#and the store's name is a pun

[sketchy-tour]

I'd like to think that Dandy in their scarecrow costume actually seems to attract crows instead of "scare" them.

The whole time they're in their getup, a crow or a few follow and linger around them. At first startling Dandy at the begining of their Halloween celebration and eventually they just sort of get used to them.

[phoenixwithapencil]

Meet Ratticus Roe and Mascratpone Dent, they are to be married as husbands tomorrow

[genderqueerpond]

going to the

y'all want anything

[iamthepulta]

The bookstore name can be called The Cupric Retriever.........

[manygeese]

Okay just imagine a demigod grandma with an enchanted candy bowl that just. keeps replenishing itself with those strawberry candies and werthers caramel

Her name is Dorothy and she’s A. A daughter of Hecate who only uses her magic for this, B. Camp Half-Blood’s resident grandma, and C. Universally adored, especially by younger campers.

Julie, daughter of Ares, asks for a pony for her birthday? Guess who wrangles a horse into camp to make that little girl’s day. It’s DOROTHY‼️

Mark, son of Apollo, wants someone to read his bedtime stories to him? Guess who volunteers to read him Goodnight Moon. It’s our girl DOROTHY‼️

Harold, son of Athena, needs someone to pose for the painting he’s working on? Guess who stands still for three hours to let him get the shading just right. You know her, you love her, it’s DOROTHY‼️

Nobody knows how this 70 year old demigod got to her big age, but they DO know about all the adventures she went on in her youth! All you have to do is ask Dorothy about her high school years and she WILL yap about how she and her best friends Ethel and Barbara went on a quest instead of going to prom.

[slimeappleartblog]

TV Star and Gameshow Host, The ever-smiling Videos James is never without a comedic remark.

[anthotneystark]

So my family isn’t the type to actually say the words “I love you” a lot, and it’s fine, we say it with actions, with gifts, visits, all that. Most of the time if it’s said its when we’re walking out the door or hanging up the phone, just a quick “love you, bye” type deal. Which is fine, we’re all good.

But my little brother (who’s not so little these days) came home Saturday after his errands and stuff and he handed me a stuffed shark, kissed the top of my head and told he he loved me. Which. I need a sec, because that’s more than our usual. I was staying at the house with him to help with the dog, and I hugged that shark all night long. Because it’s just a stuffed shark, just a generic thing from target.

But you know what?

Love is stored in the shark

[noisycowboyglitter]

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[bumpscosity]

if i can't get someone to drive me to build a bear on the 15th for the halloween drop im gonna *remembers self harm jokes aren't good for my mental health* steal the moon

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Headcanon that bludhaven hates heroes with a flaming passion bc theyre just cops in tights but love Nightwing and therefore vehemently deny his hero status to anyone and everyone.

Like there is no official Nightwing merch bc he’s a criminal he’s committing a crime okay vigilante justice is in fact not legal and he’s not TECHNICALLY on the justice league and he’s NOT TECHNICALLY the leader of the titans anymore. But there are about 400 different Etsy stores that make hoodies, crop tops, joggers, sweats, sunglasses, bracelets, t shirts with nightwings logo or some art of him on them.

Like they love this guy and will get into beef with any Gotham national who tries to claim Nightwing is THEIR hero.

1) hes not a hero he’s a criminal fuck you

2) you have a hero and just bc he’s shit at his job and needs our guy (who is NOT a hero) to help him sometimes doesn’t MEAN SHIT

people are walking around with tiny v shaped blue tattoos or embroidered on clothing but again NOT A HERO BLUDHAVEN DOESNT DO HEROS

There are coffee shops with bad nightwing pun names nightbird, beanwing, nightwinging it and so on

Every third piece of graffiti is this man’s logo

Every sandwich place or fast food chain has a ‘secret menu item’ that’s not actually secret bc everyone orders it and it’s just one of their normal items dyed blue (sodas, desserts, burger buns, condiments so on) some places will sell wings fried in blue panko bread crumbs and call them them ‘nightwings’ ofc these are ALL off the menu you can’t see these items and if you try to order them out of the city you get weird looks.

Superman goes on tv and says Nightwing is one of his favorite hero’s and bludhaven riots. wtf nightwing is your favorite hero you fuckin poser

1) nightwing isn’t a hero he’s a criminal so back off

2) he’s ours you and your frou frou fancy city that hasn’t been nuked by a sentient pile of radiation can fuck RIGHT off

Naturally the only person in bludhaven who is unaware of this is Dick Grayson bc tbh this man is too busy to give a fuck about what his city thinks of him. They trust him to get shit done. Good that’s all he needs okay he has 22 reports he needs to log he’s busy.

Tim Drake professional nightwing fanboy however is fucking furious about this because.

A) dick was a GOTHAM hero FIRST and bludhaven can suck it

B) fuck you nightwing isn’t just a a hero he’s THE HERO and the BEST hero and don’t be rude bc you have a complex

C) all of the cool nightwing merch only ships around bludhaven so has to get it ordered there and it’s just a hassle and he’d pay double he swears just let him get it delivered to where he is please Everytime he stops by bludhaven he leaves with 10 new pieces of nightwing merch and bc he has so much. Damian doesn’t think he notices when some of his doubles mysteriously go missing. He does.

D) since they are anti hero they are firmly unhelpful whenever he or Steph show up bc a case has lead them to the city

The one plus side was watching Jason Todd having a mental breakdown bc apparently in bludhaven redhood counts as a hero and is therefore hated.

“Yous worked with the bat yous a hero thems the rules”

“I KILL PEOPLE”

“Yeah so do cops and people always call them heroes”

“Okay but I kill people to protect the general public I put down scum”

“Cops say they do that too”

“I- okay you know what I’m a hero fine okay. Why isn’t nightwing a hero”

“Vigilante justice is a crime”

“I’m documentably worse than a vigilante”

“But you have worked with the bat”

“For money yeah”

“See you even get paid, face it you’re a hero which means you suck”

“You realize Nightwing has worked with the bat right like way more than I have”

“Listen that ain’t his fault okay, the bats incompetent and so are the rest to you idiots. He’s a nice guy and a good neighbor don’t mean he’s a hero”

“I- what the fuck is in this cities water”

“I don’t fuckin know but it’s prolly better than whatever gothams got in its harbor”

“I- yeah you’re probably right”

[mcrmadness]

My Finnish favorite pun is still in one of the (I think) Don Rosa comics, but it could have been someone else's too. Anyhow, the Ducks were in a museum and there were two "statues" of ancient people at the background, one with a sign 'muimies' and the other one with a sign 'muinainen'. I can't remember which one of these you read first and I also can't find images of the comic anywhere. Anyhow, an explanation follows next:

"Mui-mies" doesn't mean anything, but it has a word "mies" in it which means "man". So you assume okay, it's a man from a (fictional) nation called Mui. And then you look at the other statue that says "Mui-nainen" and you laugh because 'nainen' = 'woman', so it is saying a woman of a nation called Mui, BUT "muinainen" also means "ancient" in Finnish but it just happens to have the word "nainen" in it without it meaning anything there. That joke is the one that lives in my head rent free all the time.

One of the reasons why Donald Duck comics are so popular in Finland is because of the impressive creative effort that goes into the translations. The expressive language of the comics is distinct, there's this specific kind of goofy tone that the finnish versions have, to the point that if you grew up with them, it feels weird to read them in the original language with that iconic element missing.

I have completely forgotten which individual comic it was from, but there's one line of a certain comic that still lives in my head rent-free. I can't recall the full context, but in it Donald has once again spectacularly fucked up something - a dinner date? - with Daisy, and is lamenting his inevitable fate of having to face her fury.

The way his lament was in finnish was "Alkupalaksi pajunköyttä, pääruokana ankka omassa liemessään, ja jälkiruuaksi muutama korvapuusti!" which naturally just looks like someone beating their head against the keyboard to my non-finnish readers, but I'll need to have the original line to fully translate it in finnish context. Literally translated it goes "Some willow rope for an appetizer, a duck in its own broth for the main course, and for dessert, a few cinnamon rolls!" Which makes varying amounts of sense.

But in finnish, the expression "to feed someone willow rope" means to lie to someone, deceive them, to blow smoke up someone's ass. I have no idea why. The word liemi (sauce/broth/stock) is also used for "trouble" - finns can say that someone is "in a broth" in the same way that in english, one could say that someone is "in a pickle". And the finnish word for the finnish type of cinnamon roll is also used to refer to an open-faced slap in the face - the shape and spiral of the cinnamon roll very vaguely resembles an ear, and that kind of a slap also gets your ear.

So while the lament itself, which could have just been some bland expression of "oh dearest me, I am in trouble", is an one-sentence avalanche of food-related puns which can be interpreted as "first I will lie to her, then she will eat me alive when she realises the mess I've made, and as the final note she'll probably slap me."

[archivegyu]

masterlist

the softest silence

“anyways, don’t be a stranger” (scott street)

There's a photo in a silver frame on Seungcheol's desk.

It's not particularly striking, no grand event captured, no posed smiles. Just a snapshot from a summer long gone. Three people squeezed into the frame: you, with a sunflower tucked behind your ear, laughing so hard your eyes are nearly closed, the petals casting delicate shadows across your cheekbone. Jeonghan, cheeks puffed in mock offense, his arm flung over your shoulder, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your sleeve like he's afraid to hold too tight. And Seungcheol, in the middle, caught mid-laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkled, like the sound had startled even him. A moment of pure, unguarded joy frozen in time.

It's a photo no one meant to take. A moment no one meant to keep. And yet, it sits there, dustless, untouched. As if time itself had decided it should stay. The silver frame catching the morning light that filters through the half-drawn blinds of his office, creating a small constellation of reflections against the wall.

You still remember that day. Not because of the picture, but because of the way the sun hit Jeonghan's hair when he turned to call your name, golden light threading through strands that seemed to absorb the warmth itself. Because of the way Seungcheol looked at the both of you when you weren't looking, eyes soft and wondering, like he couldn't quite believe the three of you had found each other in this vast, indifferent universe. Because you didn't know, then, that it would be the beginning of something beautiful.

And quietly, quietly tragic.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You met Jeonghan when you were fifteen, on a Tuesday that had started like any other. Gray skies threatening rain, the weight of textbooks in your arms, the familiar knot of anxiety that came with being the new face in the hallway. The classroom smelled of chalk dust and floor polish, and you'd chosen a seat by the window, hoping the cloudy light might make you less visible somehow.

He was the first person to talk to you in your new school, sliding into the empty desk beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never doubted his welcome anywhere. Sitting next to you in math class and offering half of his chocolate chip cookie like it was some kind of peace treaty, breaking it with careful fingers that somehow knew exactly where to snap it for equal parts.

"Fresh-baked this morning," he'd said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "My mom's secret recipe. Well, not actually secret. She got it off the back of the chocolate chip bag, but we pretend it's a family heirloom."

The cookie was still warm, slightly gooey in the center. You'd taken it hesitantly, not quite understanding the easy way he'd decided to include you.

He never really gave you a choice. He just started existing in your life, like a bookmark slipped between pages. There one day and never gone after, marking something important without drawing attention to itself.

"I'm Yoon Jeonghan," he'd said with a grin that seemed to know something you didn't. "And you're my best friend now. Sorry, I don't make the rules."

You had laughed, not knowing how true it would become. Not understanding that some people come into your life with the quiet certainty of seasons changing. Inevitable, necessary, transformative.

Jeonghan was relentless in his affection. He called you at midnight just to tell you dumb jokes that he'd clearly rehearsed, his voice going slightly higher when he reached the punchline. He left sticky notes in your locker with bad puns and little doodles, stick figures with exaggerated features that somehow always looked like the teachers he was mocking. He dragged you into his chaos without warning. Impromptu trips to the convenience store during lunch, elaborate pranks on classmates that never crossed into cruelty, study sessions that devolved into philosophical debates about which cereal mascot would win in a fight.

But he also knew when to be still. He was there when your mom got sick, when the hospital visits became routine and the smell of antiseptic clung to your clothes even after washing. When you missed three weeks of school, he brought you handwritten notes. His messy scrawl somehow more comforting than the typed assignments other classmates had sent. When you needed someone to sit beside you in silence and just be there, he would arrive with a bag of your favorite snacks and a deck of cards, never pushing you to talk, never making you feel like your silence was a burden.

He never asked for anything in return. Never made you feel indebted for the way he held your world together when it threatened to come apart. It was just what friends did, he'd say, as if everyone had the capacity for the brand of loyalty he offered so effortlessly.

And then, two years later, he introduced you to Seungcheol.

It was at a house party Jeonghan had forced you to attend—his words, not yours. The living room was too warm, bodies pressed together in the limited space, music loud enough to feel in your chest but not quite loud enough to drown out the anxiety of social interaction. You were standing awkwardly by the snack table, calculating how much longer you needed to stay before you could politely leave, when he dragged someone over, his hand firm around the wrist of a boy you'd never seen before.

"This is Seungcheol," he said proudly, the way one might present a particularly impressive science project. "He's the only person I know who's more responsible than me. So naturally, I think he should take care of you when I'm not around."

The boy, Seungcheol, had looked momentarily embarrassed, a flush rising from his neck to his cheeks. But then he'd laughed softly, the sound barely audible over the thrum of the bass, and extended his hand. His fingers were slightly calloused, warm against your palm.

"It's nice to meet you," he said, his voice deeper than you'd expected, resonant in a way that made you want to hear more of it. "Jeonghan talks about you all the time. I was starting to think you might be imaginary."

You hadn't expected to fall for him. Not really. But there was something about the way he listened when you spoke, head slightly tilted, eyes never wandering from your face, as if every word you said deserved his complete attention. Something about the way he remembered the little things you said in passing. How you mentioned offhandedly that you loved tteokbokki from that one street vendor near the station, only to have him appear at your door weeks later with a container of it after you'd had a particularly rough day. Something about the way he stood slightly behind you in crowded spaces, quietly protective, never overbearing. A presence that said: I am here if you need me, but I trust you to navigate your own way.

He was the kind of safe that didn't feel suffocating. A quiet strength that reminded you of old trees, roots deep and branches steady even in the strongest winds.

But you were Jeonghan's best friend. And Seungcheol was Jeonghan's.

So you stayed quiet.

So did he.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The three of you became something of a unit. A trinity that others in your social circle recognized and accepted without question: where one went, the others followed, like planets locked in each other's gravitational pull.

Seungcheol drove the both of you home after late-night hangouts, always stopping for convenience store ramen. The fluorescent lights would cast strange shadows on your faces as you huddled around the small table outside, steam rising from your bowls, the night air cool against your skin. Jeonghan would sing badly in the passenger seat while you and Seungcheol harmonized just to annoy him, the three of you laughing until your ribs ached when he'd dramatically cover his ears and threaten to walk home.

Sometimes, Mingyu and Seokmin would tag along, stuffing themselves into the backseat, yelling over each other about snacks and playlists. Mingyu always insisting they needed more protein, Seokmin arguing just as passionately for sweeter options. The car would feel smaller then, warmer with the press of shoulders and knees, the windows fogging slightly with collective breath and laughter.

There were sleepovers where you all ended up on the floor of Jeonghan's apartment. A mess of blankets and pillows in the living room, the television casting blue light over your tired faces as you talked until sunrise. Seungcheol on one side of you, Jeonghan on the other, both too warm, too close, too familiar. Their breathing eventually evening out into sleep while you remained awake, hyperaware of every point of contact: Seungcheol's arm brushing yours, Jeonghan's head somehow ending up on your shoulder. And in those moments, you'd lie awake and wonder what it meant that your heart beat differently for each of them. A steady, warm rhythm for Seungcheol that felt like coming home; a quicksilver flutter for Jeonghan that felt like chasing something you couldn't quite name.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

One night, during your final year of high school, the three of you ended up on the roof of Jeonghan's apartment building. It was autumn, the air crisp but not yet biting, and you'd brought blankets to wrap around yourselves as you looked up at the few stars visible through the city's light pollution.

"We should make a pact," Jeonghan had said suddenly, his voice soft in the darkness. "That no matter where we end up after graduation, we'll always find our way back to each other."

Seungcheol had chuckled, the sound warm in the cool night. "You make it sound like we're going to war, not college."

"Same thing," Jeonghan had replied, bumping his shoulder against Seungcheol's. "People change. They find new friends, new priorities. I just don't want..."

He'd trailed off, and you'd turned to look at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. His profile was sharp against the night sky, eyes reflecting the distant city lights.

"Want what?" you'd prompted gently.

He'd shrugged, a forced casualness that didn't quite mask the tension in his shoulders. "I don't want to lose this. Us."

Seungcheol had reached over then, his hand finding Jeonghan's in the dark, squeezing once. "You won't."

You'd watched their hands, the easy comfort they offered each other, and felt something twist in your chest—not jealousy, exactly, but a sense of being witness to something intimate and unspoken.

"Promise?" Jeonghan had asked, looking not at you but at Seungcheol, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of traffic.

Seungcheol had nodded, his expression serious in the half-light. "Promise."

You'd reached over then, placing your hand over theirs, completing the circle. "We promise," you'd said, speaking for all three of you, not yet understanding the complexity of what you were vowing to preserve.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Years passed. High school faded into college. The texture of your friendship changed with distance and time. No longer the constant presence in each other's daily lives, but something that had to be maintained with intention, with effort. You drifted, came back together, drifted again like tides. But you always found your way back: birthdays, holidays, lazy Sundays that turned into movie marathons in whoever's apartment was cleanest that week.

And always, always, Jeonghan teasing.

"Still single?" he'd ask with a smirk, nudging Seungcheol as you all sat around a table at your favorite barbecue place, the smell of grilling meat and sizzling garlic filling the air between you.

"Still annoying?" Seungcheol would fire back, expertly flipping the meat without looking away from Jeonghan's challenging grin.

And you'd roll your eyes, but part of you ached, because they felt like puzzle pieces you'd never quite fit between. Their friendship had a shorthand, a history that predated you. Sometimes you'd catch them exchanging glances that seemed to contain entire conversations, and you'd wonder what it was like to know someone so completely, to be known that way in return.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

But one spring, it shifted.

Jeonghan got busy.

New job at a design agency that required late nights and early mornings, new apartment across the city that made spontaneous visits less practical, less time for the comfortable routine the three of you had established. His absence created a space, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, you and Seungcheol began to fill it with something new.

You and Seungcheol started spending more time together, just the two of you. It wasn't planned, not consciously. He helped you move into your new place, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs without complaint, assembling furniture with patient precision long after you'd given up on deciphering the instructions. You helped him pick out a birthday gift for Jeonghan, wandering through stores for hours until you found a vintage film camera that made Seungcheol's eyes light up with recognition

"He's been talking about this model for months," he'd said, his excitement infectious.

You had dinner. Once. A casual thing after settling into your new place, too tired to go home but too hungry to sleep. A small restaurant with mismatched chairs and dim lighting, where Seungcheol ordered for both of you because you were too exhausted to make decisions, and somehow he got exactly what you would have chosen for yourself.

Then again. This time planned, deliberate, a text from Seungcheol asking if you wanted to try that new place that had opened near your apartment, the one with the fusion menu everyone was talking about. You'd said yes without hesitation, ignoring the flutter in your stomach as you changed outfits three times before he arrived.

And then… again. Each time the conversation flowing more easily, the silences more comfortable, the moments of accidental touch lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

And one day, under the soft golden haze of dusk, Seungcheol kissed you.

It wasn't planned. You were walking back from a late afternoon movie, the streets bathed in that magical hour when the sun seems to paint everything in honeyed light. You had made a dumb joke about the film's predictable ending, and he laughed, really laughed, the way he used to back in high school. Uninhibited and genuine, and something cracked open between you. He stopped walking, turned to face you, his expression shifting into something serious and tender and terrified all at once.

He looked at you like he had been holding his breath for years.

"I shouldn't have waited this long," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, one hand coming up to cup your face, thumb brushing softly across your cheekbone.

You never asked what that meant. Whether he was referring to weeks of dancing around each other or years of quiet longing. You just kissed him back, standing in the middle of the sidewalk as the world continued around you, strangers passing by, oblivious to the way your universe had just realigned itself.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The relationship was slow and quiet and gentle. There were no fireworks, no chaos. None of the dramatic declarations of love you'd seen in movies or read in books. Just small things: coffee in the morning made exactly how you liked it, hand squeezes in public that said "I'm here" without words, late-night walks with no destination, just the comfort of shared silence and understanding.

It felt inevitable, like something that had been waiting patiently in the wings of your life, ready to step forward when the time was right.

The rest of your friends found out quickly. You swore Soonyoung had been waiting for it, the way his eyes widened in exaggerated shock before his face split into a knowing grin when you and Seungcheol showed up to a group dinner holding hands.

"Took you long enough," he said, grinning as he pulled out a chair for you. "I've had a bet going with Seokmin since second year of university."

You'd blushed, but Seungcheol had just laughed, his arm secure around your waist, a quiet pride in the way he stood beside you, as if finally allowed to show something he'd hidden for too long.

Even Jeonghan smiled, teasing as ever when you told him. Though you noticed he'd been the last to know, an unusual oversight that neither you nor Seungcheol had acknowledged.

"Guess I was your cupid, huh?" he'd said, raising his glass in a mock toast, lounging across from you in the café where you'd arranged to meet, his hair longer now, tied back loosely at the nape of his neck. "I always knew you two were weirdly in sync."

But sometimes, you'd catch him watching. Just for a second, expression unreadable, a flicker of something in his eyes before he'd blink and it would vanish, replaced by his usual mischievous glint.

You chalked it up to nostalgia. To the natural melancholy of seeing childhood friendships evolve, reshape themselves around new dynamics. To the bittersweet recognition that things would never be quite the same again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Two years into your relationship with Seungcheol, you found yourself alone with Jeonghan for the first time in months. He'd been traveling for work—Tokyo, Seoul, New York—his social media a blur of skylines and coffee shops in different cities. But he was home now, just for a week, and had invited you over to see his new photographs.

His apartment was exactly as you'd expected: organized chaos, walls covered in prints and postcards, surfaces cluttered with books and camera equipment. It smelled like him. Sandalwood and coffee and something slightly citrusy that you'd never been able to identify.

"So," he said, pouring you a glass of wine as you settled onto his couch, "when's the wedding?"

You nearly choked on your first sip. "What?"

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Come on. You've been together for what, two years now? That's practically married in Seungcheol-time. He's never dated anyone longer than six months before you."

You set your glass down carefully, studying Jeonghan's face. "We haven't really talked about it," you said truthfully. "We're good where we are."

Jeonghan hummed noncommittally, taking a long sip of his own wine. "He'll ask, you know. He's been saving for a ring since last Christmas."

Your heart skipped. "How do you know that?"

He shrugged, a casual gesture that didn't quite match the intensity of his gaze. "He tells me things. Some things, anyway."

There was something in his tone, not bitter, but not entirely at peace either. A complexity you couldn't quite untangle.

"Are you okay with it?" you asked suddenly, surprising yourself with the question. "With us, I mean."

Jeonghan looked at you then, really looked at you, his eyes searching yours for something you couldn't name. For a moment, you thought you saw a flash of raw emotion. Pain or longing or something in between. Before his expression settled into a gentle smile.

"I want you both to be happy," he said simply. "And you make each other happy. So yes, I'm okay with it."

He raised his glass, tapping it lightly against yours. "To the people I love most in this world finding each other," he said, his voice steady but soft, like a confession.

You clinked your glass against his, a weight lifting from shoulders you hadn't realized were tense. "Thank you," you said, meaning it more than he could know.

"Just promise me one thing," he added, setting his glass down and leaning forward slightly.

"Anything."

"Don't make me wear one of those awful groomsmen suits. I look terrible in pastels."

You laughed, the tension broken, and the conversation moved on. But later, as you were leaving, Jeonghan hugged you tighter than usual, his face buried briefly in your shoulder.

"Take care of him," he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it. "He deserves someone who sees all of him."

Before you could ask what he meant, he'd pulled away, his familiar grin back in place as he waved you off.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The wedding was in early spring, under cherry blossoms that scattered pale petals like snow whenever the breeze stirred.

A day soaked in sunlight and soft winds. The sky bloomed like watercolor: pinks, golds, and a gentle blue that looked like it had been painted just for the two of you. The venue was simple. An outdoor garden with rows of white chairs and an arch twined with flowers and greenery. Nothing extravagant, nothing that called for attention. Just like your love: quiet, steady, true.

Jeonghan stood beside Seungcheol before the ceremony, both in tailored suits that made them look older, more serious than you were used to seeing them. Through the partially open door of the preparation room, you caught glimpses of them: Jeonghan adjusting Seungcheol's tie with practiced fingers, their heads bent close in conversation, a moment of intimacy that made you pause, not wanting to intrude.

"You're shaking," Jeonghan said, his tone light as he smoothed the fabric of Seungcheol's lapel, fingers lingering just a moment too long.

Seungcheol exhaled, a shaky breath that betrayed his nerves. "You think I'm doing the right thing?"

There was a beat of silence—just long enough for something unspoken to pass between them, a current you could feel even from where you stood, unseen.

Jeonghan paused. Smiled. A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes but tried valiantly nonetheless. "You're doing the only thing that's ever made sense to you." he said, voice steady despite the slight tension in his shoulders.

He meant it. God, he meant it. The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, even as something in his expression flickered. A shadow passing too quickly to identify, gone before it could fully form.

You stepped away then, not wanting to witness more of a moment that wasn't meant for you. Your wedding coordinator found you minutes later, ushering you into position for your entrance, fussing with the train of your dress, the placement of flowers in your hair.

You walked down the aisle, and the world held its breath.

Seungcheol looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever waited for, his eyes bright with unshed tears, his smile trembling slightly at the edges. Jeonghan stood to the side, hands in front of him, heart beating slow and loud in his chest, you couldn't hear it, of course, but somehow you knew, could see it in the careful way he held himself, as if afraid to disturb the air around him.

He watched your vows. Watched Seungcheol tear up when you called him your safest place, your harbor in every storm. Watched as you slipped rings onto each other's fingers, promises made tangible in precious metal.

He laughed with the crowd when the officiant made a gentle joke. Toasted with the rest of them at the reception, glass raised high, smile fixed firmly in place.

And when it was his turn to speak, he stepped forward, raised his glass, and said:

"To the people who taught me what real love looks like. Not just the loud kind, but the quiet kind. The kind that doesn't ask for anything back."

His voice was steady, but something in it made the room fall silent, everyone leaning in slightly, drawn by the raw emotion barely contained in his measured words.

He looked at Seungcheol then, eyes soft in a way that made your breath catch.

"And to the ones who stay… no matter how much it hurts."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Most of the guests smiled, moved by what they perceived as a poetic tribute to marriage's endurance through difficulties. You smiled too, touched by his eloquence, by the depth of feeling in his toast.

Seungcheol's smile faltered for just a second. A barely perceptible crack in his joyful composure, a flash of something like recognition crossing his features before he recovered, raising his glass in acknowledgment.

No one noticed.

Except Jeonghan.

Who had seen everything, always.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Years later. The seasons had softened. Summer easing into autumn, passions settling into comfortable routines.

Your house has grown quieter. The parties less frequent, the messes smaller. You and Seungcheol had fallen into the gentle rhythm of long-term love. The kind of relationship where you could read each other's moods in the set of shoulders, the pace of breathing. Love settled differently after a few years, less like fire, more like gravity. Comfortable, warm. Something that didn't need to be named every day to be known.

You still had Jeonghan over sometimes. Not as often as before. He traveled more now—Tokyo with its neon glow that he captured in stunning night photography, Berlin where he claimed the coffee was better than anywhere else, sometimes just vanished for weeks at a time to go "find himself" in cities that didn't ask questions. But he always came back. Always found his way to your door with gifts from distant places and stories that seemed half-true at best.

This time, he brought orange wine and a new camera, sleek and vintage, another addition to his growing collection. Said he missed your cooking, though you both knew he was the better chef among the three of you. It was his way of saying he missed you, missed this, the comfort of familiar faces and shared history.

The rest of the boys came too, a reunion that filled your home with noise and laughter after months of relative quiet. Minghao and Mingyu yelling over the charcoal in the backyard, arguing about the proper way to grill meat as if their lives depended on it. Soonyoung trying to teach your dog a dance move, the poor animal looking thoroughly confused as he demonstrated what he swore was the next viral TikTok trend. Seungkwan and Hansol screaming in protest as Chan suggested yet another bizarre drinking game he'd learned from his coworkers. It was chaos. It was comfort. It was everything you'd always wanted to keep; This family you'd built, piece by piece, person by person.

You were inside plating dessert, a cake that had taken you hours to perfect, layers of chocolate and cream that you hoped would impress even Mingyu, who had become something of a food snob since starting culinary school. The kitchen was warm from the oven, the open window letting in the sounds of laughter from the backyard.

Jeonghan came in, slipping past the others and settling onto the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh. He looked tired, you noticed, not the kind of tired that came from a long day, but the bone-deep exhaustion that accumulated over years. Still beautiful, still quick to smile, but there was a heaviness to him that hadn't been there in your younger days.

Seungcheol stood at the sink, rinsing glasses, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms wet with soapy water. "You still collect film cameras?" he asked, glancing at the one slung around Jeonghan's neck, the strap worn and fraying slightly from constant use.

Jeonghan nodded, spinning it in his hands, fingers tracing the familiar contours. "They're the only way I remember things right," he said, a note of wistfulness in his voice.

Seungcheol chuckled, the sound low and warm in the quiet kitchen. "You? Forget? Mr. 'I still remember what everyone wore to the first day of high school'?"

Jeonghan smiled. Not quite sad. Not quite anything. An expression that existed in the spaces between defined emotions. "Sometimes the things you remember aren't the ones you want to."

That gave Seungcheol pause. His hands stilled in the soapy water, a glass held motionless as he turned to look at Jeonghan, something unspoken passing between them.

The conversation moved on. You returned from the dining room, handed Jeonghan a slice of cake. He teased you about the uneven icing, the slight tilt of the top layer. You smacked his arm playfully, defending your creation. Everything was normal.

But something about that moment, those words, stuck. A splinter too small to remove but large enough to feel with every movement.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It wasn't until much later that Seungcheol understood.

The evening was winding down. Mingyu and Seokmin had volunteered to drive the more inebriated members of the group home. Joshua and Jeonghan were deep in conversation on the back porch, their voices a soft murmur carried occasionally through the open window. You were showing Hansol and Seungkwan the renovations you'd made to the guest bedroom, their enthusiastic commentary echoing down the hallway.

Seungcheol was in the garage, rummaging through old boxes, trying to find the extra bulbs for the patio lights that had mysteriously stopped working halfway through the evening. The garage was cluttered. Not messy, but full of the accumulated possessions of a life built together: holiday decorations, camping equipment used once a year, tools that Seungcheol insisted were essential despite your never having seen him use them.

The evening sun had already started dipping low, casting gold through the open doorway. Dust floated in the beams as he pushed aside old photo frames and tangled extension cords, the air thick with the scent of cardboard and faintly musty fabric.

Then he saw it. An old, worn photo album, tucked under a pile of forgotten board games. The cover was faded blue fabric, corners frayed from years of handling. He recognized it instantly. Jeonghan had made it years ago, back when the three of you were still inseparable, your lives woven tightly into each other's days. A graduation gift, he'd called it, though it had arrived months after the ceremony.

Seungcheol sat on the step leading up to the house, flipping it open with careful fingers. The binding creaked slightly, pages stiff from disuse.

Page after page, his smile grew: beach trips with sunburnt cheeks and wind-tangled hair, ice cream dripping down wrists in the summer heat. Movie nights on the couch, all of you piled together under blankets, faces illuminated by the blue glow of the television. Jeonghan's questionable bleached phase that had lasted exactly three weeks before he'd admitted defeat and returned to his natural color. Birthdays, holidays, ordinary Tuesday afternoons that had somehow warranted documentation.

A history, not just of events, but of feeling. Of belonging.

And near the back, tucked into the spine, was a single polaroid. Slightly faded, edges curling. Not inserted into the album proper but hidden, as if meant to be found only by someone who knew where to look.

Just Jeonghan and Seungcheol. Sitting on a rooftop; the one from Jeonghan's old apartment, the city sprawled out below them, lights beginning to flicker on as dusk settled. The photo wasn't posed. Just a moment caught by someone passing by, you, probably, though Seungcheol couldn't remember the specific occasion. He was laughing at something off-camera, head tilted back, eyes nearly closed in genuine mirth.

Jeonghan wasn't looking at the camera.

He was looking at him.

Looking at Seungcheol with an expression so raw, so unguarded, that it felt almost intrusive to see it now, years later, preserved in chemical and paper.

And in that stillness, something lodged in Seungcheol's chest. A realization that had perhaps always been there, dormant, waiting to be acknowledged.

Because it wasn't how you looked at Seungcheol. It wasn't how Jeonghan looked at you. It was how Jeonghan looked at him.

The quiet admiration. The ache tucked carefully into the curve of his smile. That same expression Seungcheol wore the first time he realized he loved you.

Everything shifted.

Memories he hadn't questioned suddenly glowed in new light. The way Jeonghan lingered after game nights, finding reasons to stay just a little longer when everyone else had gone. The way he stood beside Seungcheol during your wedding with his hands too still and eyes too calm, a perfect best man except for the slight tremor in his voice during his toast. The trips abroad that always coincided with your anniversaries, the gifts that were always exactly what Seungcheol needed but had never mentioned wanting.

It had never been about you. It was never about you. It was always him.

"Found the bulbs!" your voice called from behind, pulling Seungcheol out of it. You stepped into the garage, brushing your hands on your shorts. "Finally. They were in the kitchen drawer with the batteries, which makes absolutely no sense, but there they are."

You saw the album in his lap. And then the photo, still held between his fingers. "Oh," you murmured, crouching beside him, your shoulder warm against his. "That's from the old rooftop place, right? The one near the station. Before they turned it into those expensive apartments."

He nodded slowly, fingers still touching the edge of the photo, as if afraid it might disappear if he let go.

You looked at him, then back at the picture. A quiet beat passed. Then you reached out, taking the photo from his hand.

"I'll ask Jeonghan if he remembers this," you said gently, perceiving but not acknowledging the shift in your husband's demeanor. "He's upstairs, I think. Said something about borrowing a book from the office."

You didn't wait for an answer. Just leaned over, pressed a soft kiss to his temple, and headed back inside, leaving him with the album and the weight of understanding.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Later that night, the house was quiet.

The others had long gone home, the remnants of a loud evening now settled into silence. Empty plates still scattered across the kitchen counter, half-empty bottles of wine waiting to be corked, the lingering scent of charcoal and laughter hanging in the air. The living room, hours earlier filled with boisterous voices and overlapping stories, now stood in hushed reverence to the night. You had gone to bed after handing Jeonghan the photo, your footsteps fading up the stairs, leaving behind a trail of soft goodnights.

Seungcheol found himself wandering through the quiet house, turning off forgotten lamps, straightening cushions, his mind racing with revelations he couldn't quite process. Each object he touched seemed weighted with new meaning; the mugs Jeonghan always used when he visited, the blanket he'd gifted them three Christmases ago, the collection of polaroids magnetized to the refrigerator. Years of friendship suddenly illuminated by a different light.

He paused when he spotted movement on the balcony through the glass door. A silhouette against the city lights.

Jeonghan was there.

He always lingered.

Cross-legged in the deck chair, beer in hand, gaze unfocused on the skyline. The soft hush of traffic below mingled with distant sirens and the occasional laughter from a neighboring balcony. A breeze smelling faintly of summer rain. The kind of night that hummed with what's left unsaid. His hair, longer now than it had been in their youth, swayed gently, catching moonlight in silver strands.

Seungcheol slid the door open, the sound causing Jeonghan to tilt his head slightly, acknowledging his presence without turning.

"You're still here," Seungcheol said, his voice barely rising above the ambient sounds of the night.

Jeonghan didn't look over. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd steal the view a little longer." He took a slow sip from his bottle, his fingers wrapped around it with familiar ease. "Besides, the city looks different from this side of town. Prettier somehow."

Seungcheol sat across from him, the wicker chair creaking under his weight. Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable, just full, like a book with too many pages to read in one sitting.

Then Jeonghan spoke, voice quieter than usual, almost lost in the night breeze. "She showed it to me. The photo."

Seungcheol's chest tightened, a familiar ache now seen through new understanding. He watched Jeonghan's profile, searching for signs he might have missed all these years. "I found it earlier," he said, because there was no point pretending. "Didn't remember it until I saw it again."

Jeonghan let out a breath that seemed to carry years. "Neither did I. Funny how time makes you forget the things you thought you'd carry forever." He traced the rim of the bottle absently, eyes still fixed on some distant point in the cityscape. "And then suddenly, there it is again. Like it never left."

Seungcheol hesitated, words forming and dissolving on his tongue before he finally spoke. "The way you looked at me in it…"

Jeonghan finally turned to him. And for the first time in years, he didn't hide behind teasing smiles or deflecting jokes. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, now held only quiet resignation. "I know."

The words hung there between them, suspended in the balcony air. No denial. No dodge. Just the truth, quiet and steady as a heartbeat.

Seungcheol looked down, his fingers curling against his knees, memories reshuffling themselves in his mind. Every late-night conversation. Every lingering glance. Every time Jeonghan had stepped back, stepped aside, stepped away.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" he asked, the question barely audible above the distant traffic.

"Because you loved her," Jeonghan said simply, his smile small but genuine. "And she loves you. And I wasn't going to be the reason something good broke." He looked back out at the city, the lights reflecting in his eyes. "Some things are worth protecting, even from yourself."

Seungcheol swallowed thickly, his throat tight with words he couldn't form. "You should've told me."

"And what would that have changed?" Jeonghan asked, with the gentlest smile, no trace of bitterness in his voice. "Would you have chosen differently?"

He didn't ask it accusingly. He wasn't trying to wound.

Just… wondering.

Seungcheol didn't answer. The night air filled with possibilities never explored, paths never taken, words never spoken.

Because maybe he wouldn't have.

Maybe he still would've found his way to you.

Maybe Jeonghan still would've stayed by his side, all the same.

"I meant it" Jeonghan said suddenly, softer now, eyes tracing the skyline with practiced care. "When I introduced you two. I thought you'd be good together. And I was right." He paused, taking another sip of his beer, his throat working as he swallowed. "You balance each other. Always have."

He turned then, meeting Seungcheol's gaze with the kind of directness they hadn't shared in years. "You're happy, right? With her?"

Seungcheol nodded slowly, the truth coming easily despite the complexity of the moment. "I am."

Jeonghan smiled, and this time it reached his eyes; warm, genuine, and tinged with something that looked almost like relief. "Then that's all I ever wanted."

He stood then, stretching his arms like he wasn't carrying a lifetime between his ribs, like the conversation hadn't exposed something both of them had spent years carefully avoiding. "I'll crash on the couch. Early flight tomorrow," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Milan this time. Fashion week. Lots of pretentious people." He laughed softly, almost to himself.

Seungcheol didn't stop him.

Didn't ask him to stay.

But as Jeonghan reached the door, he spoke once more, his voice steady. "Hannie."

Jeonghan paused, hand on the door handle, but didn't turn around.

"Thank you," Seungcheol said simply. For what, he didn't specify. For stepping aside, for keeping the secret, for remaining their friend despite everything, for all the years of quiet sacrifice.

Jeonghan's shoulders tensed briefly before relaxing. Without turning, he nodded once and slipped back inside, leaving Seungcheol alone with the night and all its unspoken truths.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

That night, Seungcheol climbed into bed beside you. You stirred faintly, curling closer in the darkness, your hand brushing his chest in your sleep, fingers instinctively seeking the familiar warmth of him. The sheets rustled softly as he settled, your breathing a gentle rhythm against the quiet of the night.

He stared at the ceiling, watching shadows from passing cars slide across it like silent ghosts.

He thought of Jeonghan.

Alone on the couch.

A photo in his pocket.

A thousand miles behind his smile.

And he did nothing.

Said nothing.

Because you didn't know.

And Jeonghan… Jeonghan would never let you know.

He closed his eyes, listening to the soft cadence of your breathing, feeling the gentle weight of your arm across his middle. In the darkness, he allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, a different path.

One where he had seen, had known, had understood the look in Jeonghan's eyes years ago.

But the thought dissolved as quickly as it formed. Because here, in this bed, in this life, with you. This was his choice. This was his love. And even knowing what he now knew, he wouldn't change it.

So he pressed a kiss to your forehead and let sleep find him, certain in the knowledge that tomorrow, Jeonghan would be gone again. Off to another city, another adventure, but that he would always return. Because that was the promise they had made without words: to stay, to remain, to preserve this fragile, beautiful thing they had built together, even if it meant carrying quiet heartaches no one else could see.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

So the next time they saw each other, everything appeared the same.

The inside jokes flowing easily between them. The playful teasing about Jeonghan's latest hair color and Seungcheol's growing collection of dad jokes. The way Seungcheol passed Jeonghan his drink without needing to ask, already knowing exactly how he liked it. Two ice cubes, a splash more than the usual pour. The comfortable silence as they sat side by side on the porch swing, watching the neighborhood children chase fireflies across the lawn.

To anyone watching; to you, to their friends, to the world.

Nothing had changed.

But in the moments between laughter, something in their eyes lingered. Just for a breath. A silent acknowledgment, a shared secret held carefully between them like something precious and fragile.

Not regret.

Just memory.

And perhaps, in those quiet moments, a different kind of love than either had expected. One built not on possession or fulfillment, but on the quiet dignity of knowing and being known, of choosing to remain despite everything left unsaid.

Because sometimes, love lives quietly. Between heartbeats, across the years, woven into all the words they never found the courage to say. And sometimes, the softest silence speaks the loudest truth of all.

[orchidsarchives]

Ok so I was thinking about this the other day. You know how Dick is usually a detective or a cop? Imagine Jason as a firefighter.

Mans will lift you like you’re nothing and I bet he’s in one of those firemen calendars.

I honestly think he would be amazing as a firefighter.

IM SCREAMING!! Here are some firefighter!Jason headcanons, I hope you like them!

- firefighter!Jason has a sleeve, his tattoos are all over the place, but they’re cohesive and very aesthetically pleasing

- he has a small calcifer (the little fire demon from howls moving castle) tattoo hidden somewhere on his arm

- he adores his job because he loves helping and protecting people

- he’s kinda cringey and he makes fire/heat puns and jokes when he’s on duty

- children LOVE him because he’s so kind

- he always volunteers to do tours of the fire station with kindergarten and middle school kids

- he hands out lollipops and stickers at the end of each tour

- he’s really strong and can lift anyone (regardless of their weight or height), he spends a lot of time training his body and is very proud of it

- he is low key a SLUT!!! let me elaborate: yk when firefighters wear their uniform only around their waist and legs, and the top half is like a normal shirt…? yeah so imagine that with Jason.

- he walks around the fire station wearing a black compression shirt and it’s hugging his body so deliciously. you can see bits of his silver chain sticking out and his tattoos are on display… he looks so HOT (noo im turning into cringey fire pun Jason…)

- when he first joined the force, he thought that saving cats and animals from trees wouldn’t be a common occurrence

- it was. and he took home two strays.

- he named them arson and sparks (shout out to the two cats i saw at the pet store)

- as much as Jason is a silly little guy, he also takes his job very seriously

- he spends time comforting victims and trying his best to make sure that they’re safe

- if there’s a house fire, he tries to save everything but definitely does prioritize items that could be sentimental or of value

- he never leaves candles burning for too long, same with irons and stoves

- he is very careful and constantly warning people about potential fires and the consequences of not being careful around hot objects

- okay let’s go back to silly

- this one time the guys at the station made a bet and the loser had to take pictures for a “hot firefighter” calendar… yeah… Jason lost…

- his shirtless pictures were plastered all over the station the next day and he wasn’t even embarrassed

- he’d just smile when people mentioned it

[lost-technology]

I am now imagining a crewmember in Project SEEDS gifting Rem one of those little cow-child figurines as a joke in regards to naming one of her adopted children "Vash." The same crew member could not find one for the other kid and is busily spending time in their quarters crafting scrap metal and sculpture clay into a baby dressed like a butter knife.

Worcester Savers

[lostinlovingrevery]

Angst with a very sad reader who is deaf, she wished she could hear Logan, or be able to talk to him with her voice she can’t use, so he comforts his girlfriend

Hands

Logan Howlett X Deaf! F! Reader

Talking to Logan is different for you

A/N: The way this actually made me cry while writing this. A lil self healing. I'm not completely deaf, but I've grown up being left out of conversations, unable to hear or understand people, sounds, music, etc. I've actively worried about what it would be like having a partner having to "put up" with my hearing loss. Also it could be any Logan! I just used DOFP here bc he's so pretty <3 I hope you enjoy nonny!

Warnings: A bit angsty, reader is deaf, and uses ASL to communicate, feelings of loneliness, sadness, being left out, Logan being so babygirl <3

It was the same story as always

You sat next to Logan as you were in another outing with your friends.

It was a new place that opened this past week, a mix of a bar and a cafe. Filled with vibrant colors and pop culture references of the decades. The menus were filled with pun-named drinks and greasy meals.

You quite adored the atmosphere, and you were enjoying the Friday night outing after an incredibly long day. It just that your group of friends and Logan, were knee deep in a conversation that seemed incredibly funny- judging by their laughing faces, and Logan's usual thin-lipped smile when he's amused; and you had no clue what was being said.

He glanced at you, and you gave him a big smile. Reassuring that you were okay. He quirked a brow, about to say something before someone called his attention, turning his head, your smile faded, as you watched him converse with your friends. He finally leaned back to you again, noticing your drink was low. He tapped your knee, grabbing the glass off the table and signing refill?

You smiled and nodded, and he got up, taking his own glass too, as he walked over to the counter. You adjusted where you were sitting, waving for a friends attention. He turns and smiles, and you ask him for the context of the story.

"Oh-" You lipread, while he also signs. "It's not a big deal." He smiles shaking his head. You paused, and then nodded, leaning back into the sofa that looked like it came straight from the set of The Brady Brunch.

Dejected, but not surprised.

Logan came back, handing you your drink, leaning forward to peck you on the cheek, before putting an arm around your shoulder. One of your friends start talking to Logan- and from what you could tell was updating him on the parts of the story he missed.

You looked at Logan instead of bothering trying to pick up what was being told.

You watched his smile lines increase as he grins, the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he begins to laugh. Handsome, as always. You leaned into him, feeling the exertion of his chest as he laughs with each breath. You watch his lips move, and wonder for not the first time at what he sounds like.

He's told you that his voice was always described as deep and low. A friend has jokingly told you that it was the sexiest sounding thing ever.

Which both irked, and disappointed you.

You could pick up just by lipreading that he was talking about you. A funny story that happened to the both of you at the grocery store the other day. A small smile on your face, he looked at you. It was like it suddenly occurred to him you didn't hear what was going on. He moved, turning his body towards you, and began talking and signing, telling the story to both you and your other friends.

Your smile grew as you watched him, but the sadness inside you filled deeper, as you watched him sign- remembering the symbols and the placements, while also talking to your friend. He pauses, hesitates, and you help him with certain signs- wishing you could just say that words yourself- that you knew how to say the words yourself.

He's quite good at sign language, but as with learning any new language, there's room for a little inaccuracy here and there.

It isn't always like this, feeling lonely when you're surrounded by people who love you. A lot of the time when you hang out one on one, your friends full focus is on you, the speaking between you and the other is non-stop as you gossip about anything and everything. In outings like this though, you assume that maybe it's just too much, trying to focus on talking to a group- and remembering the words to spell out with your hands and talk to you simulataneously.

You never say anything. Just sit in quiet silence. It's an acceptance you found long ago. Being left out of conversations, or others not wanting to put in the work of including you, conversing with you, even if they already have the ability to do so.

When Logan came around, and you found yourselves entangled in the usual story of romance, you couldn't be happier. He was always patient, worked diligently at learning to communicate with you. He learned how to properly get your attention, to speak directly to you. He never once made you feel left out. Mostly because he wasn't a talker himself- at least with his voice.

You knew better, but you couldn't help but feel like it's work to communicate. Not just for you, but for Logan. Having to always find a way to get each others attention. You watched him struggle to remember certain words, and he'd have to say it to you and you lipread in order to translate properly. Moments you usually thought were cute - but this time felt bittersweet.

On the car ride home, you both sat in silence. Logan's hand rested on your thigh, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your pants soothingly. You looked at the radio- noticing it was on. The number you recognized as a talk station Logan has told you he liked to listen to. You turned to look out the window, and noticed street musicians performing on the corner.

The car was stopped at an intersection, so you got Logan's attention, and pointed, before signing,

Music?

He looked at what you pointing at. He nodded, before rolling your window down, and he tilted his head, listening. Then signed back to you.

"Rock." He says, and you make a motion as if you were playing the drums, he smiled and nodded. You turned to look back at the musicians playing. Curious.

He let off the brake and the car began moving. You left the window down, letting air blow over your face. You wondered what the talk show hosts were saying.

When you both got home, he followed you to the bedroom, getting your attention with taps to your shoulder.

"Hey-" He signed. You looked at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't speak- directly to you sometimes. It was loud and a little chaotic in there but I didn't forget you I just..." He shook his head.

Your face fell and you looked away. Then looked back up at him. You responded,

It's okay. I know it can be work to try to communicate with me.

He blinked as he watched your hands and shook his head, he stepped closer.

"It's not work to talk to you." You watched him say. His brows creased. "Not for me."

You purse your lips, as you felt emotion swell up inside you. An ache in your chest, as you let out an exhale.

I just wish I could hear you. That I could speak to you. That we could talk, normally.

He shook his head, "This is normal, baby." He paused, his hands in the air, as he seemed to be searching for his next words. "This." He motions the sign language, "Does not bother me. I like that we can talk like this."

You looked away, but his hand came up to your chin, making you look back at him, his expression firm as he stares into your eyes. For a moment, you softened, the focus and care he held in his hazel eyes for you.

How does it not bother you? You have to put more effort into speak with me. Everyone does. Isn't it tiring?

"No." He shook his head. His hand came up to cup your cheek, a small sigh escaping him. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. A tear left your cheek, and he collected it with his thumb. Stepping back, and returning to signing. "You have given me a way to use my hands without violence. The way we can talk to each other, makes me feel closer to you, than just using my voice to talk to anyone."

Your lip quivered as you watched him play out his words.

"I never been good at talking." He grinned. "This though, I'm good at. I'm glad we can speak like this. It makes us...Connected. More than I ever been with anyone." he continued. "I feel like you and me...We can connect because we don't need words to understand each other. You look at me, and you just know me."

A few more tears escaped, rolling down your cheek as you nodded, you signed.

I wish I knew what you sound like.

His face softened, as he stepped closer again. "I...Know this isn't the same but..."

He reached for your hands, bringing your fingers to his lips, and your other hand to the base of his neck- where his collarbone met. You didn't need him to sign the next words for you to understand.

"I love you"

Tears streamed down you face, as you felt his lips move against your fingers. The muscles of his throat moved and vibrated against your other hand. He repeated it, over and over, allowing you to memorize the feeling of his words on your hands, the vibrations of his throat. It felt warm, and deep. You couldn't imagine sound, but closing your eyes made you picture his leather jacket, the curls of his chestnut hair, the weight of him on top of you. Maybe it wasn't his voice, but it was him you were feeling.

He only stopped saying those words when you reached up to kiss him, but you felt his lips brush over yours as he spoke it again. You moved, wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him. He squeezed you in an embrace.

Maybe he was right, maybe this was nice. It still saddened a part of you that you couldn't hear his voice. Yet, another part of you appreciated how Logan still felt connected to you this way. He was right, in your entire relationship, he may have struggled with his hands,

He never struggled communicating with you, though.