problem! He was supposed to meet me 2 hours ago and I haven't heard anything since a lousy morning text all because he's too busy with that fucking whore Grace!" I ranted, reaching out and taking one of her cigarettes before lighting it and slamming the lighter down on the desk. "You know what I'm done." My voice sounded much more convinced then my mind as I said the words.

Shaking my head I stood up in a flash, out of Johns office and into Tommys within a second, without looking I reached behind Tommys desk and picked up the baseball bat that I knew he kept there in case of emergency's. Pushing my way past Polly who was stood in the doorway I made my way through the punters and out into the street without a second look, the bat weighing heavy in my hand.

"Y/n! What are you doing?!" Pol's voice follows me out into the street. "Come back inside!" She yelled, passers by stopping to look at the scenes, before a sharp look from Pol had them walking on.

"Woah! What's going on here?" I was stopped in my tracks as Arthur, John and Esme appeared from the corner ahead of me, grins on their faces as they looked from the bat in my hand to the scowl on my face.

"Looks to me that she's off to play baseball." John laughed, his input met with a thud on his chest by his wife.

"Would you two idiots shut up already." She giggled slightly as she pushed her husband into his older brother. "Now what's up with the bat?" She asked, smirking slightly as she had a feeling she knew exactly where you was going, after sitting on the phone for an hour the last time Tommy pissed you off she knew not to get in the way.

"Like John boy said." I shrugged, my hold on the bat tightening ever so slightly. "I'm going to practice baseball with a nice new shiny Land Rover I saw parked outside of the Garrison." I grinned before pushing my way through the trio and continuing on my way.

I couldn't help but let out a loud laugh as the Garrison came into view and just as I had predicted there was brand new Land Rover sat outside its doors. The brand new Land Rover that only 3 days ago I had travelled up to Scotland to collect with Tommy, not knowing that it would be the last journey I'd take with both him and the car.

"Y/n come on back to the shop love, we'll sort this shit out." Polly pleaded once more making me stop in my tracks, the Shelby's had been like a family to me, even in the years before me and Tommy had officially gotten together, being friends with Ada and all.

"I'm sorry Pol." I sighed shaking my head as I turned to face her and the trio that had followed behind. "But right now, right now he's probably slow dancing with that bleach blonde tramp and she's probably getting frisky. Right now he's probably buying her some fruity little drink 'cause she can't shoot whisky." I laughed a little, knowing for a fact that she couldn't handle the drink that Thomas Shelby worships so much. "Right now he's probably up behind her with a pool stick showing her how to shoot a combo, but he don't know." I laughed as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keys, my hand wrapping around the longest and sharpest of them all, ironically the spare key Tommy had given me for this exact car.

I could help but grin as I stuck my key through the shiny black metal of the drivers door, the small act creating some kind of pleasure, a pleasure that only increased as I walked my way down the car, the key dragging a horribly crooked line right down the side.

"Right that's enough now! Cut this shit out!" Polly yelled, her eyes flickering between her nephews burnt lover and the door which he could come through at any second. "Think about what you're doing y/n." She almost pleaded, or at least as close as I'd ever seen her.

Ignoring her I made my way round to the passengers side, the metal bat dragging across the floor being the only sound to be heard, except for the muffled giggles that the other two Shelby brothers struggled to keep back. A wave of emotion hit me as I climbed into the car, a lone tear slipping down my cheek which I quickly wiped away.

"He doesn't deserve it." I muttered to myself as I quickly wiped it away without a second thought. "Fuck him and all the whores he's had in this fucking car." I growled gripping my keys as I began to carve my name into the leather seat.

"What the fuck is going on right now?!" My head snapped up as I heard another voice, Ada having stumbled upon my little rage room experiment, shall we call it.

"Ada! Nice of you to join us, i'll tell you what's going on shall I?" I asked as I hopped down from the car swing the bat up over my shoulder as I waved over to her. "Right now, your brother, you know the one that I'm supposedly engaged to, is in there living it up with that Irish tart of a woman!" I yelled, using the bat to point towards the door, not caring how loud my voice had gotten. "Right now she's probably up singing some white trash version of Shania karaoke, right now she's probably saying 'I'm drunk' and he's thinking that he's gunna get lucky! Right now, he's probably dapping on three quids worth of that bathroom polo!" I screamed, the more thought I put into what was actually going on just inside fuelling the rage even more.

I let out a gut wrenching scream as I swung the bat into his headlight, once, twice, three times moving on to the next I swung again laughing as the glass crashed to the floor before swing it into the windscreen for good measure. Throwing the bat to the floor I put my hands on my hips and grinned as I looked at the mess that was Tommy Shelby's new car before making my way over to Arthur.

"I need your knife." Holding my hand out infront of him. "Please Arthur." I sighed knowing that he always carried one no matter where he went.

With a sigh and grin he reached into his pocket and placed the small switch blade into my hand.

"Seriously Arthur?! Why the fucking hell did you give her a knife?!" Polly yelled as she threw her arms up in frustration, knowing that if anyone was going to be killed for this it wasn't going to be her.

"She asked nicely Pol." He shrugged, loving the fact that his brother was about to have the surprise of a lifetime and all he had to do was sit and watch.

Sticking the knife into the front tyre I smirked as the hiss of air filled the air, walking round and putting a knife slash in all of the tires for good measure, I stood back with a grin laughing at the look of amusement over the 3 Shelby siblings faces, the smirk on Esme's and the fed up look Polly had been giving me for the last 10 years.

"What the fucking hell is going on?!" The man of the hour roared as he stepped out onto the street, the pub doors banging against the walls before Grace appeared behind him, eyes cast down. "Answer me!" He bellowed, the vein in his neck popping with each syllable.

"Hi Tommy, remember me?" I asked sarcastically making his eyes jump to me, his face dropping ever so slightly. "You know, the fiance that you used to have!" I stepped forwards as I spoke shoving him back slightly, knowing if it was anyone else they would have recieved a bullet to the head, but I knew he'd never lay a hand on me.

"Y/n? I thought we were meeting later?" He asked, brows furrowed in confusion as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, the numerous texts and missed calls flashing on the screen and the time that read two and a half hours after the planned meeting time. "Oh." He muttered, wiping his hand across his face. "What have you done?" He asked as his eyes trailed along the nice long line that now travels the length of his new car.

"Yeah, oh." I nodded, laughing slightly as Grace stepped out besides him. "I suppose you missed the show while you were in there with ol' Gracie here. But I'll give you a rundown shall I? Well I dug my key into the side of your pretty little souped up four wheel drive, carved my name into your leather seats. I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights and slashed a hole in all four tires, maybe next time you'll think before you cheat." I couldn't help the tears that fell next, the adrenaline slowing and my whole body began to ache, the end of an era, me and the Shelby's.

"Y/n-" "No." I cut him off, not wanting to listen to any kind of reasoning he would throw at me, anything to get him back in the good book. "I might've saved a little trouble for the next girl, because the next time that you cheat, oh you know it won't be on me, no, not on me." I wiped my eyes before pulling of the ring that he had given me 6 months ago. "Guess I'll give it to you aye, Gracie." I muttered, throwing the ring at her feet before turning to walk away.

"Y/n!" His voice reached my ears just as I'd passed Polly, Arthur, John, Esme and Ada. "Y/n please!"

"Bye Tom!" I yelled without turning back, keeping my head up I shoved my hands into my pockets and carried on, not giving them the chance to see the tears that were currently streaming down my face.

-----

There you have it! My first fic where they don't end up happily ever after, hopefully you enjoyed!

Feel free to send any requests! 💖

#tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagines #tommy shelby imagines #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders imagines

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gretavangroupie · 5 months ago

Text

Bluebird Lane - Chapter Two

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.7k

Warnings: Cursing, Angst, Pining, Mentions of Death, Sexual Themes, Kissing.

A/N: Gigantic, massive thank you to @gretavanmoon and @builtbybrokenbells for endlessly encouraging me with this one and daydreaming with me. Thanks for reading!

JAKE POV

A trickle of sweat slips down the side of your neck as you lift your mattress onto the bed frame. It falls heavily, sending a burst of air up around it, the sound echoing through the mostly empty house. Your bed is definitely too large for the room, but sleep is one of the things you refuse to compromise on, and this mattress was the best of the best. There is truly nothing better than finally sleeping in your own bed after endless months of hotel beds and tour bus bunks. The wooden bed frame really only fit in the center of the room, leaving you enough space for your dresser and a nightstand or two. You briefly wonder if you made the right choice giving her the larger of the two rooms, knowing your furniture was better suited to more space, but quickly shake away the selfish thought.

You place your hands on your hips, catching your breath as you look at the baren mattress. The house is warm, a little warmer than you want, but you knew that the constant rush of outside air coming in through the front door was to blame. The ceiling fans are running at full speed, but it just feels like it's pushing around the warm air instead of cooling the place down. You look around the room for the box holding your sheets and bedding, knowing that is the next task on the list if you want a place to sleep tonight. You snatch up the navy blue sheets, tossing the folded stack onto the bed with a thump and a huff of air.

Your heart is racing, but not from the effort you just exerted. Instead because you know Y/N is going to be arriving at any minute. You glance down to your watch knowing an hour has passed since she texted you that she was on her way, and that her car would be pulling into the driveway in the next few minutes. You worked all day trying to get as much of your belongings unpacked as possible before she arrived. Josh and Sam even spared the time to help you with the bigger furniture this morning. You knew there was no way you were wrestling that couch through the front door all on your own.

Truth be told, you were secretly hopeful she would want to keep your couch when you offered it. It was a bigger splurge item as of recent, the slate gray L-shaped Cloud couch stealing several grand from your bank account just a few months prior, but after sitting on it in the Restoration Hardware showroom, you knew you were not leaving without one of your own. Of course, your previous living room was much larger and was more accommodating to a couch of this size, but it filled the room here, and in a way almost made it feel more cozy. You knew she would put her own feminine touch on the room, balancing out your ‘guy stuff’ or whatever she called it.

You pull your hair up off of your neck, tying it into a bun before working to pull the sheets onto your bed, letting the fitted sheet snap into place. You toss the pillows to the top of the mattress and throw your comforter onto the bed, pulling the edges down to try and make it look like you tried a little. You could already tell you were going to sleep hard tonight, and the clean smell of the sheets made your bed all the more alluring.

You hear a car door shut, pulling you from your daydream and you know she is here. You wipe your sweaty forehead against your forearm and smooth back the hair at your temples, rubbing your fingers over your mustache as you nervously make your way into the living room to meet her at the front door. You pull the front of your shirt to your nose, praying you don’t smell as bad as you feel, dropping it quickly as she steps up onto the porch and hoping that she didn’t see you do that.

“Welcome,” you smile, opening the door all the way to let her inside. You are secretly nervous that she won’t like how you have things arranged, but swallow down the fear as her eyes light up.

“Hey, wow, it looks so…good in here already!” she says, dropping a potted plant down onto the floor. She drops her purse and keys with it as she steps further into the house, taking in the sight of all of the furniture in its place. “Jake, how did you– you did all of this today?”

“My brothers came by earlier to help, no sweat,” you answer casually, standing with your hands on your hips as you watch her. She turns to you and tosses you a playful knowing smirk as she eyes your sweaty shirt.

“Okay, a little sweat,” you tease. She shakes her head and walks around in the kitchen taking notice of the boxes still scattered around. “Is your car unlocked? I can start grabbing things?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that Jake, I can get it.”

Instead of arguing with her you smile and nod, heading out the front door towards her tiny silver car. It’s packed up to the brim with a small rental trailer attached. You take notice of the number of plants occupying her front seat and smile, hoping her green thumb will rub off on you. You grab a box from the backseat, carrying up the front porch steps and into the house, finding her in her bedroom opening the blinds to let some sunlight in.

“Jake! I can get it all, seriously. It’s packed in there like a clown car,” she giggles, “I shoved it all in, I can take it all out. I know you have your own stuff to do. Also, is this the mas– Why didn’t you take the bigger room? You were here first.”

You huff out a laugh, “What? What do you mean? Of course I gave you the bigger room. You’re going to be here a lot more than I am. It makes the most sense. It’s also closer to the bathroom and has way better natural light. And I just saw all those plants in your car…I think I made the right choice.”

“Are you sure? We didn’t even really talk about it,” she asks, pulling her bottom lip between her front teeth. You swallow harshly as you try to pull your eyes away from her lips.

“Absolutely. No question. Though, I will say, part of giving you the bigger room means I have to keep a guitar or two in the living room,” you pause, tilting your head towards her. “Now, where is the key for the trailer? Wanna get that thing unloaded while we still have some daylight.”

“Jake, really, you do not have to do all this…” she argues.

You stop and turn to her, raising a brow, “The key, sweetheart.”

Her cheeks color pink as she rushes past you out the door, bending over to grab the keys from the place on the floor. You do your damndest not to let your eyes linger on her ass as she bends over, but you fail. Miserably. Get it together, Jacob.

You follow her out to the trailer, unlocking the padlock and pulling up the metal door. Only a few small pieces of furniture occupy the space and you momentarily consider calling Sam to come back and help you just so that she doesn't have to, but before you can decide she is inside the trailer lifting the side of her dresser.

“Woah, woah, okay, take it easy. S’all this going in your bedroom?” you ask, stepping up into the trailer with her.

“I think so. You pretty much brought everything else,” she smiles, shoving the dresser forward.

“I can call my brother to come back over and help me get this in–”

“No, I can do it. How do you think I got all this in here?” she asks, a look of insult on her features.

“You did this alone?” you ask, feeling sick to your stomach.

“Are you surprised?” She smiles playfully, trying to lighten the mood.

“I mean, yeah. I am, honestly.” You pause, wondering how they hell she did it. “Okay, well shit, let’s do it then. You just tell me if you need to stop for a second.”

“I’m good, let’s do it.” she answers, lifting her side of the dresser, following your lead as you walk it out of the trailer and into the house.

The two of you continue this way until the trailer is empty, and the car is unpacked. She is now in a similar state as you are, sweaty and tired and in desperate need of a drink, however you both still have quite a bit to do before calling it a night.

You leave her to her unpacking as you rifle around in the kitchen looking for your toolbag. You know it's in here somewhere, using it just this morning on your own bed frame. You spot the bright red bag and snatch it from the box, making your way back into her room to find her packing her clothes away into the dresser. She looks at you, then to the tool bag in your hand as she raises her eyebrows.

“Your bed frame,” you answer, nodding towards the black metal frame leaning against the wall.

“Oh, I–”

“Can do it, yeah, I know, but so can I. Keep unpacking, let me do this,” you demand, dropping the bag to the floor. She doesn’t argue, instead turning back to her stack of t-shirts on the floor.

“Where do you want the bed to be?” you ask, looking around the room.

She glances around biting at her lips, “Right there in the middle,” she answers, pointing to the space beneath the windows. It’s probably where you would have picked, too.

You make quick work of the frame, finding it a lot easier to put together than your own. A few screws and bed slats later it’s ready for the mattress and box spring. You maneuver the box spring down onto the slats with a metallic clang, grabbing her attention from her place on the floor.

“You wanna help me get the mattress through the door?” you ask, pushing the hair off your face.

She nods quickly, pulling herself up with the edge of the dresser and following you out into the hallway where the mattress sat leaning against the wall. The two of you drag the mattress in through the doorway and into the room, ready to flip it and place it on the frame.

“You got it?” you ask, carrying the bulk of the weight.

“Yeah, drop it on three,” she pauses, “One, two, three!”

You drop the mattress onto the boxspring, both of you falling face first onto the bed from opposite sides. You both let out a relieved sigh, taking a second to catch your breath as you turn to your back to stare up at the old wooden ceiling fan spinning overhead.

“Your mattress is kinda hard,” you say, turning your head to face her with a smile.

“I like my firm mattress thank you very much,” she quips, giving you a playful smirk.

You suck your teeth as you answer, “You would hate my bed then.”

She rolls to her side to face you,“Why, is it really soft?”

“It’s the best mattress in the world, I have tried them all,” you tease, pushing up from the bed and grabbing your tool bag. You make your way to the door, stopping to look at her, still laid out on her bed. You swallow harshly as you push down the intrusive thoughts swimming through your mind. “I’ll leave you to it, just shout for me if you need me.”

—

You’ve almost got all of your clothes put away, not that you really had a ton to begin with, but nonetheless they are put away. Shirts hung, pants folded, coats hanging neatly in the back of the closet. You stack your books on your dresser and arrange your boots by the door, feeling pretty well accomplished for the day. The sun is set now, and the air in the house is finally starting to cool off. You can hear Y/N in her room, still working steadily as she unpacks her boxes and stacks them in the hallway. You push your last empty box into the hall, deciding to break down a few and take them out to the curb.

As you enter back into the house you spot the few boxes on the kitchen floor and the rumble of your stomach lets you know that unfortunately, emptying these boxes is a pressing task. You see a few of hers scattered with your own, hers marked ‘kitchen’ in purple marker. Hearing the sound of hangers sliding across the rod in her closet, you decide to unpack her kitchen boxes, mixing her things with yours. It's a plethora of coffee mugs and mismatched dishes, travel coffee mugs and reusable straws. You smile to yourself as you load them into the cabinets, stacking them neatly next to your own mugs, your souvenirs of places visited.

Your stomach rumbles again and you know that you need to deal with it before it gets out of hand and your mood starts to decline. It didn’t take much these days, but you were still trying to make a good impression on your new roommate. You pull your phone from your pocket and flip through delivery options, deciding that pizza is typically agreeable amongst everyone. You hesitate for a second, deciding that you should probably ask her just in case. You blow out a breath and head down the hallway, knocking on her door just enough that it swings open.

“Hey, I was uh– I was maybe gonna order a pizza? Are you…hungry? Do you like pizza?” you ask, feeling like an idiot for stumbling over such a basic question.

“Of course I like pizza,” she laughs, shaking her head in disbelief. “Who doesn’t like pizza?”

Your fingers fidget with the pendant of your necklace, rubbing against the face to try and calm your nerves, “Great question,” you laugh. “What kind of pizza do you like?”

She taps her fingers against her lips, and you can’t help but take notice how her fingers melt into the plush pink skin.

“I like everything, really. Just no olives,” she answers, rushing out the last bit and biting against her bottom lip.

A tiny laugh huffs from your chest, “No olives, okay. Got it,” you nod, pulling your phone from your pocket. “I’m gonna order it then jump in the shower.”

She swallows hard and nods as her cheeks turn pink, “Yeah, sounds good,” she answers, quickly averting her eyes from you as you lean into her door frame. You look at her for just a second, watching her place her perfume bottle on her dresser, fighting every urge you have to walk over and see what it smells like. Begrudgingly you pull yourself away and turn your attention to your phone, stepping into the bathroom and starting the water in the shower.

With the pizza ordered and on its way you strip out of your clothes, dropping the sweaty heap onto the bathroom floor. You pull back the shower curtain and step into the baby blue tub, letting the hot water fall around you, rinsing the dried sweat from your skin. It feels good, too good, and you find yourself staring off into space as your muscles start to relax. As you open your eyes you reach for your shampoo, seeing that the bottle is not alone on the shelf anymore, and is now joined by three others. A matching shampoo and conditioner has joined the lineup in two light pink bottles, sitting next to a bottle of green body wash that is said to smell like Cucumber, Seaweed, and Green Tea.

You wrack your brain trying to see if you can even think of what Green Tea or Seaweed even smells like, doing your absolute best to convince yourself not to smell her body wash. You shake away the thought, lathering up your hair, and refusing to let your eyes land on the pink bottles in front of you. You do not want to know what her shampoo smells like either. Not at all.

You rinse away the suds from your hair, reaching for your bar of soap, fresh from the box. You wet the yellow bar in your hands until it starts to produce bubbles, sliding it over your chest as the clean fragrance starts to fill the steamy air. You glide it over your arms and down your legs before depositing it back into the soap dish, using the soap left over to clean the rest of your body.

You slide your hands over yourself as your mind starts to wander again, eyes locked on that bottle of body wash, knowing that it holds the answer to the question plaguing your mind. Your hand wanders over your groin, spreading the soap over your length and gently tugging at it until it feels clean. You let your hand linger as the water pours over you, your eyes transfixed on the blue tile wall in front of you as your mind wanders with thoughts of the girl across the hall. Absent-mindedly your hand begins slow, languid strokes, the blood beginning to rush from elsewhere. It feels good, and you feel yourself starting to harden in your hand. But, as a thud sounds from the otherside of the wall, you’re quickly snapped from your transient thoughts, remembering exactly where you are and what you’re doing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling your hand away and turning to rinse to soap from your body. You shouldn’t be having these thoughts, and you especially shouldn’t be acting on them. You turn the water off and slide the shower curtain open, pulling your towel from the countertop. The fog on the mirror is starting to dissipate as you run your towel through your dripping hair, still kicking yourself for letting yourself get caught up. You dry the rest of your body, wrapping the dark gray towel around your waist as you look at yourself in the mirror.

Again, your eyes catch sight of the bright green bottle on the shower shelf, still calling out to you to taste the forbidden fruit. Unable to stand it for a second longer you forcefully snatch it off of the shelf, popping open the lid and breathing in the scent. You feel your body relax as you breathe it in, the perfect blend of fresh and sweet, sending your head into a frenzy as you pick out each note of fragrance. You close it up, and place it back on the shelf as quietly as possible, pretending you didn’t just cave to your own rules. You knew as soon as you did it that you shouldn’t have done it, but you did, and you’d never tell a soul.

It’s always strange trying to acquaint yourself with new places. You feel like a stranger in your own home even though you’re surrounded by all of your own things. The sounds the house makes are different, the smells are different, even the energy will take some getting used to. You drop your towel to the floor and grab a pair of sweatpants from your dresser, pulling them over your legs as you scoop the towel up from the floor. You toss it over your shoulder as you make your way to your closet, pulling an old ratty t-shirt from its hanger. You run your towel through your hair one last time on your way back to the bathroom, hanging it on the hook behind the door and shutting off the light.

You felt better now that you’d showered, though the hunger was setting in full force. You knew the pizza would be here soon, and the thought alone had your stomach growling angrily. You step out into the living room, turning on the floor lamp now that the sun was set and the room was dark. You grab your acoustic and make your way to the couch, promptly sinking into its buttery soft cushions. Still worth every dime. You sit there for a minute, feeling the tiredness of your muscles really starting to set in as you let your body relax. Your head falls to the back of the couch as you prop your feet up onto the coffee table. An exhausted sigh leaves your chest as your guitar lays over your lap, and you suddenly wonder if you even had the desire to play it now that you’d sat down.

The sound of a door opening in the hallway grabs your attention, your head shooting up from the back of the couch to catch sight of Y/N walking across the hallway and into the bathroom. The door shuts and the light came on, the tiny yellow sliver of light beneath the door lighting the hallway. You hear the shower turn on and the sound of the shower curtain opening and you swallow back the nerves rising up in your chest. You refuse to let yourself think of her in there, coating herself in that fucking delicious body wash. No.

You push yourself up from the couch, walking your guitar back to the stand before making your way into the kitchen. You know you need to find some plates to eat on before the pizza arrives, so you start digging around in the boxes until you find what you’re looking for. It doesn’t take much digging to find them, loading them into a cabinet with a few bowls and small plates.

A knock on the door fills the air as you close the cabinet, your legs practically sprinting to the door to answer. You graciously accept the pizza, tipping the driver and sending him on his way. As you shut the front door you hear the shower turn off, and you know that it will be only a few minutes until she smells the pizza and finds her way into the kitchen.

You turn towards the fridge, opening it to find a bottle of champagne sitting inside, along with a small white envelope taped to the lid. It has your names written in a messy scrawl and you know that Ralph has left this as a gift for the two of you. You decide to close the fridge and wait for her before reading it, not wanting to seem like a jerk.

You hear her soft padding of her footsteps as she makes her way down the hallway and towards the kitchen, and in some cruel twist of fate you can smell her before you ever lay eyes on her. She steps up to the kitchen counter, her cheeks pink from the hot shower as her hair hangs wet and wavy around her face. She has on a giant oversized t-shirt, with a faded and well worn image of Stevie Ray Vaughn on the front. You feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach as you realize she might have good taste in music, too. A sliver of red boxer shorts peek out from the hem of the t-shirt, her bare legs practically glowing in the dim light coming from the living room as a sleepy look crosses her face. Realizing you are definitely staring, you clear your throat and turn towards the pizza.

“Pizza is here,” you say, stating the obvious. A grin pulls across her lips as she eyes the box in front of you.

“I see that,” she teases, leaning her hip onto the side of the counter. “Just let me know how much and I’ll Venmo you.”

“Oh, no no. It’s fine, I’ve got this, don’t worry about that,” you say, not even registering that she would want to pay for part of it. You hand her a plate and motion for her to go ahead, watching her open the box to reveal the pizza.

“God, I’m starving,” she whines, grabbing a few slices.

“I figured you might be,” you smile, filling your own plate. “Do you wanna sit on the couch?” you ask, glancing over to the kitchen table piled high with boxes.

“Yeah, okay,” she nods, walking over to the couch and sinking down into the cushion. “I am so glad we decided on yours. Mine sucked.”

“I love this couch,” you admit, taking a seat at the opposite side of the L shaped sofa. You both start to eat fairly quickly, the room going silent as you both work to rid yourselves of the hunger in your stomachs.

“I’d ask if you wanted to watch a movie or something, but,” she teases, nodding towards the TV in the box on the floor.

“Yeah, that will be on my to-do list for tomorrow. That and internet, I feel like I’m in the stone age right now.” you pause, smiling at her. “Do you like to watch movies?” you ask, placing your empty plate on the coffee table.

“Yeah, I do. I like all kinds! What about you?” she asks, mimicking your actions. She folds her legs up underneath her on the couch, almost disappearing beneath her t-shirt.

“I like historical stuff, war movies, documentaries,” you answer, suddenly feeling pretty predictable. “But I don’t really have a ton of time to watch stuff like I want to.”

A side smile stretches across her lips and she nods, “So no Notebook for you, then?”

“Hey, give me credit. I do have a sister, and I have seen that at least twice.”

“Alright, fair enough I guess. I can get down with historical stuff, though,” she says, tilting her head to the side.

Really?

“Be careful,” you laugh, “Gonna get yourself into trouble saying that.”

“How’s that?” she asks, playing as if she doesn’t already know the answer.

“You’re gonna find yourself suffering through all of my favorites,” you answer with a smirk. “But that being said, what is your favorite movie?”

She giggles, “Just by looking at me, what do you think my favorite movie is?”

You look her up and down, suddenly feeling the overwhelming sense that it won’t be what you think. She knows that you want to answer and say some romantic comedy. She’s baiting you just to prove you wrong. “Okay, I’m gonna guess it’s something old school. You think I won’t guess… ”

“You’d be right. It is old,” she nods.

“Alright,” you continue, rubbing your fingers over your lips. “Can you give me a hint? Give me a genre at least.”

She sits up, repositioning herself on the couch. “It’s romantic, from the fifties.”

“Is it a movie I’ve heard of?” you ask.

“Yes. Everyone knows this movie. At least I hope they do…”

“Oh, um– The one with the cat– Ahh, what it called– shit, um, the tiffany's movie. Breakfast at Tiffanys?”

“So close, but no cigar. It’s Roman Holiday,” she answers, stretching her legs out to rest on the edge of the coffee table. Your eyes flick down to her legs, silky smooth from her shower and glowing in the lamp light, feeling a strange feeling stirring in your stomach. “Same actress, so I will give you points for that.”

“I don’t know if I’ve seen that one actually,” you admit, peeling your eyes away from her legs.

“What?! Oh, it’s the best. We will have to watch it.”

“You know, I was fully expecting you to say that it is some newer romantic comedy or something. I’m pleasantly surprised,” you confess. “I like the old stuff, too.”

“It’s kind of all we had. My mother was a hopeless romantic. We watched old films constantly. In fact one summer we watched one every night. We never had cable, or even real internet, honestly. We just had our old VHS tapes and each other.”

You feel your heart twist in your chest at her admission, suddenly feeling like the life you live is more fortunate than you’d previously thought. You suddenly feel stupid about your internet comment just minutes ago. You decide to change the subject, noticing that she is feeling a bit uneasy.

“So you mentioned gardening,” you pause, “How did you get into that?”

She smiles and nods, “My mother. She taught me everything I know. It’s therapeutic for me now, reminds me of her. Plus everything tastes better when you grow it yourself.”

“Sounds amazing,” you answer, “Seems like a nice hobby to have.”

“Wasn’t always a hobby. Sometimes it’s all we had. Was more of a necessity.” she answers, and again you can feel her uneasiness. You nod in understanding and change the subject again as your heart grows heavy.

“Did you get your stuff all put away?” you ask, standing up from the couch. You grab your empty plates and walk over towards the kitchen, listening as you walk.

“I did! Well, most of it at least. I still have a little bit to do tomorrow but I can at least sleep in my bed tonight.”

“Shower has good water pressure, I was happy about that,” you say, placing the plates into the sink. You glance at the fridge, remembering the champagne waiting inside.

“Oh yeah, Ralph left us something,” you say, opening the door and pulling out the cold bottle. You pluck the note from the lid and hold it up for her to see. “Left us a note too.”

“Oh, he is so sweet,” she whines, resting her head on her fist.

“Would you like some champagne?” you ask, holding up the bottle.

“Absolutely I do. I don’t think I have any glasses though,” she says, her face falling a bit.

“Don’t need fancy glasses to drink champagne,” you smile, grabbing two coffee mugs from the cabinet, feeling thankful you put them away earlier. You pop the cork on the bottle, pouring the bubbly liquid into the mugs and grabbing the note.

You walk back over, handing her a mug and the note, taking a spot a little closer to her this time.

“Barcelona, huh…” she smiles, reading the words on her mug.

You sip from yours, feeling the bubbles slide down your throat, “Mhmm, that one is newer. Got that a month or two ago.” You spin your own mug, reading out the city. “S’ones from London. Super old.”

“You really are gone a lot, huh?”

“More than I’d like but I wouldn’t change it for the world,” you answer, watching her take a sip from her mug.

She sets it down on the coffee table, opening the small white envelope and unfolding the lined paper. Her brows crinkle together as she reads the first few words, her eyes then shooting up to yours looking tearful.

“Shit, Jake…”

God that sounded sinful.

“What’s it say?” you ask, pretending the blood wasn’t rushing straight to your dick.

She clears her throat and begins to read. “Y/N and Jake, I hope this letter finds you both well and celebrating your new home. I figured a bottle of champagne would be enjoyed by the two of you as you ended your first day unpacking. PS- I hope it’s cold.” she giggles, moving her hands further down the paper.

“I thought that I would share with you a few of the memories my family made in this home, and hopefully inspire you to create your own. Every holiday was spent here, family traveling from all over to get a taste of Gail’s Thanksgiving turkey, and her Christmas cake. It was chocolate and was my favorite thing in the world. We always put the tree in the front right corner of the living room, just so we could see the lights through the window from outside. The neighbors on this street go all out for Christmas, lights and decorations and everything. It truly is a sight to see. We only got one white Christmas here, but maybe you two will get lucky.” You see her eyes starting to tear up as she reads, and you feel the lump growing in your own throat.

“I should tell you to watch out for that back porch step, the drop off is a little further than you’d expect. My son Johnny learned that the hard way. Broke his arm in the middle of the summer one year. Had to rush him to the hospital. Never did find a good solution for it. When it gets really cold out you’ll need to throw a blanket over the flower bushes out front so they don’t freeze. I left a few of Gail’s recipes taped in the kitchen cabinet, just didn’t have the heart to remove them after all this time. If you ever feel like making one of them, be sure to call me, I’d love to join you.”

You watch her swipe away a tear from her eye, your hand instinctively reaching for her arm to comfort her. You lay your hand on her forearm, rubbing it just slightly before pulling it away, feeling the pull to put it back more strongly than you thought possible. “You want me to finish reading it?” you ask softly.

She sniffles a bit and brushes her damp hair over her shoulders trying to regain her composure. She takes a long drink from her champagne, clearing her throat again to speak. “No, I'm almost done.”

“I hope that you two will love this house as much as we did. It houses a lot of very cherished memories and I have no doubt that it will house yours too. I’m so glad this will be home to such a wonderful couple. If you ever need anything please don’t hesitate to call me, love Ralph.”

HER POV

Your hands are shaky as you fold up the letter, placing it gently on the coffee table. You can feel Jake’s eyes on you, and you know you have to get your emotions in check before he notices. You clear your throat and take a sip from your mug, letting the alcohol warm your bones. You never had that life, the family memories, the special holidays, none of it. You were lucky if your mom could afford a Happy Meal on Thanksgiving. You never faulted her for it, though. She worked hard, throwing every penny she had at bills and keeping the two of you fed. Poorly, but that didn’t matter much then. There were no extravagant Christmases or big family dinners, no special vacations or birthday parties. You never knew those things existed, not really anyway. Not until you left.

Your eyes flick over to meet him, his head thrown back on the top of the couch cushion as he looks at you. His cheeks are pink from the champagne, his thread-bare Led Zeppelin t-shirt barely holding on for life as it hangs loosely over his shoulders. His hair is long and wavy as it dries on his shoulders, the ends curling up a little from the natural humidity in the air. He seems relaxed, his legs stretched out across the length of the couch, and his feet crossed at the ankle. He seems perfectly content to sit here and listen to anything you have to say, willing to talk about anything, not just respond, and for some reason it scares you a bit.

You decide to change the subject, not wanting him to ask about your sudden change in demeanor. “What’s your family like?” you ask, rotating your hips a little on the cushion to face him more.

A slight smile pulls at his lips, his head nodding just slightly as he tries to figure out how to give you the condensed version of his life.

“Well, there’s Josh and I, my sister Veronica, and Sam is the youngest. My parents still live up in Michigan so I don’t get to see them as often as I would like to, but when we do all get together, it’s always a chaotic multi-day party. Lots of drinking and laughing and cooking… I try to go up for holidays when I can, but sometimes with our touring schedule that isn’t always possible. Sometimes we fly ‘em out though, to wherever we are in the world. Incredibly supportive, good people. Wouldn’t trade them for the world.”

“And your brothers do the band with you,” you pause, “Does that ever get…” you trail off, trying to find the word you’re looking for.

“If you’re asking if we fight, the answer is yes. Every single day,” he laughs, “We are all way too passionate about our opinions and refuse to back down. But I think that because we’re all family, we have no choice but to work it out, and things always end up ten times better in the end. That and we usually have Daniel to mediate.”

You nod as you listen, feeling completely taken by the way he speaks about the things he loves. You can hear the conviction in his voice, and you can tell that his relationship with his family means everything to him.

“I bet your parents are very proud,” you grin.

“I like to think they are, of course, my dad would never say it to me directly,” he teases. “We are close, just in very different ways.”

“And your mom?” you ask, letting your eyes meet his.

“Karen,” he smiles, shaking his head in thought, “She is…Just like Josh. The light in every room. Our biggest supporter.”

“Do you talk to her often?” you continue.

“I do. We text mostly. I’m not a big phone call kind of guy, but occasionally. We talk at least once every day or two.” he pauses, “What about you? You close with your parents?”

“Oh, it was just my mom and I, and yes we were very close.” you answer quickly.

“Does she live close by? Where did you grow up?” he asks, and you start to panic, not wanting to reveal that part of your life.

“Um, not too far from here, about two hours away.” you answer. He furrows his brow trying to place where it could have been, but comes up blank. “We just…had very different lives. My mom passed recently and my dad isn’t in my life. He wasn’t a good person.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that,” he says, his face growing long as he realizes you don’t really have much family.

“It’s alright. I manage.”

He seems to understand that you don’t want to talk about it, quickly nodding his head and attempting to change the subject. He lifts his finger and motions to your shirt with a smile. “I like your shirt. Love SRV.”

You look down at the old t-shirt, the image so faded you can hardly make it out yourself. “Oh, yeah, my mom loved him. She had a huge vintage collection. I kinda inherited it all.” you smile.

Your eyes flick over to the note on the table and another wave of guilt rushes through you. “I still feel really bad that we are lying to Ralph. That note was so sweet, and if he ever finds out the truth he will be crushed.” you whine.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry about it. It’s fine, I promise. It will all work out. He will never know.” he urges, his eyes pleading for you to trust him.

It’s quiet between the two of you for a minute or two, only the sound of the refrigerator running and the cars passing out front. Your eyes scan over the room, seeing a few more boxes that need to be unpacked tomorrow. They are all labeled ‘Living Room’, and you briefly wonder where in the world you are going to store all of it.

“Hey,” you say, turning to look at Jake. His eyes meet yours as you continue. “We might not have cable, but I do have Scrabble.”

A grin pulls across his lips as he tries to bite them together to conceal it. “I am too good at Scrabble. I would hate to beat you on our first game night. That’s impolite.”

“No one has beat me at Scrabble in ten years, Jake. Hate to burst your bubble.” you smile, getting up and digging around in the boxes for the game. “I’ve been the champ my whole life.”

“You may have met your match,” he laughs. He works quickly to clear the coffee table, tossing a couch pillow to the floor for you to sit on. Your hand meets the tattered red box, pulling it out and walking back to the coffee table.

He watches you settle across from him on the pillow, setting the box on the table with a thud. His hand starts to reach for the box, but you stop him.

“Oh, I’ll set up, the board is really old and kinda flimsy,” you say, reaching for the box.

He grabs your hand and gives you a playful smile, “I will set it up. I’ll be gentle. You refill our mugs.”

You raise your eyebrow at him, feeling a swirl of butterflies in your stomach at his demanding tone. You quickly stand and return to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle of Champagne from the fridge and filling the two mugs to the top.

“That should do it,” you giggle.

He smirks as he sees the practically overflowing mugs, “Yeah, I’d say so.”

You can hardly pull your eyes away from him as he leans over the table and sips from the top of the mug to empty it enough to pick it up. His lips are gentle as they press to the lip of the mug, his throat moving just slightly as he swallows down the bubbles. A heat blooms in your chest as you shake your head of the thoughts swirling around. You focus on the wooden tiles in front of you, positioning them on the stand to see what you’re working with. It’s not an amazing set, but you have a few solid options for your first play.

Jake does the same, and you watch as his fingers gently move the wooden tiles around to form words.. His touch is so gentle, that his movements hardly make a sound as the tiles are rearranged. You aren’t sure if it’s the alcohol or what, but you can hardly pull your eyes away from him.

“Ladies first,” he says, looking up at you now that he is happy with his tiles.

“You sure?” you tease, “Don’t want to make this too difficult for you.”

“Try me, sweetheart.” he smirks, nodding for you to start.

You bite back a smile as you place your letters on the board, spelling out the word ‘Vector’.

“Vector, hmm…” he hums, rearranging a few letters on his stand as fingers swipe over his lips. You swallow harshly as you imagine how that must feel.

“Alright,” he breathes, placing his letters to spell out ‘Hunter’.

You both draw your letters from the bag arranging them for your next play, as Jake fiddles with his phone. A few seconds later music starts to play softly from the speakers, just enough to fill the silence.

“This okay?” he asks.

“Of course.” you answer, just as your next words presents itself to you.

You place your letters on the board to spell out ‘Tenor’ and Jake nods.

“Hmm, maybe you will give me a run for my money,” he teases.

“I told you I wasn’t playing around.” you answer, watching him place his letters without a second thought. His letters spell out the word ‘Ovate’ and you’re positive he just made that up.

“That’s not a word!” you tease.

“Sure is. Means oval shaped.” he says, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“Hmmm, okay.” you growl, placing your next word down.

“Aeon,” he grins, “Nice one.”

“Thanks,” you flaunt, shaking four letters out of the bag and into your hand.

He lays out the word ‘Young’, playing off of your letters and you feel yourself starting to get more competitive with every play. The two of you play back and forth for what seems like a hundred turns, Jake never faltering, and one upping every single one of your plays. He might actually beat you.

The words seem to be getting larger and larger and more complex with every turn, your body starting to ache from sitting on the floor crouched over the coffee table. Thankfully the alcohol in your system has you feeling a little more loose than usual. You decide to stretch out under the table, your legs resting dangerously close to his body. He looks down and notices but doesn’t say anything, instead playing his turn and spelling out the word ‘Nocturne’.

You silently look at your letters, trying to decide what word you can play off of his, when you feel a warm hand move to rest on the top of your ankle. You don’t dare look at Jake, knowing that if you do he might move it. Your heart starts to beat rapidly in your chest as you feel each one of his fingertips on your skin. Your insides feel like jell-o under the warmth of his hand, the small gentle gesture reducing your brain to mush.

With shaky breath you nervously look up at him as you place your letters on the board to spell out ‘Counters’. His hand doesn't move as he grins at you, silently commending you on your play. He taps your leg with his hand as he moves to play his word, using almost every single letter on his stand.

“Osculate?” you question, furrowing your brows. “That’s not a real word.”

He grins as he leans back onto the couch, his hand returning to rest on your leg. “It is, promise.”

You shake your head, “No, no way. I don’t believe you.”

“Look it up,” he nods, gesturing to your phone.

“No– What does it mean then? Use it in a sentence.” you urge.

He smiles and leans forward, repositioning himself to hover over the edge of the table. He grabs his phone and types in the word, seeming satisfied as he looks at the screen. He licks his lips before speaking, his eyes locked on yours.

“Well, it’s Latin for one, and it means lips,” he trails off. His voice lowers a bit and his tongue brushes his lips again, “Specifically the act of touching lips.”

You lean forward over the coffee table to look at his phone, needing to see it with your own eyes to believe it. Your face is only inches from his, and you can smell the Champagne on his breath and feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

You let your eyes meet his again, finally able to see the fleck of gold buried deep within the dark brown of his eyes. “I’ve never once heard that word,” you whisper.

He looks at you, letting his eyes flick down to your lips before moving back to your eyes. “Well I’m sure you’ve done it.” he smirks.

“Done what?” you ask, feeling the tension growing between the two of you. Your heart is hammering in your chest just from his proximity.

“Kiss,” he whispers, a devilish grin on his perfectly pink lips. His head moves slowly towards yours, tilting to the side before brushing his lips softly against yours. Chills fill your body as his lips meet yours, the taste of him shockingly present even if only for a moment. Your lips move against his instinctively, a soft whine sounding from you from the contact. Before you can even process what is happening he pulls away, your body already craving the feeling again.

“There, now we can be sure,” he grins, resettling himself against the back of the couch. It’s as if nothing ever happened as he plays his next turn, his hand returning to rest on your leg as your brain swirls with a thousand different thoughts.

You aren’t even sure what to say, or how to react to that. All you know is that you need him to do that again. You’re down to your last play, both of you teetering on the edge of a win and all it comes down to is this. With shaky hands you play the word ‘Twice’.

Jake tries his best to conceal his laugh, running his hand over his mouth as he lets out a knowing sigh.

“No way,” you breathe, “There’s no way,” you say, suddenly realizing that he knows he is about to win.

His eyes flick up to yours, half guilty and half victorious as he nods his head and bites his lips together. He places his final tiles to spell out ‘Wiz’ giving him the last fifteen points he needed to seal the deal.

You stare at him in shock, truly unable to recall the last time you lost at a game of Scrabble.

“You seem surprised,” he grins. “Told you I would win.”

“I–” you mutter, “I can’t believe it.”

“No one in my family will ever play me. Probably should have mentioned that.” he giggles, starting to clear the board.

You roll your eyes and shake your head, smiling at how beautiful his smile is. How pretty his laugh is. How alluring his eyes are in the dim living room light. You suddenly realize that it must be glaringly obvious how suddenly smitten you are with this man, feeling a rush of embarrassment overtake you.

“It’s fine, I need to go to bed anyway,” you mumble, pushing up from the coffee table. You’re unsteady on your feet, the champagne hitting you all at once. Jake quickly stands and catches you, steadying you before you topple over onto the floor.

“You okay, Y/N?” he asks, both of his hands resting on your arms. You can feel that warmth again, not only from his touch but also from his stare. The two of you look at each other for a few silent seconds, your eyes flicking down to his lips again, begging him to kiss you one more time.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows heavily, taking a deep breath as he releases your arms. You nod and step backward, awkwardly looking around the room as you think of something to say.

“Thanks um– for playing with me,” you stammer.

“Of course, I will let you win next time.” he teases with a grin.

“Absolutely not. I want to win fair and square,” you laugh, grabbing your phone off of the coffee table.

“Fair enough. ‘M gonna lock up and put the pizza away, and I uh– I’ll see you in the morning, I guess?”

“Oh, I can do it,” you say, looking over towards the kitchen.

His arm reaches out and stops you, his touch soft and gentle, “I’ve got it.” he whispers.

You smile sheepishly and nod, “Okay…Um, goodnight Jake.”

He pinches his chin with his fingers as he smiles at the ground before looking back at you. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You slip into your bedroom and close the door, your heart pounding in your chest as you can finally let your real emotions loose.

Holy shit.

You frantically change into your pajamas, swapping your t-shirt for a thin pointelle tank top with a tiny pink rose at the top. You pull on the tiny matching shorts and put your hair in a ponytail, staring at yourself in the mirror as your mind swirls with thoughts of Jake. You cannot believe you just kissed your roommate, on the first night no less. But he kissed you, right? And why did you like it?

You quietly open your bedroom door, walking across the dark hallway into the bathroom to brush your teeth, turning on the light and settling in front of the left sink you claimed as your own. You were thankful for the double vanity, giving each of you your own space in the small bathroom. You reach for your toothbrush and turn on the water, lifting the toothbrush to your teeth as Jake appears in the doorway.

You’re positive you felt your heart stop at the sight of him, standing there in just his low slung sweatpants, the Led Zeppelin t-shirt long gone. Your eyes focus on the stack of pendants hanging against his tanned chest, his hair no longer hanging freely around his face, but instead pulled back into a bun at his neck. You rip your eyes away from him, trying not to stare, but you can feel his eyes on you just the same.

You quickly realize you are in significantly less clothing than you were earlier, leaving very little to the imagination. You keep your eyes focused straight ahead as you watch yourself in the mirror. He steps up next to you at his sink, grabbing his own toothbrush and turning on the water. His hand reaches for his toothpaste sitting in the cup on the counter. His eyes meet yours as he squeezes the toothpaste onto his brush with a smirk. Your heart is beating rapidly as you brush your teeth, your eyes wandering to look at him through the mirror as he begins to brush. You catch each other's eyes a few times, a soft smile taking over your faces as you both brush for the full two minutes.

You lean over to spit, suddenly feeling nervous for him to watch you, but you do it anyway, secretly wondering if this would be a nightly occurrence. You hear a soft chuckle leave his lips as he watches you, finishing out his two minutes of brushing as you rinse with mouthwash. Feeling squeaky clean you lean against the counter with your arms folded across your chest, watching him just the same as he watched you. He feels no embarrassment spitting in front of you, making a scene as he gargles his mouth wash and flashes you his bright white smile.

He raises his eyebrows playfully as he takes in the sight of you one more time, letting out a deep breath before turning towards the door.

“Night,” he winks, slipping out of the bathroom and down the hall before you can respond.

You make your way back to your bedroom, noticing his bedroom door is still open. His sound machine is on, playing a constant stream of white noise as his room glows a deep red. You catch sight of him in his bed just briefly, slipping into your room and shutting the door as your heart pounds. You slide into your nice cold sheets and let your tired muscles relax into the mattress with a sigh. The mattress Jake was laying on just hours ago. Shit. Stop it Y/N. You cannot have a crush on your roommate.

Right?

JAKE POV

You settle your head against your pillows, letting out a sigh as the fan blows cold air onto you. You can hardly shake the image of her in that little sleep set from your mind, wanting nothing more than to reach out and feel its softness against your hands. Those two minutes in the bathroom felt like ten, controlling every single urge inside of you telling you to kiss her again.

You aren’t even sure what possessed you to do that. It wasn’t something you typically did, but for some reason, it felt right. She felt right. The two seconds your lips were on hers were the best two seconds you’ve had in months, and knowing she was sleeping just one door over was killing you.

You reach over to your nightstand for your phone, seeing a missed text from Sam.

Sam

10:12PM: What is your new roommates name again?

You

11:07PM: Y/N

Sam

11:09PM: Is she hot?

You decide to send him a photo of her, knowing you can’t admit to him that you do in fact think she is hot, because he will never let it go. You open her instagram and take a few screenshots, sending them over to him to let him decide for himself. Though you already knew what he would say.

Sam

11:15PM: Wait…I think I know her. I recognize her.

You feel your heart start to beat a little harder. Shit, how does he know her?

You

11:16PM: How?

Sam

11:17PM: Hold on, let me go look at her Instagram.

It feels like a year passes before he messages you again.

Sam

11:25PM: Oh shit! Yeah, she gave me a massage a few weeks ago. Danny recommended her to me. He sees her too.

You

11:26PM: What?

Sam

11:29PM: Yeah! She works magic. I wonder if she would remember me…Maybe I will make another appointment.

Goddamnit.

You

11:30PM: Watch it, Sam.

Sam

11:31PM: Yeah, yeah, I think I will. Gonna talk about you the whole time like I don’t know who she is…

You

11:32PM: Do it and see what happens, I’m warning you.

Sam

11:33PM: Oh relax Jake

You lock your phone and toss it to your nightstand, wishing you never even responded to him in the first place. How was it that she had her hands on both of them before ever touching you? It seemed wrong. The thought alone makes your skin crawl. You want her to touch you like that.

You suddenly feel a wave of guilt creeping over you that you kissed her tonight. Even though she kissed you back, and it was in the name of fun, you know you should have asked first. You should have never crossed that line. But god it felt so right.

You know you need to apologize in the morning. Apologize and make things right between you. Tell her you shouldn’t have, and that you respect her as a woman and as your roommate. Show her that she's safe here. That she’s safe with you. That she has nothing to worry about or be afraid of.

You will do that for her, pushing your mounting feelings to the side, even if it’s not what you really want. You don’t know exactly how long she’s been alone in this life, but you do know that she wouldn’t be anymore. You were going to make sure of it.

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mywitchyblog · 1 month ago

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Hello! I’ve just read your post about respawning and permashifting and I love it! Though I have question about respawning since I pretty much adopted respawning other than permashifting like I used too mainly due to the fact I’m not coming back here. Like you said in your post, respawning can be consider in some cases spiritual, Particularly with planned reincarnations and all that other stuff relating to it. My whole thing is does it have to be spiritual? Like can just be something simple like permashifting where you just shifting with the intention of not coming back anymore while your typical stand in/version of you just stay behind and live our old life normally. I know this is kinda of dumb question but I just gotta ask cause I even though I do believe in some spiritual practices and concepts, I’m not that very spiritual.

Alright, babe, let’s get into it. So, does respawning have to be spiritual? Is there some universal rule that says, "Honey, if you’re respawning, you gotta bring out the incense and crystals"? Absolutely not. Respawning doesn’t have to be spiritual unless you want it to be.

Respawning and Spirituality: Is it Really That Deep?

People have been throwing “spiritual” around when it comes to respawning because, let’s face it, the idea of moving on to another life can sound mad ethereal. Like, there’s this whole vibe of leaving this world for another, so naturally, people connect that with concepts like reincarnation, the afterlife, higher planes of existence, etc. But, just because something has that “spiritual” ring to it doesn’t mean it’s inherently spiritual for everyone. That’s the gag with shifting and respawning: they’re blank slates. You paint them however you want.

Some folks see shifting as a deeply spiritual practice because it feels that way to them. They might associate it with reincarnation or even ascension, like they’re leveling up or tuning into a higher frequency of their being. Respawning, in that framework, is basically saying goodbye to this life on a soul level and fully embracing their DR as if they’re reborn. So yeah, for those people, it is spiritual. But, babe, that’s their lane, not yours.

The Scientific and Quantum Side of Respawning

Now, let’s talk science for a sec. Just because something sounds mystical doesn’t mean it can’t have a logical, no-nonsense explanation behind it. Some people look at shifting through a more scientific or quantum lens. Ever heard of the Many Worlds Theory? It’s this idea in quantum mechanics that every possible outcome and version of reality exists in some parallel universe. When you think about respawning through that lens, it’s not so much spiritual as it is a form of stepping into a version of yourself that exists in another reality. In that view, you’re not reincarnating; you’re just moving from one branch of existence to another, no more mystical than flipping to a different chapter in a book.

And if you vibe with that, guess what? Your respawn doesn’t have to feel any more mystical than changing your major in college. It’s just a choice. A powerful, badass choice, but still just a choice.

Your Perception = Your Reality

Let’s get into some tea: Your perception is what gives shifting and respawning their meaning. If spirituality feels like a stretch or just isn’t your thing, don’t force it. Respawning can be as simple or as profound as you make it. For example:

If spirituality clicks for you, you might feel that respawning is like a soul shift, a transition from one life journey to another.

If you’re more into the idea of science and self-determination, then respawning can be as straightforward as deciding, "I’m done here. Time to live my best life somewhere else."

The best part? Both interpretations are valid. Because respawning is a concept with roots in personal interpretation, it’s like water—it takes the shape of whatever container you put it in. Spirituality might make it feel like a river flowing into the ocean of another life, while science or logic might make it feel like stepping off one subway line and hopping onto another.

Does Leaving Mean Losing Yourself?

One thing I see sometimes is people worrying that respawning means erasing themselves. Like, if you’re leaving this life, does it mean you’re abandoning everything you were here? The answer is: only if you decide that’s the case. Just because you’re moving on doesn’t mean the essence of you is gone. You’re still you, whether you frame it spiritually, scientifically, or just pragmatically. Your DR self can carry every single memory, trait, or little quirk of yours if that’s what you want. It’s not about losing or erasing; it’s about expanding into something new.

Respawning Without the Woo-Woo

So, if you’re not into the spiritual stuff, here’s what respawning could look like for you:

Think of it as a permanent shift: You’re making the choice to stay in a different reality, while another version of you remains here, handling the everyday stuff.

See it as self-redefinition: You’re not necessarily shedding your soul; you’re just saying, “I’m choosing to redefine my existence in a way that works for me.”

Don’t worry about the ‘meaning’ too much: Sometimes, people get so caught up in “What does this mean for my soul?” or “Am I spiritually transforming?” when the simpler answer is just “I want a change, and this is how I’m making it happen.”

Why “It Has to Be Spiritual” is a Lie

It’s almost like someone saying, “To appreciate art, you have to be an artist.” Um, no, sis. You can experience art however you want, and the same goes for shifting. Just because some people feel a certain way doesn’t make it the rule. The only “rule” in respawning is what you set for yourself. If spiritual elements don’t speak to you, then they don’t belong in your practice. They’re just extras, like garnish on a plate. And let’s be real, sometimes the garnish just gets in the way of the main course.

You Define Your Own Shifting Journey 💅

Shifting and respawning are about self-determination, baby. You’re in control. Just like you don’t need to meditate in a cave or light sage to live your best life, you don’t need to approach respawning in a spiritual way if it doesn’t resonate with you. You can be as witchy or as no-nonsense as you want. Your approach to respawning is as unique as your fingerprint.

So, when it comes down to it, does respawning have to be spiritual? Absolutely not. Whether you’re burning incense, cracking open quantum physics books, or just winging it and saying, “Bye, Felicia,” it’s your shift, your rules. Take what feels right, leave what doesn’t, and own that choice unapologetically. 👑

So, here’s your final answer, darling: No, respawning doesn’t have to be spiritual unless you want it to be.

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danielmolloystits · 12 days ago

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hello!! i am SheOfBadIdeas and this is my IWTV fic masterlist <3

i primarily write devil's minion (armand/daniel), though there are a couple of other pairings thrown in here for good measure. click through to see what i've been up to!

☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧

Series & Chaptered Fics

☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧

rewind & play it back - (Armand/Daniel, WC: ~21.6k, Rating: E). Series, ongoing, 2/3 works. Post-Season 2. Devil's Minion Era happened.

Part One: reprise. - (Armand/Daniel, WC: ~13.7k, Rating: E). Completed, 4/4 chapters. Armand POV. A take on the events leading to Daniel's turning, including a walk down memory lane. You might enjoy this fic if you like poetic prose mixed with depraved smart. Comes with art by @ladyofthecreeddraws <3 But when he met Daniel, he had already shattered into the pieces of himself that are loud, insincere, cruel. The pieces that are not worth loving, some part of his mind whispers, in a voice that could belong to Louis or to Lestat or to any number of others whom he has tried to fit inside of himself and keep, an endeavor which has only ever ended in the same blistering disappointment. And now—as he is sitting in the wreckage of another failed attempt at shaping himself into a home, covered in plaster dust from an outburst of rage only a fraction as bright as that which he deserved—now all there is left in front of him is Daniel.

Part Two: redux. - (Armand/Daniel, Daniel/Lestat, Louis/Lestat, WC: ~8k, Rating: E). Ongoing, 4/? chapters. Vampire Old Maniel. Daniel POV. The immediate aftermath of Daniel's turning and Armand's absconding. You might like enjoy fic if you like poetic prose mixed with humor and angst. Armand feeds him from the wrist and Daniel is unmade, pulled like the end of a slipknot until he once more is a thing unformed. A blank slate, tabula rasa, wiped clean. A sand castle at high tide. A snake eating its own tail. Everything eats itself in the end, comes back to where it started, and Daniel is no different. His blood is Armand’s blood is his blood, and when he gulps down mouthful after mouthful, Armand’s hand feverishly massaging his throat to aid the weak, dying muscles in forcing it down, it is himself he is drinking from.

☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧

as soft as leather, as plush as lace - (Armand/Daniel, WC: ~6.5k, Rating: E). Completed, 2/2 fics. Devil's Minion Era (1970s-1980s).

Part One: thin like lace & twice as tight - (Armand/Daniel, WC: ~3.6k, Rating: E). Completed, 1/1 chapters. Daniel POV. Pure smut. Daniel in lingerie and a heaping helping of blood play thrown in for good measure. Made in collaboration with the brilliant, brilliant art of @ladyofthecreeddraws He’s trying not to think about it. He doesn’t want to spoil the reveal prematurely, after all. But it’s hard not to, with the satiny spandex ribbon that’s currently nestled between his ass cheeks insistent on riding up to give him a constant wedgie. “Is there a reason you’re singing ‘Femme Fatale’ so loudly in your head right now?” Armand asks from across the dinner table, a bemused grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is our conversation boring you that terribly?”

Part Two: soon, i'll be your dog - (Armand/Daniel, WC: ~2.9k, Rating: E). Completed, 1/1 chapters. Armand POV. Smut. Lingerie and collaring and leashing. More art by @ladyofthecreeddraws, who continues to own my entire soul. Honestly I'm not sure what else you might want tbh. Armand looks down at him. At his flustered, pretty face, at his slightly parted lips. He wants to put the tip of his thumb in Daniel’s mouth, so he does, Daniel immediately opening up wider to allow the digit to slide over his tongue. So good, Armand thinks, his eyes darkening as he watches Daniel hollow his cheeks and suck. So perfect, and so very mine.

☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧

i'll keep your pillow warm - (Armand/Daniel, Armand/Louis, WC: ~17.2k, Rating: E). Ongoing, 4/? chapters. Dubai Era. Daniel POV. A canon rewrite, starting when Armand is pretending to be Rashid and continuing therefrom, wherein Armand and Daniel are committing boatloads of infidelity. You might enjoy this fic if you enjoy the idea of Old Maniel being free use and giving Armand a truly absurd number of blowjobs, and also all the drama of cheating. When Armand was performing earlier, starring in the most insufferable one man show the journalist has ever borne witness to, he had seemed akin to a stranger—utterly foreign, so incredibly different from the boy Daniel had begun to care for. But as he is right now, unraveling on Daniel’s tongue, the vampire is almost nostalgic to him. Like sinking into the warmth of his childhood blanket.

☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧

break up with your girlfriend, i'm bored - (Daniel/Lestat, Armand/Daniel, WC: ~3.2k, Rating: E). Completed, 2/2 chapters. Post-Season 2. Vampire Old Maniel. Daniel POV. Daniel fucks Lestat to make Armand jealous. It works. You might enjoy this fic if you like humor and smut and obvious ploys to piss of 500-year-old vampires (that work).

“No.” Lestat grabs one of Daniel’s hands in both of his own, making such intense eye contact with the journalist that it starts to grow uncomfortable. “You deserve better. You must understand this.”

“Okay,” Daniel agrees, shifting a little in his seat. Anything to move past this point in the interaction. “I deserve better.”

“Good,” Lestat says, nodding resolutely to himself. “This is why you should let me fuck you.”

☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧

One-Shots!

☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧

in the graveyard that is his body - (Armand/Daniel, WC: ~1.6k, Rating: M). Completed, 1/1 chapters. Post-Season 2. Vampire Old Maniel. Armand POV. Armand dissociates. Daniel grounds him. You might enjoy this fic if you like poetic prose and hurt/comfort. Made in collaboration with @ladyofthecreeddraws, which is to say, there's truly incredible art attached to this fic.

“What do you need, baby?” Daniel asks, his voice delicate as a soap bubble. Armand can just barely feel the puff of air on his neck as he speaks. He can feel, too, where Daniel’s hand rubs at his arm lightly, where his caress brings goosebumps to the surface. The parts of him that Daniel touches light up like a switchboard, like isolated stars in a constellation that hasn’t been drawn yet. Each point of contact something sharp and alive in the graveyard that is his body.

“Touch me,” Armand begs, turning his face into Daniel’s chest. Listening to the soft thud of his heartbeat, the same heartbeat that flutters beneath Armand’s rib cage. Their heart, their heart, their heart. “Everywhere, please.” ☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧ looks just like an angel - (Armand/Daniel, WC: ~5.6k, Rating: E). Devil's Minion Era (1970s). Priest!Armand. Smut. Dubious Consent. Daniel POV. Armand pretends to be the priest running Daniel's NA, and then they have sex about it. You might enjoy this fic if you like Armand's gaslighting mindfuckery and him abusing a position of power over Daniel. Also religious imagery.

“The next step is coming to believe in a power greater than yourself.” The priest’s hands are clasped together, his thumbs twiddling idly as he speaks, “One that is capable of delivering you from your illness.”

“So, what,” Daniel deadpans. “I’ve gotta convert to Catholicism?”

“If you’re so inclined,” Father Armand responds wryly, as if he’s privy to some great secret that eludes the poor, ailing addict. Daniel wonders in that moment how old the other man is. He can’t have too many years on Daniel, surely, but he seems so much older that it’s almost a little unnerving. “However, it could be anything, really; your love for your family, your will to live. It could even be me, if you wanted.”

☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧ to pull sound from a still heart - (Armand/Daniel, WC: 1.6k, Rating: M). Completed, 1/1 chapters. Post-Season 2. Established Relationship. Armand POV. He's having a bit of an identity crisis and Daniel praise kinks him through it. You might enjoy this if you like tooth-rottingly sweet fluff that is also smutty.

Armand’s voice cracks. “Then how can I know myself?” There’s another question lying underneath it, one he can’t bring himself to voice—how can I know if I am worth anything? Daniel seems to hear it anyway.

“Well,” he starts, before placing a soft peck on Armand’s clavicle. “I’d say I know you pretty well. And aside from the fact that you never help with laundry, I think the whole package is kind of great.” ☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧ glaciers melting in the dead of night - (Armand/Daniel, WC: ~5.2k, Rating: E). Completed, 1/1 chapters. Post-Season 2, Episode 5. Dubai Era. Armand POV. This is really just a BDSM fic where Daniel gets to dom Armand in the Dubai penthouse. Bondage and orgasm denial. You might enjoy this if you think Daniel should get to top more.

“All this time, and you haven’t changed a bit.” The words fire from his mouth like gunshots into still air, his lips finally curling into the contemptuous sneer he’s been keeping at bay for the past several minutes. “Still nothing more than an eager black hole. An unremarkable, wanting mess of a man.”

What is it like, he wonders, to be so out of control of your own desire? To be such a slave to your own basest impulses? After five hundred years, he’s forgotten the feeling. Suddenly, he is covetous to remember. ☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧ before you shake my tomb - (Armand/Daniel, WC: ~1.7k, Rating: E). Completed, 1/1 chapters. Devil's Minion Era. Non-Con. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Armand POV. Daniel has been getting increasingly careless in his pursuit of cheap thrills, and Armand steps in to try to curb his impulses for the better. Somnophilia ensues. For the love of god, read the tags on this one. You might enjoy this if you're into really fucked up power dynamics and Armand "knowing what's best" for Daniel.

Daniel has grown reckless.

He can sense the phantom press of Armand at the fringes of his consciousness, just barely there like the whistle of wind through rustling leaves. Holds snippets of the vampire in his fractured mind and longs to understand the full picture of him—his form, his contours, the shades and hues that fill the lines of him. He knows Armand is there, but he doesn’t know what he is. Doesn’t know if he tastes like redemption or reckoning, if he tastes like both wrapped together like the threads in a braid. ☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧ a study in collectivist post-dissolutive reconciliation tactics - (Armand/Daniel, Daniel/Lestat, Lestat/Louis, Lestat/Armand, Louis/Armand, Daniel/Louis, AKA the Diabolicule, WC: ~1.3k, Rating: M). Post-Season 2. Vampire Old Maniel. Polycule Fic. 3rd Person Omniscient POV. The Polycule Breakup Sex Fic. You might enjoy this if you like humor and crack.

It is harder than one might expect to divide the property of four vampires after a break-up. They’ve been at it for hours and are still only halfway through their wardrobe.

“Lestat, I’m assuming this ‘Baby Slut’ crop top belongs to you?” Louis asks with a raised eyebrow, holding the offending garment up for inspection.

“Mmm, non,” Lestat replies. “Though I would look fantastic in it, I’m sure.”

Daniel snorts. “Well, it isn’t mine.”

They all look to Armand.

“It was on sale,” he sniffs haughtily. “And the shopgirl said it made me look ‘cunty.’” ☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⛦˙♱⋆☠⋆♱˙⛧☠ ⋆♱˙⛧

and that's all for now!! mwah mwah mwah thank you for taking the time to peruse <3 drop me a comment if you end up reading any of them :)

#iwtv 2022 #iwtv #interview with the vampire #devil's minion #daniel molloy #iwtv armand #armandaniel #devils minion #armand #armand x daniel #lestat de lioncourt #danstat #diabolicule #lesmand #loustat #loumand #danlou #louis de pointe du lac #my fic

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dungeefox · 7 days ago

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A Love That Lingers - H.J

She wouldn't mind spending the rest of her life making Joshua remember how much she loves him.

pairing: joshua x oc

genre: angst, fluff

wc: 2,710

She stood at the edge of the park, her heart a swirling mix of hope and anxiety. The gentle rustle of autumn leaves was a stark contrast to the storm of emotions within her. Today, she would meet Joshua, the boy she had loved for two years, whose memory was now a blank slate.

It had been two months since the accident. Joshua had survived physically unscathed, but his memories had not. Doctors called it retrograde amnesia, but to her, it felt like losing him twice. She missed the way he knew her favorite coffee order, the way he laughed at her terrible jokes, and the feeling of his hand in hers.

Determined, she had spent weeks visiting him, showing photographs, recounting stories, and trying to rekindle the spark that once burned so brightly. Today, she hoped to remind him of their shared past, and maybe, just maybe, light a candle in the darkness of his memory.

𓂃۶ৎ

She sat comfortably on the couch, her phone turned on, an album full of their photos together ready. Her boyfriend, sat beside her, a curious yet blank expression on his face.

"Ready for a trip down memory lane?" She asked with a gentle smile, trying to infuse her voice with warmth and hope.

"Absolutely," Joshua replied, a hint of excitement in his voice despite the uncertainty that often clouded his thoughts. He was eager to rediscover the fragments of his past, trusting her to guide him through the mosaic of forgotten moments.

She showed him the first photo, revealing a picture of the two of them at a beach, laughing as the waves crashed around them. "This is from our trip to Jeju last summer," she explained. "You insisted on teaching me how to surf, even though I was hopeless at it."

Joshua studied the photo, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to connect with the image. "I remember the ocean," he said slowly, "but not the trip. It feels like trying to recall a dream."

She nodded, understanding the struggle. "That's okay. We can create new memories, too. But I thought revisiting these might help.”

Turning to the next photo, she revealed a candid shot of Joshua proposing during a picnic in the park. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, casting a romantic glow over the scene.

"You proposed to me here," she said softly, tracing the outline of the photo with her finger. "It was the happiest day of my life."

Joshua gazed at the picture, silent for a moment. "I wish I could remember that," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "But I can see how happy we were. I can feel it."

She felt her heart race at the thought of how Joshua could still recall the emotions they shared in that moment. It was as if time had folded back on itself, bringing those cherished memories to the forefront of her mind. The way he smiled, the warmth in his eyes, and the gentle touch of his hand were all reminders of the connection they shared. It was a bittersweet nostalgia, a dance between what was and what could have been. Despite everything that had changed, the essence of their bond remained untouched, a testament to the depth of their feelings. As she looked at him now, she realized that some moments are timeless, etched into the heart and soul, waiting to be revisited with every beat.

𓂃۶ৎ

Meeting Joshua has become part of her routine, and their dates are feeling a lot more like tutoring lessons. Excited to look back on their memories together. As she approached the bench where they had agreed to meet, she noticed Joshua sitting with a girl she didn't recognize. The girl was laughing, her eyes sparkling with ease that made her heart sink. Joshua looked at her with a polite, distant smile, a stranger wearing a familiar face.

"Oh hi! This is Hana," Joshua introduced, his voice warm, yet detached. "We met at the library. She's been helping me with some... stuff for a few weeks now"

She extended her hand to Hana, trying to mask her surprise and disappointment that Joshua did not bother introducing her as his fiancée. "Nice to meet you," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart.

As they sat together, she tried to share memories, recounting trips they had taken and moments they had cherished. But every mention of the past was met with a blank stare from Joshua and an encouraging nod from Hana. She watched as Joshua turned to Hana for reassurance, the connection between them undeniable.

Despite her best efforts, she felt her stories fall flat, like raindrops on a parched ground. Joshua listened, but his eyes often drifted to Hana, as if she were the anchor, keeping him grounded in a sea of confusion.

Eventually, the conversation turned to lighter topics—music, books, and favourite movies. Here, Joshua seemed more animated, engaging with both her and Hana. She noticed how Joshua's eyes lit up when Hana spoke, a spark she had longed to see.

When it was time to leave, Joshua walked her to the edge of the park. "Thank you for coming," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I appreciate you trying to help me remember."

She nodded, trying to ignore the lump in her throat. "I'll always be here for you, Joshua," she replied, her voice soft but firm. "No matter what."

As she walked away, she couldn't help but glance back. She saw Joshua rejoining Hana, their heads close together as they laughed at something she couldn't hear.

As she watched him now, she felt like a shadow of a stranger's life. She remembered the way Joshua used to look at her, with eyes full of warmth and love. Now, that same look was directed at someone else. It was as if she was invisible, a bystander in a story that was spiralling away from her.

The woman he was with, Hana, had been a constant presence in Joshua’s life since the accident. She was kind and understanding, someone who had helped him navigate the complexities of his new world. She couldn't help but acknowledge the bond they shared, a bond that seemed to grow stronger each day. A bond that she once shared with him.

Her heart ached as she realized she was losing him, not to a rival but to a forgotten past that she could not reclaim. Every smile they exchanged, every laugh they shared, was a reminder of the memories she treasured, the memories that had been erased from his mind.

She wondered if she should fight for him, remind him of the love they had once shared. But she feared that pushing too hard might drive him further away, might cement his feelings for Hana, who seemed to understand him in a way she no longer could.

She knew then that she had a choice. She could hold onto the past, or she could let go and allow Joshua the chance to find happiness, even if it was with someone else.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she grappled with the decision before her. It was not an easy choice to make, but she knew it was necessary. She took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs, and resolved to give Joshua the space he needed.

𓂃۶ৎ

In the days that followed, she focused on rediscovering herself, immersing in hobbies she had set aside, and reconnecting with friends she had drifted away from. Though her heart still carried a shadow of sorrow, she found solace in the small joys of everyday life. Maybe she needed to give Joshua time for himself. It would allow him the freedom to explore his thoughts, passions, and dreams without feeling the weight of expectations. In doing so, she hoped that when they came together again, it would be with renewed energy and understanding. Perhaps this period of reflection and personal growth would bring them closer, allowing their relationship to flourish in new and unexpected ways.

𓂃۶ৎ

One afternoon, as she sat in her favorite café, sipping a steaming cup of tea, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turned, surprised to see Joshua standing there with a soft smile.

"Hey,” He greeted, taking a seat beside her. “I've been thinking a lot," he said, his voice earnest.

She was filled with fear, anxious about what the future might hold. Is this it? She hadn't come to a conclusion yet, but did she need to let him go now? Could this be the end of their love story? Attempting to push these thoughts aside, she looked at Joshua’s hand and felt her heart shatter at the sight of his bare ring finger. Shr had given him a promise ring. It was a symbol of their shared dreams and hopes, a testament to the bond they had nurtured over the years. Each time she glanced at that spot, now empty, it was as if a piece of her own heart was missing.

Joshua seemed to notice this, panicking, he reached out something from his pocket.

“I remove it when I shower. Is that okay?” He said smiling, lifting his right hand in front of her eyes holding the ring. Her heart skipped a beat as relief washed over her. A warm smile spread across her face, and she felt a wave of affection for him. "Of course," she replied softly, touched by his thoughtful gesture.

Joshua chuckled, slipping the ring back onto his finger. "I just wanted to make sure you knew it was always with me."

She nodded, feeling the tension between them dissolve. "Thank you for reassuring me," she said, her voice gentle. "I've been doing a lot of thinking too. I think this time apart has been good for us."

He nodded in agreement, his eyes meeting hers with a renewed sense of understanding. "I feel the same. It's given me the clarity I needed. I realized that no matter what, my heart always finds its way back to you."

They sat there for a moment, the world bustling around them, yet it felt like they were in their own little bubble. The love between them seemed to grow stronger with each passing second, unspoken words and shared memories weaving an invisible bond that was unbreakable.

"How about we take things one step at a time?" she suggested, her heart full of hope.

Joshua smiled, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "I would love that," he replied, reaching across the table to hold her hand. The warmth of his touch was a promise of new beginnings and endless possibilities, and she knew, deep down, that this was just the start of a beautiful new chapter in their lives.

They lingered in that moment, savoring the peace and understanding that had settled between them. Around them, the café buzzed with the sounds of life—clinking cups, soft chatter, and the occasional laughter that drifted through the air like a gentle breeze.

"What do you say we make some plans for the weekend?" Joshua asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

She grinned, a playful glint in her eyes. "I think that sounds perfect. Maybe a picnic in the park? Or we could try that new art exhibit downtown."

"Why not both?" Joshua suggested with a wink. "We can make it a day full of adventures so I can get down on one knee and propose to you again."

Her heart soared at the thought, and she nodded enthusiastically. "I can't wait," she said, feeling the excitement bubble up inside her. She was so excited that she wasn’t able to comprehend what he said last.

“Wait, what?” She asked, lifting furrowing her eyebrows at him.

“Mmh? Oh nothing, go ahead finish your coffee.” Joshua answered looking away from her.

Little did she know that Joshua meant what he said. He was planning on proposing again, may not be in the park or the art exhibit, but he will. Joshua had been planning this for weeks, meticulously crafting a day that would be both memorable and meaningful. He wanted to recreate the magic of their first proposal while adding new layers of shared experiences and cherished moments.

𓂃۶ৎ

Joshua did just that, taking her to some of the few places he remembers the two of them have shared so many memories of. Although he may not remember all the little details, he loves how the places made him feel and how it makes his heart always go back to her. He guided her through the vibrant streets of the old town, where the aroma of freshly baked pastries filled the air. They both paused at the quaint café on the corner, where they had spent countless hours lost in conversation, sipping rich coffee and sharing dreams. The laughter and warmth of those moments seemed to linger, enveloping her both in a comforting embrace.

Next, he took her to the park where the autumn leaves painted the ground in brilliant hues of gold and crimson. It was here that they first held hands, and as they walked under the canopy of trees, the crunch of leaves beneath your feet brought back a flood of cherished memories. Joshua smiled, recalling how they had playfully tossed leaves at each other, her laughter echoing through the crisp air.

Finally, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, he led her to the hill overlooking the city, a place where they had often sat together, watching the world transform under the twilight sky. The city lights twinkled like stars, and as they both settled down on the familiar patch of grass, Joshua turned to her with a tender gaze. "No matter where we go," he said softly, "these places will always hold a piece of us. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

𓂃۶ৎ

As they finished their lunch, Joshua suggested, "How about we start with a stroll through the botanical gardens today? I hear the cherry blossoms are in full bloom."

She smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "That sounds perfect. And maybe we can stop by that little cafe we love again for some pastries?"

Joshua nodded, his heart racing with excitement. "Absolutely, sweetheart."

The sun was shining brightly as they meandered through the gardens, hand in hand, surrounded by the delicate beauty of the blossoms.

As they approached a quiet, secluded spot by a serene pond, Joshua paused and turned to her, his expression serious yet tender. "This is where I wanted to bring you," he said softly.

She looked around, taking in the peacefulness of the moment, unaware of what was about to unfold. Joshua took a deep breath, reaching into his pocket as he knelt down on one knee.

"Every day with you is an adventure," he began, his voice filled with emotion. "And I want to spend the rest of my life creating new memories with you. Will you marry me.....again?"

Tears of joy filled her eyes as she nodded, her heart overflowing with happiness. "Yes, a thousand times yes," she whispered, pulling him into a warm embrace.

The world seemed to stand still around them, the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft chirping of birds the only witnesses to their moment of profound love and commitment. As they held each other close, the pond reflected their entwined silhouettes, capturing the essence of their renewed promise.

Soon, they found themselves seated on a nearby bench, fingers still interlocked, reminiscing about the journey that had brought them here. The garden, with its vibrant tapestry of colors, seemed to celebrate alongside them, each flower a symbol of the love that had blossomed and flourished over time.

"We should come back here every year," she suggested, her eyes still glistening with joy.

Joshua smiled, kissing her hand gently. "And every year, I'll ask you again, just to make sure you're still willing to put up with me."

She laughed, the sound like music in the tranquil setting. "Always," she replied, knowing that their love was a garden that would continue to grow, nurtured by shared dreams and cherished moments like this one.

𓂃۶ৎ

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