#detestation rained

[ittydoor]

You don’t know true mental turmoil and destruction like I do, how it feels to have everything you once knew be burning to the ground around you, unless you were there on the day MCD season 2 episode 100 was released and you physically jumped up and celebrated telling your mother how Laurance was shad and laurmau was confirmed,

only to in the next few minutes realize they were actually setting up for Aaron to be revealed as shad and aarmau becoming canon.

[l3irdl3rain]

Less light hearted in regards to my pet’s health but please send all healing beams possible directly at Arasha. I really, really do not want to hospitalize her because obviously I want her to get better quickly and easily. But also because I currently have Arthur’s surgery and Joey’s next few visits with the specialist and possible surgery to figure out financially

[true-blue-sonic]

What does Silver think the first time he see's a rainstorm?

I think the Silver from the '06 bad future would be just as amazed as when he encountered the desert with Amy... except he wouldn't realise that he'd get absolutely soaking wet by standing in it until the moment that occurred XD Though, I figure he'd welcome the change of sensation on his skin and his fur! Afaik there's not a single drop of water in Crisis City, so I doubt Silver's ever been completely doused in the stuff. Though it feels cold and a bit nasty with how it makes his fur cling to his skin, I figure he's entirely mesmerised by it <3 His friends tell him to be careful so he doesn't fall ill, though, so he tends to stay in rainstorms only a short time whenever they occur. But he deeply appreciates how important they are for keeping the world green and lively, and thus he's always happy to see them!

[dangerousbutterknife]

Death is swift and violent.

[lyonnerileyauthor]

you live like Cinderella, used and abused by your so-called family, forced to work all day and live in the barn like a rat. you clean up after them every moment, doing all the chores and cooking all the meals. you're tired, so tired of the punishments that meet you for stepping slightly out of line.

one day, it goes too far. with a broken arm, you hobble back out to the barn, intent on one goal: to get revenge and escape this place.

there's a village witch, you see, who everyone detests. they throw food at her when she comes to the village and taunt her as she buys her groceries. you find your way to her house after dark, and knock on her door. when she sees you, it's as if she expected you, and she has a small stack of ingredients ready.

mix them together over a flame and chant these words, she says. this spell will fix what ails you.

you chant the words and stir the mixture. then, as instructed, you pour it out onto the floor. the whole barn turns red, bright red, and you wonder if you've made a mistake by listening to that old witch.

he appears in a puff of smoke, skin as crimson as the dawn sky, with a spaded tail that flicks like a cat's. he has many horns along his crown, and a snakelike tongue darts out as he regards you.

for what purpose have you summoned me? he asks. but all you have to do is show him your arm, and he understands.

he rains down punishment upon the family, turning their house to ash, sending his fire nymphs to chase and beat them. when the true monsters are burned and bruised, he aims to kill, but you stop him.

that's good enough, you say. you've had your revenge. but you see, he's infuriated at how you've been treated. he wants to end this, to bestow the final blow, but you convince him to let them live with their punishment.

then what else can I do? he asks. where will you go next?

you'll wander, you figure, until you find a new home. at least now you're free.

then I will wander with you. he's not ready to return to the other realm yet, not while you still need his help.

together, you abandon the village before anyone can discover what you've done. deep in the woods, though, there's nowhere to sleep except the circle of the demon's monstrous arms.

I promise I won't use my claws, he says, welcoming you into them. here, ensconced in him, you feel his cock emerge from that pocket at his groin. he doesn't move to use it, but you find you want him to—this creature who saved you, who has helped you without asking for payment in return. he's marvelous, powerful, and strange. perhaps this is how you might reward him.

you spread yourself and slowly, sink down on that massive crimson cock. he groans as you take all of him, soaking up his need, coasting on a river of your desire. you begin at your own pace, until his lust grows overwhelming—and then he throws you down to the forest floor, his eyes wild and red. now he fucks you harder, claiming you, owning you. you're mine now, he mutters, bringing you to your finish over and over again. he will eat your pleasure until there's nothing left, drowning in it.

when you're finished, you sleep; but soon he grows hard again, his craving for you having taken over. when you've restored your strength, he fucks you again, demanding that you never leave him. whichever realm you choose, he'll stay by your side.

[vaultdwellerbarbie]

some invisible string

scott (twisters) x f!reader (7.1k wc)

summary when a piece of debris hits you during a chase, you're left with absolutely no memory of your friends - including the one who you were engaged to, and he certainly was a ray of sunshine.

content warnings injuries, inaccurate depictions of retrograde amnesia for the plot, he's mean to everyone but one person trope, amnesia au, angst with a happy ending, one reference to sex

if there's no love in oklahoma then how come i'm so in love with the entire cast? suspicious. i had a lot of fun writing this request! i have a lot of fun writing all of my requests tbf. and no, i'm not interested in naming my fanfictions after anything other than taylor swift songs at the current moment (i swear maybe someday). divider credits to saradika! :-)

Something wasn’t right, you knew that from the moment you stepped outside of the van to set a scanner up. 

Everything had felt off the entire day. The doppler that you were keeping track of had been cutting in and out, but you had been assured by your fiancee Scott that it was nothing to worry about. The rain had come in and out in short bursts, it wasn’t totally unusual, but it was definitely strange how things were happening. But, there were still a lot of people who were out and about, unafraid of the storm and hoping to see a show. 

Once you had taken your seat beside Scott, you knew better than to express that you were worried about this. The two of you had been having conversations about moving forward with your relationship now that you were engaged. Neither of you were getting ready to settle in the countryside, but you also knew that getting married was a big step. It was a big step in general to promise yourself to someone else for the rest of your life, but it was also a big step toward a future that included more than just being married and continuing to do what you were already doing. 

If you started expressing cold feet in the field, it was going to bring about a whole other conversation that you weren’t quite ready to have. In your heart, though, you could tell that there was something wrong. The air was thicker, more humid, than it typically was. Beyond that, there was a nagging feeling in the back of your head that was telling you that you needed to turn around, that something was going to go wrong even though you weren’t quite sure what it was yet. 

You were quieter than usual, tenser. Scott picked up on that and took your hand into his, letting you lean into him. He could be incredibly rude sometimes, and you knew that when you first met him. In fact, you were quite certain that he was going to be your mortal enemy by the time that you were fully used to working with everyone at Storm Par. But, to your surprise, it took you very little time to grow fond of his icy demeanor. He would have shouted from the hills for the first few weeks he knew you that he couldn’t stand you, and he certainly detested how nice you were to him despite his rather unkind words. 

But you continued to show compassion to him, you continued to care for him if something went wrong, you continued to be a strong asset to the team, and he couldn’t help the feelings that developed. People on the team didn’t really understand why you both were so enamored with each other. You had absolutely nothing in common other than where you worked, and yet something about it just worked. It made no sense how you fell in love with each other despite everything, but you did, and they were all excited to be invited to the wedding where they could finally (hopefully) see him express any emotion other than anger since the rest of the range of emotions was typically reserved for your eyes only. 

When you stepped out of the vehicle to place the scanner, you could feel how heavy the air was. The tornado was impossibly loud, and wider than most of the ones that you had seen before. The wind speed was impressive, though you couldn’t quite tell what it was just yet. Once the scanner was placed, you got back in the car. But it was quickly knocked out, a simple switch had flipped off, a button that needed to be pressed on the object to turn it back on.

“I’m going to go turn it back on.”

“It’s too dangerous, just drive.”

“I’ll be alright.” Scott got out of the car before you could argue back, and you fully intended to wait for him while he was outside. 

Fate had a different plan for you.

He was too distracted to notice, as he started walking back, that there was something flying right at him. Stepping out of the car, you hastily pulled him out of the way, but ended up right in the debris path before either of you could totally process what had just happened. 

Scott was in shock for a moment, yelling something that you couldn’t quite make out as you fell to the ground. Your head was throbbing, your eyesight jumbled up by black dots and blurry figures. It sounded like you were underwater with a train headed right toward you, Scott’s voice unintelligible as he kneeled in front of you. The last thing you felt was how quickly he picked you up to bring you into the car before your world went completely dark. 

The sound of a beeping machine beside you faded in as you blinked your eyes open, adjusting to the dark room that you were being kept in. There were dim, warm lights behind you, and the television was very quietly playing some news station. It took you just a few moments to realize that you were in a hospital, but you couldn’t quite tell how you had arrived there. Pressing the button beside you, you tried to sit up but felt a pounding sensation in your head. 

A nurse came in after a moment, turning on the lights and immediately dimming them when she noticed how it made you hiss. 

“We’ve been waitin’ for you to wake up.” She had a thick Southern accent, it didn’t sound like the regional accents that you were typically used to, but maybe she was just from out of town. “What do you remember? Do you know how you get here?”

“I’m thinking it has something to do with this pain in my head.” 

“Right. Do you know where that came from? Just take a moment to think about it, don’t rush yourself.” 

“Can you tell me where I am? Might job my memory.” 

“Texas, hon.” Texas, made sense with her accent, but it didn’t make sense. You didn’t understand why you were in Texas. “Just tell me anything you remember.”

“I remember… uh…” 

For the next few moments, you explained to her various things about yourself. Where you were born, where you lived. Eventually, when she told you how you hurt your head, you recalled that you were a storm chaser. Things were starting to make a bit more sense, but what made no sense was the way that she informed you that you had gotten injured because you had pushed your fiance out of the way from flying debris. She gave you your phone, letting you scroll through it as you looked at pictures with yourself and your finance and your co-workers. You couldn’t really remember much of what you were looking at, barely recalling a majority of the chases that you had taken photos of. But, you would be lying if you didn’t understand why you had gotten engaged to the man in the photos. He was absolutely stunning, you just wished that you could remember anything about him.

It was late at the time, two in the morning, so she left you to your own devices while you scrolled through your phone. Text message after text message to put a name to the faces that you were looking at and remember what your relationship with these people was like. Even though you were nervous to see your friends and fiance in the morning after them knowing if you were okay, and nervous that you were going to have to explain to them what had happened, you were hopeful that your memory was going to come back to you at some point.

By the time you had woken up, you did remember a little bit. You got bits and pieces of chases that you had, and you were informed by the nurses that your tests all came back with the same result - you had retrograde amnesia, which you knew. But, since you were getting some memories back, it was likely that you would be able to recover within the coming months. For the time being, it was important that you rested and tried your best to form new relationships with old friends. 

As you finished up getting dressed, you were paid a visit from Javi and a few others at Storm Par who were ready to take you back with them. Notably, though, your fiance hadn’t been waiting with open arms to welcome you back into society after a week.

“How come the guy I’m marrying didn’t come to see me?”

“He said he was too busy working.”

“Too busy to see his fiance?”

“What do you remember about Scott?” Javi asked, a nervous expression covering his face as you glanced down at your hands. “Oh.” 

“That ‘oh’ sounded bad.”

“No! I mean, you want to marry him so I’m sure you’ll still love him!”

If any assumptions about you had ever been misplaced, that one probably took the cake for the worst one. The moment you saw Scott, his appearance gave your heart a familiar yet simultaneously unfamiliar flutter, but his demeanor made you recoil in disgust. He was being plainly rude to his coworkers, which you found absurd. Had he no respect for the people who he was working with? 

“Hey, Scott? Your fiance’s here.” 

His face immediately softened, standing from where he had been previously scolding a young employee who he quickly shooed away. Just as he moved to cradle your face in his hands you moved away from him, your eyes firm.

“Are you always that mean to people who work for you?”

“He messed up, he needed to be dealt with.” 

“I’m sure there were other ways of dealing with things.” 

“That’s Scott’s only way of dealing with things.” Another man interjected, and you took a step away from him. As handsome as he was, you weren’t quite sure that you were still in love with that personality of his. 

“Listen, I know things are strange right now, but you two are still sharing a bed - hotel is booked.”

“Great.”

“Baby-”

“Don’t.” 

Some part of you felt guilty seeing the hurt in his eyes for the rest of the day as you avoided him. He clearly loved you, for whatever that was worth. If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t have wanted to marry you to begin with. But that love was coming from someone who seemed to be one of the most uptight, rude, degrading people who you had ever met. Even when he briefly tried to put on a nice face for you after being scolded by someone else, he quickly went back to his ways if someone did even one small thing that he disagreed with. The man was incorrigible, and you just weren’t sure that you were willing to marry someone like that anymore even if you couldn’t take your eyes off of him.

“He’s so fucking hot.” You complained, nursing a lukewarm Ginger Ale that you’d paid two dollars for from a vending machine.

“Well, he is your fiance.”

“But he’s the worst! He’s so mean!”

“Yeah.” 

“Did I seriously just agree to marry that man just because he’s hot? I’m sure there are many tall, hot, men with perfect arms and- all I’m saying is-”

“You agreed to marry him for more than just his looks, I promise. But it’s not my place to make you fall in love with him again, that’s on him.” 

Pushing away from the wall, you finally bit the bullet and joined scott in your shared room. The sight of him with damp hair, wearing nothing but a low-hanging pair of sweatpants made your breath catch in your throat, but you quickly brushed past him and looked through your bag to find something to wear before heading into the shower. Immediately, you noticed that he had left your toiletries out for you already, knowing that it must have been something that you were going to need. But, he also left a white t-shirt for you, his shirt. 

As you undressed, you considered locking the door to the bathroom. Part of your brain was screaming at you that you didn’t know this man and that all you had seen from him thus far was him being rather rude to the people that he worked with. The larger part of your brain, the part of your brain telling you to leave the door unlocked, reminded you that you knew this man enough to want to marry him. Even if he had been rude thus far, that was enough to get you to continue into the shower without locking the door. You had trusted him before, even though you weren’t sure why, so you could - at the very least - not be even more hurtful than you already had been and let him hear the click of the lock of the door. 

The shower itself did very little to relieve you. Your entire role in this company until further notice was reading numbers and sometimes getting in a car. Tomorrow, you were going to be in the car for a while because Storm Par was going to be heading to a town about three hours away. That meant that you were going to be in the car with Scott all day, and you weren’t too sure that was good for either of you. It wasn’t good for you because you didn’t like his personality whatsoever, and it wasn’t good for him because you knew in your heart that he loved you, but you knew that your dismissal of him was going to hurt his feelings. Even so, he really hadn’t proven to you so far that he had much feeling in his soul that even existed to be hurt in the first place. 

Once you were out of the shower, you were truly confused about what to put on. Some part of you wanted to just play nice and wear his shirt, and the other part of you wanted to not do something like that since you didn’t really consider yourself in love with this man - not anymore. You couldn’t even understand why you were in love with him in the first place. But, you weren’t enthused about this simply because of the issues you had with him being so rude, what good did being rude in response to a gesture of kindness do you? It would make you no better than him, and you didn’t want that. 

Once you were finished in the bathroom, you joined him in bed. It was awkward laying beside him, trying to keep your eyes away from his body as he did his best to keep his eyes on his phone and not look at you. 

“You know I’m not going to bite?”

“I’m not so sure about that.” You responded, finally turning to look at him. His eyes were just as soft as they were when he first saw you, but that softness was something that you didn’t see him show anyone else. Maybe that should make you feel special, but it only made you wish that he could just be a little bit nicer to the other people he knows.

Scott sighed, turning his phone back on. It wasn’t as though he wanted to ignore you, but he also just wasn’t really sure what to do. He still loved you, but it was clear that you no longer remembered him. It was obvious an obvious choice to fight for the relationship, but he also just wasn’t sure that he had the energy or desire to do something like that. Scott was never the type to try to force someone into a relationship with him, be it friendship or otherwise, and he certainly didn’t like having people tell him how to behave.

To be clear, you had never been supportive of the way that he had acted before, but you also didn’t abhor that trait within him as you seemed to now. 

“I’m sorry that I don’t remember you,” You started, turning to look over at him as he set his phone down against his chest. You fought to keep your eyes level with his, not glancing down at his warm skin no matter how much you wanted to. “The doctor I spoke to earlier said that I should have my memories back within the year.” 

“Should?”

“No guarantee, it just seems likely.” 

“Oh.” 

“Very likely, and since we’re engaged, I’m sure you’ll be prevalent enough that I’ll remember you soon.” 

But, you weren’t quite sure what that meant. It was true that you were engaged, but it was equally true that you had no idea why. The man was rude and seemed to be a little bit more arrogant than you actually liked in a person. He was a bit of an asshole, and nobody who you spoke to about him had anything to say other than that, and that they knew that it made no sense - it just worked. You were always bubbly and nice, and he was always kind of mean. You didn’t know how that relationship worked, but apparently it did. 

Sleep came easier that night than you figured it would. There were a lot of thoughts plaguing your mind, but it was easy because of how exhausted your body still was. You had figured that, being in a week-long coma, it would be difficult to get some rest. As it would turn out, that sleep hadn’t been very restful. As much as you wanted to stay awake to work some things out in your mind, you were glad to have a moment to not have to think about anything for at least a little while. 

The next day was predominantly the same as the first one. Rather uncomfortable, with you not really knowing whether you should feel compelled to speak to the man who you were supposed to be getting ready to marry or not. It was no surprise to you as you walked down to the room where you were assigned for the day - a radar watching position, until further notice - to hear Scott yelling at someone who you presumed worked for him. The part of it that caught you off-guard, as you lingered just outside of the view of the men inside the room, was what he was actually shouting about. Because it wasn’t a poor performance or anything else that you had been hearing about him - it was about you. 

“Scott, I really don’t think anything is going to happen all the way back here. When has anything ever happened back here?”

“When have any of us ever gotten hit by debris out there?” It was clear that he was worried, but you weren’t sure why. If this was the lowest-stress thing that you could be doing, you doubted that anything was going to happen to you. 

“Listen, man, I know you feel guilty-”

“No-”

“You feel guilty because that debris was supposed to hit you, but you can’t keep blaming yourself.” 

While you had been told that you were hit, and that the only person with you at the time was Scott, you hadn’t been told how exactly it happened. It was news to you why it had happened, but there was a brief flash in your mind - you could vaguely remember it, why you were hit. He had been in danger, you tried to help him. After a moment, you recognized that it was probably morally questionable at best to listen to someone else’s personal conversation and decided to make your presence known. 

Stepping into the room, you locked eyes with Scott first before looking toward the man who you were going to be working with for the day. “I don’t really like the idea of not being in the field, doesn’t feel like my thing.”

“It’s not.” Scott replied, grabbing his hat that he had set down on the console beside him. “But, you’re not allowed to do anything else for the foreseeable future.”

“Javi told me a month.”

“Javi was just being nice, your nurse said until you’re cleared.”

“That could be in a month.”

“Could be, best not to force it.” 

He gave you a pat on the shoulder, one that made you glance back at him for a moment, but he was already gone. His lack of optimism was slightly jarring, considering the fact that everyone else had you convinced that you would be back in the saddle within a month. It was also comforting, though. It was odd, because he was doing the opposite of trying to comfort you, but there was something comforting in knowing that he was being fully honest with you about your condition and not just being optimistic (which could be foolish, in the long run) just to make you feel better.

“He’s a real ray of sunshine.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s your ray of sunshine.”

“I guess.” 

Sitting down, you took your station for the day and allowed the rest of the events of it to unfold. Throughout it, you were struck by a lot of things. A few memories slipped back in when something familiar triggered them, some memories of your friendships, but unfortunately none about the man who you were supposed to be in love with. He was handsome, you’d give him that, but you couldn’t proclaim that you felt any love for someone who you knew nothing about other than him being rude to people.

But there was… something. Maybe it was muscle memory, since the heart is a muscle after all. There was some feeling that you couldn’t described that coursed through you when you looked at him, that amplified when he briefly touched you. There was at least one flash of him holding your hand at some point in your mind, and a part of you wanted that now. You wanted to remember what it felt like, maybe it would help you remember your relationship with him better. But how did you broach that subject, when you barely got along at this point? It wasn’t like you were arguing with him, he had been pretty tame for the most part throughout the day, but you’d been informed that a lot of his mean behavior was a bit less… scream-y, and a bit more of him just being sort of rude during conversations. 

That became somewhat obvious as you listened to his conversations through the earpiece that he had on during the day. He wasn’t yelling ay anyone, but he was being rude about how one of the other cars had misplaced their radar. You weren’t sure if you expected anything different from him, but it was still a weird contrast from the way in which he spoke to you. He was somewhat timid around you, even-tempered and clearly confused about how you were both supposed to proceed in this relationship with everything that happened. A week ago, you were happily engaged to this man, but now you found yourself turned off by the rude words that you were hearing come out of his mouth.

“He’s always like that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” 

By the time the day was over, you were back on the road. Rather than wait around and miss the predicted early morning storm, you were all shoved back in the caravan of vehicles with everyone taking a turn driving so the others could get a chance to sleep. Everyone but you, since you were still recovering and straining yourself could put yourself - and everyone else - at risk if you were behind the wheel.

As hard as you tried to fall asleep, the seat behind you just wasn’t very comfortable and there really wasn’t enough room in the vehicle for you to do anything else. It wasn’t until Scott placed an arm around you, urging you to just lay against him, that you just did what he was allowing you to do. It was a burden for him since he couldn’t use that arm for the rest of the night unless he wanted to wake you, an even bigger burden when he somehow had to get into the driver’s seat without waking you up, but he did it regardless. Some part of that made your heart a bit warm, and some part of you recognized that perhaps those nice moments weren’t quite so rare for you. 

When you woke up, you weren’t quite sure where you were. The last thing you remembered, you were in a car, but you were now laying down in a bed with nobody beside you. That was odd, since the last time you had stayed in a hotel room you had been with Scott, and you had been told already that there wouldn’t be any staying in a hotel room for anyone since there just wasn’t enough time.

Picking up the phone that had been placed on the nightstand beside you, you finally noticed the few text messages from your coworkers that you had missed. Scott had apparently gotten his own room, and Javi had decided that it would be best if nobody woke you since everyone was clear on making sure that you were taking care of yourself and not just trying to get back to work as soon as possible. It was still early, you were certain that everyone was still there for at least another hour. Still, it stuck out to you that Scott had gotten his own room. He did let you know where his room was, incase you needed anything, but it was enough to bother you and substantially shorten your process of getting ready for the day so you could try to catch him before he left his room.

Knocking on the door, you could feel your heartbeat in your stomach. You hated the idea of anyone being mad at you in general, but it was made worse by said person being the one who you were apparently supposed to be marrying soon. 

Scott opened the door, already dressed for the day but missing his shoes, earpiece, hat, glasses, and gum - all things that you had come to understand were important aspects of what he wore on any given day. 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“What?”

“I just don’t- like you’re mad at me? Because I’m sure another room was extra money, and-”

“You might not remember much, but you’re the same - you know that?” He stepped aside, motioning for you to come in. You did as you were requested to do, but it seemed to be manly so he could finish getting ready to go. “That’s why I started being nicer to you, because you were always so worried that I was mad at you.”

“Were you?”

“Sometimes.” He replied, and it was odd because he was being more forward with you than he typically was. Was it because he wanted you to talk to him more, because he liked that you sought out his conversation like you did? “But not usually, I tried to be mad at you and it never worked.”

“So why did you book a different room?” From what you could recall of the night before, which was everything before falling asleep, he had invited and encouraged you to sleep on his chest. Of course, you didn’t remember anything that happened while you were sleeping so you also didn’t quite know the lengths that he went to so you were comfortable. But, you did know that it would be rather strange if the man had a change of heart that quickly. 

“I booked a different room so you wouldn’t be uncomfortable.” 

“Oh.” 

“I’m not a monster, we just couldn’t get another room for you last time on such short notice.” 

“But-”

“I brought you to your room, but I didn’t keep a copy of the key or anything. Wait, what were you about to say?” 

“N-nothing.” 

Why did you feel somewhat upset about the prospect of not sharing a room with him? You didn’t really enjoy the way that he talked to other people, but he wasn’t really very mean to you. He, thus far, hadn’t said a single rude thing to you and had seemingly gone out of his way to be nicer to you than he did for anyone else on the team. But it shouldn’t matter, it couldn’t. You hated the way he treated other people, even if the memories of falling asleep on his chest made your stomach flutter. 

“You can tell me, we are still engaged, I think.”

“We’re still engaged.” 

“Good.”

“Good, yeah. Great.”

“Unless you don’t want to be?” 

“Never said that.” 

Your face and… entire body, really, felt two hundred degrees as you looked away from him, looking at everything in the room other than the man in front of you. It wasn’t until he was actually in front of you, his finger hooked underneath your chin and forcing you to look up at him, that you felt your breath catch in your throat. 

“You didn’t say wanted to be, either.” 

“I haven’t had coffee yet.” 

“You’re not supposed to drink coffee for five more days, honey.” 

His eyes were hypnotic, was that why you liked him so much? His touch was gentle and warm, and for just a brief moment something struck you, some memory of his lips against yours, some memory of him holding you tight to his body and your fingers digging into his hair - but you couldn’t remember much more muddled visions of past intimacy.

“Have we had sex?”

“Quite a few times.”

“Was it good?”

“I thought it was good.” 

Now he seemed amused, and you had yet to see him smile before this. He had dimples, which made you want to curl into a ball and die because of course he had dimples. But he was also your fiance, why were you so upset that you were attracted to your own fiance? 

“Could you-” 

“Hey, Scott? Your uncle is downstairs, could you hurry up?” The sound of Javi’s voice outside of the door snapped you both out of whatever was happening, Scott’s hand dropping from your face and your eyes flickering to the ground before staring at the back of his head as he finished getting ready.

“One minute, man! You’re early!”

“Sorry!” 

Stepping toward the door, you listened to the sound of Javi walking away before sighing. Your hand was placed on the handle for just a moment, and you almost wondered what was going through your head throughout those few minutes with Scott. He was the person you were engaged to, you had to be engaged to him for a reason, so why were you so afraid of the fact that you were so into him? Maybe it was because it made no sense in your brain, but everyone had been clear that it had never made sense. 

“How early is he?”

“About fifteen minutes.” 

“Who’s your uncle?”

“Our benefactor.” 

“Scott?”

“Yeah?” 

“I don’t want my own room.” 

“I’ll let our benefactor know.” He responded, looming behind you after a moment. But whatever softness he had been showing was predominantly gone, he was very work-oriented from what you could tell, and he wasn’t the type to be late to even a business meeting that had started early. 

“Am I a part of these meetings?” 

“Typically, no. But I think you should be today, since you almost- since you were injured.” 

Scott was the one to reach past you and open the door, letting you walk out first so he could lock the room behind him.

“How long are we staying here?” 

“Couple days, there’s going to be another storm here in a few days. You’ll be with me today after the storm.” 

“Neat!”

You could see that there was a slight smile growing on his face, but he pushed it aside since he was in public now. There was a bit of familiarity in the feeling of knowing that those more positive emotions that he displayed in front of you were only displayed in front of you, in trying to make him genuinely smile when other people were around when you knew for a fact that wasn’t going to happen. You were certain that you had done this before, you just couldn’t exactly put your finger on when. 

The meeting with his uncle went fine, even though you were certain that you were never overly fond of the man. That was probably why you hardly ever met with him as well, since you didn’t really need to be there in the first place. But he did spill a few somewhat embarrassing facts about Scott being worried sick about you being in the hospital, and how he was probably the one who left the television running in your room since Scott only left your side at night and when he needed to for work. Considering the fact that you were worried that he didn’t care all that much since he wasn’t there to pick you up, this information made you just a little bit more comfortable with him - and a little bit more curious about what else there was about him to learn that you couldn’t tell just from the exterior that you had been shown. 

The tornado was more of the same, you watching from the sidelines and wishing that you could do more than what you were doing and Scott being a little bit bitchy if someone did something that he didn’t like. When it was over, he came back to bring you to the town that had been effected by the storm.

Thankfully, a majority of the damage had been done to a mall that hadn’t opened for the day yet - the employees inside had a storm shelter, and most of the damage was just done to insured companies. For the most part, your role in this was just making sure that the franchise owners in the mall and the people operating small or independent businesses were in contact with Scott’s uncle. Though you weren’t quite sure that you fully agreed with the business-model that Storm Par employed, you were able to take a few moments to help clean up once you were finished with that - even though Scott didn’t really help do much other than lift the heavy objects that you tried to lift even though you weren’t supposed to. 

He did bring you to dinner, though, with a few other people on the team joining along. Sitting with these people brought, again, an odd sense of familiarity. It was odd because you knew that it should feel familiar, you knew that these were people who you knew and worked with, people who you were getting reacquainted with, but it didn’t feel familiar because you couldn’t remember most of your interactions with any of them. It just felt like something that your body was used to, something that your heart was used to, but something that your mind was interpreting as an entirely new experience. 

Sitting beside Scott, you watched him discuss business with a few of the other people who you worked with while you took the time to read more of the detailed email that Javi sent you with everything that you had forgotten from the past few years. Truthfully, you weren’t sure if you needed to read the entire thing. Your nurse had been clear that it wouldn’t actually take forever for you to get your memories back since they were already starting to come back in bits and pieces, but you also had no idea how long it was actually going to take. If it was going to be a year, you needed to know about what you had missed. But if it wasn’t, maybe you should spend more time continuing to engage in your new/old relationships. 

Glancing down, your eyes were locked on Scott’s hand placed on his leg. You wanted to grab it, to see if it would remind you of anything, and from the way that he briefly glanced over at you, you knew that this was something that you did regularly. Flipping his hand over, he gave you the permission that you needed to take his large hand into yours, even though the feeling of your engagement ring against his skin seemed to make his fingers jolt for a second. But, he kept his composure. Seemingly, he just didn’t want to act too soft in front of the others - that was no surprise to you, though. 

While your hope of magically regaining your memories because of one single touch didn’t actually end up coming true, that didn’t stop you from having a nice dinner. It was nice to talk to everyone, to get to know them again, nice to just be around people and alive with the knowledge lingering in the back of your mind that you had almost gotten yourself killed for the man sitting beside you. Despite the glaring character flaws that he displayed when speaking to seemingly anyone other than you, he was still someone who you clearly loved for one reason or another enough to get yourself hurt to protect him. 

Upon returning back to the hotel, Scott helped you move your still packed bag to his room before you changed into a simple pair of sleep shorts and accepted his offer to wear one of his shirts to sleep in. You still couldn’t shake that feeling from earlier as you stood in his room again, that feeling to do… something. You weren’t sure what it was that you wanted. Did you want to discuss more with him? Did you want him to tell you more about your relationship so you could better try to understand it? Were you purely being driven by carnal desires and lust? You weren’t so sure until he stepped out of the bathroom from his shower, your head turning from tea you had been steeping for the past few moments. 

His hair was wet, but there was still a slight curl to it. He was dressed in just his sweatpants again, your eyes lingering on his torso before looking back up to his face. His eyes were almost unreadable, but you knew exactly what it was that you had wanted to do earlier - what you needed to do now.

Setting your mug down on the cupboard, he watched you curiously as you walked closer to him.

“Need something?”

“I think I need you to kiss me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Please.” 

Whether you thought it was going to jog your memory, or because your body was so used to craving his touch that even your unfamiliarity - which was made a lot less since he had been willing to answer your questions all day - couldn’t deter it; it really didn’t matter. Scott was slow, gentle, giving you enough time to back away and change your mind if you wanted to.

But you held onto his hand as he placed it onto his cheek, and you leaned in to kiss him almost as fast as he leaned in to kiss you. It did feel glaringly familiar, but it also ignited something within you. Though you didn’t remember everything, fragments of your relationship with him replayed in your mind - only small ones, moments that you would need to ask about, but moments nevertheless. The sight of him smiling, of him cleaning mud from your hair after a storm - moments that were soft and sweet and everything that you had come to believe were impossible from him.

You sighed into the kiss, letting your body relax closer to his and encouraging him to deepen the kiss as he brought his free hand to rest on the back of your head. His fingers were slightly tangled into your hair, his tongue pressed lightly against your bottom lip. He felt so good, but you knew that you had to pull back after a moment.

“I didn’t answer your question earlier.”

“What- oh.”

“I do still want to be engaged.”

“Me too.”

“Well, duh, you didn’t forget your memories.” You replied, teasingly as you pressed a chaste kiss against his mouth before taking your tea and setting it on the nightstand. He watched you, seemingly in a trance for a second, before joining you in bed. “I want you to tell me everything you remember.”

“That’s going to take a while.”

“Until you get too tired.” 

“Deal.” 

For roughly two and a half hours, you were able to have moments in your relationship described to you as though they didn’t happen to you, and you were able to feel like you remembered even the ones that you didn’t remember. It was true that the man beside you, the man who you had agreed to marry at one point in your life - a point in your life that he made sure to describe to you - wasn’t the nicest person in the world, but that didn’t change the fact that he was nice to you, he was affectionate with you, and had somehow fallen in love with someone who couldn’t be more different from him. Even though you were just becoming acquainted with him again, you were certain that it wasn’t some impossible task to fall in love with Scott just because he was a little bit prickly. 

In the coming weeks, you would regain a lot more of your memories, and Scott would fill in the blanks that you weren’t so sure about. He would go a little further than he needed to, somehow trying to woo you again when you had already told him that you still wanted to marry him, and it didn’t take you regaining every little memory you ever had with him to fall in love with him again. He was horribly rude to everyone else, but when he was sweet with you, it felt better than any interaction that you had with anyone else. When you eventually did get all of those memories back, there was a sense of relief, but there was also a sense that it was almost unnecessary.

The fact that you had fallen in love with him not once, but twice, made it clear to you that you had made the right choice when you had committed to marrying him two times at this point - and it was going to make you a lot prouder to walk down the aisle than you ever would have before, because there was no doubt in your mind that it was the right choice.

[moobell55]

His Lady's Love

~Lord Benjicot Blackwood returns home from a border skirmish to his lovely lady~

Trigger Warnings~Description of blood and wounds, reference to battle, Bracken hate, mentions of sex and pregnancy, reader is simply referred to as Lady Blackwood, her features are as you wish but longer hair is mentioned, angst, comfort, and fluff, They're in love your Honor~

The air in Blackwood Castle smelled of rains and unforeseen troubles as the darkness of the evening slowly overcame the Riverlands. The sun had made its way across the sky as a strong storm had formed around the castle; one almost as strong as the Young Lord making his way to his chambers.

The young Lord's dark clothes were stained with blood, the same blood that covered his face in a mockery of freckles and sunspots. His tunic sleeve was ripped open exposing a detestable wound, the sticky blood clinging to his skin like a lover would. His boots stunk of mud and the Bracken's cow field.

But with his head held high with victory the Young Benjicot quickly made his way to his chambers; paying no attention to the filth or blood that dripped upon the ancient stone floors. The Raven Haired Lord only had one thing on his battle worn mind, only one person worth seeing in this forsaken realm.

And so the Young Benjicot hastily burst into his chambers, and his bloodied gaze quickly set upon the Lady of His Heart. She sat in front of the dying fire, the dancing flames shone upon her hair as it cascaded around her. His lady was clad in a smooth night dress, the dress going to great lengths to hide his wife's growing body.

At the sound of the grand door opening she quickly pivoted her head around to be met with the sight of her blood soaked husband. A smile quickly fell from her face as she harshly stood up to meet him but not before Benjicot quickly made his way towards his beloved.

"Benji," her voice was filled with concern as her injured husband quickly but carefully forced her to sit back down.

Her Lord Husband quickly cut her questions off, "The maesters have said that you need to rest my Lady," his eyes filled with nothing but affection for his lady.

Lady Blackwood's eyes narrowed at her husband's mothering tendencies, all the while his arm gaped open and he was stained with blood.

She scoffed, "I could rest if my Lord Husband was not constantly getting into tussles with the Brackens over cattle." Her words spoke of anger but Benjicot could see a hint of fear within his wife's face.

Being neither a Blackwood or Bracken by birth his wife often found the bickering between the two houses to be a great sense of mirth, but this was the first time her Lord Husband had ever been injured.

His lips quivered into a smile, "My lady mustn't worry about me, a Bracken foal stands no chance against the Lord of Raventree," he carefully removed a blood stained glove and stroked his beloved's cheek.

"You are injured, Benjicot," she said as she held his wounded arm. "How can I rest when I know my husband is roaming the Riverlands like a feral mongrel?"

Her gaze fell down to her covered stomach, the evidence of their love showing through the night dress. She tenderly grabbed his clean hand and placed it on her swollen stomach, her eyes once again meeting his.

"I cannot rest knowing that my husband might not one day come back," her eyes glazed over and tears began to form, "that he would leave me a Widow and our child fatherless, all for an endless feud that harms us all."

His lady's words stung more than any wound ever could. Benjicot Blackwood was an honorable and proud man, he sent fear across battlefields, but he never wanted to send fear into his own home let alone his beloved wife.

Benjicot had never been gifted in his skills with words let alone comfort, but the tears that dripped onto his Lady's soft cheeks seemed to jar something from his spirit.

His shaky hands intertwined with his wife over her stomach, his unbloodied hand gently caressing her smooth fingers.

"When I swore to you under our Weirwood Tree I promised I would remain by your side to my final breath, that you would be my Lady until I depart this world," silent tears fell onto her Lady's cheeks as he spoke of their blissful day.

"I should've proclaimed that I will not depart this world without you, that I will grow old with my Lady, that together our children will know peace in the realm," he smiled softly, "that their father will always come home to them, and that his beloved would never fear her husband was lying dead on the border."

A kind smile graced his wife's face and his heart fluttered at the sight, two years into their binding and she still sent tremors through the Young Lord's soul.

He wiped a tear with his unbloodied hand and spoke boldly, "I love you like I love no other, and I promise to honor you for the rest of my life; I cannot promise to end the feud but I will always come home to my Lady and our children." 

Lady Blackwood simply smiled and to Benjicots surprise quickly drew Benji into a loving embrace; his Lady not seeming to mind the filth he was covered in. As his sweet wife embraced the blood soaked man, it felt as if his soul had been cleaned of the lives he had taken. A man as battle hardened as Benjicot knew he did not deserve such a gift, but maybe he’d one day become worthy of such a gift. For his unborn babe that rested within his beloved's Womb, and for the beloved Lady that rested within Lord Benjicot Blackwood's arms. 

As Lady Blackwood was held in her husband's arms she placed a kiss over his clothed heart, it seemed to be the only place on his tunic that wasn’t stained with blood. Tenderly she pulled off his other bloodied glove and brought both hands into a kiss. Soft tears filled her Lord's mossy eyes at the sight, but Benjicot could not find words worth speaking at the gesture. 

“I love you my Benjicot, my sweet protector and my beloved husband; your battle worn hands do not scare me and they never will, and I know you shall always come home to us, but a wife will worry.” Understanding filled Lady Blackwood's eyes, and Benji felt as if he had seen her for the first time like he did under the Weirwood tree years ago.

A teasing smile flicked across her face, “You are filthy Benji, and you have ruined my gown,” her words were not harsh but seemed playful to the blushing Benjicot who now seemed red in the face with his own blood. Realizing him she placed a hand on her stomach and carefully guided Benji into their shared bath chambers, where a filled bronze tub steamed away in the corner. A smirk fell upon Benji's face showing off a hint of his crooked teeth and pulled at the dried blood on his face. 

“Did my beloved know I would return home filthy?” His voice was teasing, as a small blush appeared on his Lady's face.

An equally roguish smirk appeared on her face and it sent Benji's heart ablaze, “Maybe a wife just wishes to bathe with her beloved Husband.” 

Lord Benjicot could do nothing but laugh and pull his beloved lady closer to him and press a soft kiss against her forehead. 

And soon the Lord and Lady of Raventree washed the blood of their bodies together, as a silent promise thicker than the grime on Benjicot filled their hearts. A promise of love and peacefulness for their people and the Babe growing in his dearest wifes womb.

(I hope y'all enjoyed this, I haven't written in a very long time and this is my first House of the Dragon Fic, I've been obsessed with Benjicot Blackwood lately and I hope to write more works for fim :) I'm always taking writing suggestions and Fic requests so if you have any ideas please let me know! )

[wheeboo]

tell me that you love me | joshua hong {part one}

SYNOPSIS. in which you and joshua are simply different in more ways than one, yet only seem to find a common ground in struggling to chase your dreams. so why does life keep throwing you two at each other, despite your different worlds, and why does it feel so terrifyingly right? PAIRING. musician!joshua hong x deaf-artist!reader (ft. cafe owner!jeonghan, musician!seokmin, best friend!seungkwan, best friend!wheein, producer!jihoon) GENRE. fluff, slice of life, kdrama romance-esque, mild angst, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn WARNINGS/TAGS. cursing, shua and reader has some self-doubt issues :(, someone makes insensitive comments about reader, mention of alcohol (beer), mention of cigarettes, everyone ships them, kissing, terms of endearment, Softie Domestic Joshua™, it conveniently rains when they're together, this is 85% fluff and 15% plot and the brainrot was giving me an existential crisis, honestly there's not much warnings it's just a love story <3 WORD COUNT (FOR PART ONE). 20k WORD COUNT (FOR FULL FIC). 37k

notes: after 7 months (minus the 2 months i lowkey abandoned this oop), it's done! this fic could have honestly been 20k words, but the brainrot refused to do so. inspired from the kdrama of the same name and the jdrama Aishiteiru to Itte Kure. any uses/descriptions of sign language (ASL) throughout the story is researched! expressing my love to all my mooties who suffered listening to me talk abt this fic. i hope this fic being long doesn't bore you all to death <3 funny enough, this was also supposed to be a very very very belated bday fic to @slytherinshua LMFAO. ty to @bananabubble for also helping me a lot with this fic too!

part one | part two

“Okay, so to recap: the espresso machines are on the right side of the counter, just next to the pastry display. You'll get familiar with them really easily. The barista station is behind them, where all the little doohickeys are, yaddi-yaddi-yadda…”

“Aren't you supposed to be teaching me where everything is?” Joshua asks in slight annoyance after securing the apron around his waist.

Jeonghan just chugs a wet, dripping rag in his direction, narrowly missing Joshua's head and landing with a damp plop on the counter. Then he wipes his hands on his apron, shooting a small wink at the other man. “Patience, grasshopper.”

“Why did you decide to hire me again?”

“So I can finally kick you out of my apartment," Jeonghan answers, a playful bite to his voice, and Joshua only rolls his own eyes. “in a non-violent way, of course.”

“You're actually an imbecile, Yoon Jeonghan.”

“Oh, but you love me.” Jeonghan smirks, plucking the wet rag from the counter and shoving it in Joshua's hand. “Chop-chop, grasshopper, you got a whole day ahead of you.”

Joshua Hong was never one to detest helping out a friend𑁋his best friend, to be specific. He knew Jeonghan was doing this in order to help him out as he had been living under the man's roof for the past two years, with the promise of finding a new place testing his patience. Even with his nightly gigs at the busking centre in the middle of town, having a day job to earn some extra money seemed like a very good idea. 

But he seriously doesn't understand how Jeonghan managed to open up his own café in the first place. It's remarkable, actually.

The day is surprisingly slow. Even with the café being in the mere heart of the city and amidst the morning and afternoon rush, barely any pastries were taken from the display. The only sounds come from the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the wall, and the obnoxious screech of the stool that Jeonghan sits on not that far away.

However after some time, the familiar, soft chime of the door echoes throughout the café, announcing the arrival of a customer. Joshua finds his head immediately snapping up after fumbling with the frother, a welcoming smile dawning across his face as he smooths his apron and takes his place at the register. 

The figure in front of him is momentarily enveloped by the sunlight that seeps through the large window panes. He waits for them to step fully into the warm glow of the café, his eyes drawn to the way they hold themselves𑁋shoulders slightly hunched, hands tucked deep within the pockets of a lightweight jacket, and seemingly a book tucked under their shoulders. Their steps are slow, soft even as they approach the counter, and a smile, gentle and hesitant, plays on their lips.

“Hi, welcome in," Joshua greets politely. “What can I get for you today?”

You find yourself gazing at the unfamiliar barista in front of you with meticulous curiosity, before letting your eyes drift to the nametag on his shirt: Joshua. His eyes immediately dart down to your hands that you lifted up on instinct, then hesitation gnaws at you, and suddenly you drop your hands back to your sides again.

“Our menu is up here.” Joshua motions above his head. “and our pastries are over here, if you would like to take a look.”

You wave your hand dismissively, then fumble for your phone, showing him an order written on the screen.

hot vanilla latte - extra foam - name is y/n

“Hot vanilla latte, extra foam?” Joshua repeats, confirming the order with a friendly smile, and the response he gets is a pair of thumbs-up. “And the name is... Y/N?”

Your face lights up, feeling some heat threaten up your neck as you offer a small nod to confirm.

There's something endearing that blooms in Joshua's chest as he punches the order down on the register. The moment is stretched with long silence before he watches as you quickly turn around to head to the outdoor sitting of the café. He sees you place yourself down at one of the seats, back turned towards him, and all he could do is let his eyes linger for a beat longer before realising that he actually has to make your order.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air as he sets to work. He fumbles slightly, steaming the milk for your latte and carefully (and clumsily) creating a cloud of airy foam.

When he places the mug on the counter, his eyes drift back to where you sat outside, the slight breeze and midday sun casting down on the patio. He notices that you're hunched over, seemingly concentrating on something, and he can't help but wonder what occupies your thoughts. With the latte in hand, he heads towards the door, the bell above the door softly chiming. 

The sun paints the city in dappled gold, and a light breeze sways through the air and catches a strand of your hair that floats like a wisp. It's a picture-perfect scene, and Joshua thinks you fit right into it, all while hunched over a small sketchbook and pencil in your hand flying across the page.

He hesitates right behind you, unsure how to get your attention without startling you. Every option that he mulls over seems intrusive and jarring.

In the end, Joshua decides on a gentle tap on your shoulder. As his fingers make contact with your shoulder, a sudden jolt runs through your body, and you visibly startle, your hand flinching involuntarily and coming in contact with the mug in Joshua's hand.

The glass mug slips from Joshua's grasp, crashing down to the floor in thousands of tiny shards. Hot coffee splashes, hitting the skin of both of your hands and splattering on your sketchbook. Gasps fly from both your lips, echoing throughout the quiet patio. You wince in your seat, nearly causing you to stumble off but you manage to catch yourself.

For a long moment, Joshua could only find himself frozen, yet when he notices the pained look on your face, he instinctively reaches out, grabbing your hand without thinking. Your fingers curl around his in a startled reflex, your skin warm against his own. He cradles your hand in his, pressing his palm against your skin, as if trying to shield you from the worst of the heat and the glass scattered around the two of you.

Adrenaline courses through him as he pulls your hand back, examining it frantically. A thin red line crosses near your thumb, a tiny bead of blood sprouting at its edge. Panic claws at his throat, but he forces himself to stay calm. You're watching him, eyes wide with a mix of shock and pain, and he sees his own fear reflected in your pupils.

“Crap, I-I'm so sorry!” he blurts out, voice rough with regret. “Are you okay? I shouldn't have... I should have been more careful…”

You watch as Joshua's eyes scan your hand, the features of his face noticeably soft and etched with concern. The warmth of his hand cradling yours sends a jolt through you, something unfamiliar yet strangely comforting.

When you look back up at him, he asks if you're okay again, your gaze focusing in on his lips then back up at his eyes. You can tell he's worried𑁋he even seems breathless from all the panic too. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you silently answer with a nod.

The air seems to thicken with awkwardness. Joshua's gaze lingers down on your hand cradled in his trembling ones, the sight of a tiny cut on the flesh between your thumb and index finger sending a fresh wave of shame to come crashing down on him.

When you both lock eyes once again, you feel a flutter in your stomach. Then Joshua clears his throat, a million apologies tumbling over each other in his mind.

“I, uh…” he begins, then stops, unsure how to proceed. “Does it hurt a lot?”

You realise he's asking about you, and you peer down at your hand, the sting of the burn momentarily forgotten in the face of his genuine worry. It's just a small red line, a minor burn that will fade in time, and a tiny cut where the glass had scratched. But the warmth radiating from his hand cupped over yours feels oddly... comforting.

You shake your head, then motion to his own hand, as if asking the same thing.

Joshua blinks in surprise. He examines it, a small line of red just starting to show from a small cut, and a tiny calloused area from the burn of the coffee. It was barely noticeable, and it admittedly stung with a dull ache, but he wouldn't acknowledge that𑁋he didn't want to make you worry. It's not that bad, he thinks, but his thoughts are instantly replaced with concern for you.

“Here, let me... I'll get some bandages for you.” He gently releases your hand, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary, and rises to his feet. “And a new drink, of course. On the house.”

Before you can give him a nod or anything, you watch him walk towards the café, the sunlight reflecting off his dark hair. He turns back once inside, and your eyes meet across the wall of glass. You offer a smile, and raise your hand in a small wave. He returns one sheepishly, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes just slightly, before disappearing to the side.

You stand up as well, shooting a glance down at your sketchbook, the brown splatter bleeding across a corner of the paper. It didn't look like a lot of it was damaged luckily𑁋you could probably incorporate it into the drawing somehow. The thought seems to soothe you.

Joshua mutters curses to himself as he struggles to find the first-aid kit underneath the counter in the employee's only restroom. He rummages through a drawer, tossing aside spare toilet paper rolls until he finally lays eyes on the small white box labeled First Aid.

“Knew you wouldn't be a great match for this,” Jeonghan's voice rings out suddenly as Joshua retrieves a few pieces of bandages, the man finally emerging after what seems like a long ass hour of a break.

“You finally regret hiring me now?” Joshua scoffs playfully, waving the bandages in front of Jeonghan's face. “They haven't spoken to me at all, so I have no idea if they're okay or not.”

Jeonghan lifts up an eyebrow. “They aren't speaking?" Some silence passes. "Is their name Y/N?”

Joshua looks back at him. “Yeah, why?”

“They come here a lot, like a regular, usually just drawing and stuff, I think,” Jeonghan points out, pursing his lips together. “and… they’re also deaf.” 

The age of seven was the last time you heard your voice.

You went to bed ill with a high fever that night, only to wake up the next morning in a muted world. The change wasn't a gradual muffling or a sudden pop like a balloon bursting. It was all simply... gone. You didn't hear the pitter-patter of the morning rain against the window, the rumble of the air conditioner, or even your own heart beating in your chest𑁋but you could feel it. 

At first, you thought it was a trick, perhaps a dream that had somehow bled into reality. You screamed, but no sound escaped your lips. You shook your parents awake, but their worried questions were met with your frustrated silence. Tears streamed down your face as they rushed you to the hospital. Then all the tests, scans, diagnoses𑁋they all came to the same the same result: a sudden, inexplicable loss of hearing.

Learning to navigate the world growing up without sound was a slow, exhausting process. You learned to read lips, got used to communicating with sign language, understand the subtle cues of body language, and rely on written words. Your world shrunk, confined to the walls of your home and studio, the familiar faces of your family, the lens of your camera, and the canvases that could speak for you.

You got used to this world of silence. You got used to the fact that you have to live in harmony with those around you, to put in that extra effort to understand them so you could simply be accepted and heard, for once. At a young age, you became adept at expressing yourself through art𑁋capturing the beauty of the silent world you inhabited, the emotions that flowed through your fingertips onto canvases and photographs.

Honestly, the world is so beautiful. Even though you can't hear the bustling city around you, the distant conversations, or the groans of traffic, you've learned to see and appreciate the world in a way others might overlook𑁋finding beauty in the stillness that surrounds you. The way sunlight dances on the leaves, the gentle sway of trees, the vibrant colours that paint the sky during sunset, the look of love between two lovers. 

The city is especially colourful at night. Neon store signs burning bright against the dark canvas of the evening sky, people around you moving in routine patterns, and cars flying down the streets. You've perfected the art of capturing these moments, freezing them in time with your camera, and bringing them to life with just a simple brushstroke.

You can't hear the laughter spilling from a nearby work dinner or the murmured conversation of a couple walking hand-in-hand, but you see it all in the tilt of their heads, the curve of their lips, the spark of their eyes. You watch the way their bodies move, the sway of their hips, the swing of their arms, and their stories unfold before you like a silent movie on a grand screen. And that in itself, is beautiful. 

You click through the photos you've taken throughout the day on your camera carefully, biting your bottom lip in concentration. There's a photo of a child chasing pigeons in the park, a flock of birds flying through the cloudless sky, a cat lounging in a window sill, and a smile breaks across your lips.

However, you find yourself accidentally bumping into something, or someone. Hastily, you bring your head up to the stranger to apologise, yet they walk away before you even could. Letting out a sigh, you bring your attention back to your surroundings, and your eyes widen to the crowd of people gathered in the small square you hadn't noticed before.

Your eyes dart around, trying to scan through the sea of faces while slowly pushing through the crowd as your curiosity gets the best of you. And when you get yourself to nearly the core of the crowd, you could only freeze to the sight in front of you.

There's a man perched on a wooden stool in the middle, a guitar entangled in his grasp and a microphone stand standing idle in front of him. You can hardly make out his face since you're standing to the side, but for some reason, all you can do is watch in awe.

You can't hear his words, of course. But you feel them. You feel them in the way his fingers dance across the strings, in the way his head dips with the melody, in the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. You see them in the way the light catches his hair, in the way the shadows dance on his face, in the way his eyes flutter open for a fleeting moment.

Then a sudden urge makes you reach for your camera, quickly turning it on and bringing it up to your eyes. And with a simple click of the shutter, you capture the moment in a perfect frame, before weaving through the crowd once more and back into the fresh air of the city.

You look down at the photo, and it tugs at your heartstrings. The nearby lighting catches his face just right, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the gentle curve of his smile. He's lost in the music, his skilled fingers dancing across the strings of his guitar, eyes closed as he seems to pour his soul into every note. You zoom in on the photo, admiring the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

He looks familiar, somehow. You rack your brain, trying to place him, but your mind draws a blank. You've stumbled into the busking area by accident countless times and captured endless moments through your lens, but this one feels different. 

The vending machine swallowed his dollar. Literally.

Joshua pounds his fist on the lousy machine a few times, wraps his arms around it like a koala hug and attempts to give it a few shakes, hoping that the drink would somehow drop to the bottom, but nothing happens. Letting out a groan, he takes a step back and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. Great.

He glances around the area, scanning to find some sort of alternative solution, and his eyes set on a convenience store just a few blocks down. He takes a few steps in the direction, before something brushes past him and causes him to stop.

“Hey, the vending machine doesn't work…” Yet when he turned his body around, he didn't expect to see you making your way to the machine, tapping on the keypad and inserting a dollar, all for the machine to spit out two cans of sodas.

Joshua watches as you bend down to retrieve the cans, peering down in confusion at the second one in your hand. Then when you straighten and look back up, the two of you suddenly meet eyes. 

There's a brief pause, and you can't really tell if Joshua is staring at you like you've grown a second head or something else. Then you glance down to the extra drink in your hand, and ah, it clicks.

Your lips move in a silent question, and Joshua realises you must be offering him the extra can. He waves his hand, signaling that it's okay, but you insist, gesturing for him to take it. With a grateful smile, he steps up to you and reaches out, accepting the cold can from you, his fingers brushing over yours briefly.

Joshua watches as you click open the can and take a sip. When you glance back at him, his lips part, then close again, his brow furrowing together like his mind is cluttered. You can't hear his thoughts, of course, but the way his eyes dart from your face to your hands and back again seems like he's trying to ask you something.

“Is your…” he starts to ask, pointing to your hand, noticing that your hand appeared bare of the bandages he gave you more than a week ago. “Is your hand feeling better now?”

You catch his words by reading his lips, and you nod with a reassuring smile. Relief washes over Joshua's features, his eyes softening, and he gestures again towards your hand as if to make sure it's healing alright.

“Wait, I... Sorry, let me start this over.” Joshua seems to mentally take a deep breath. “I'm Joshua, by the way. I should've introduced myself properly first.”

You know that already, but hearing him formally introduce himself ever since your little mishap at the café brings a strange flutter to your chest. You notice Joshua shift from foot to foot, the smile to his face faltering just slightly.

“Is it okay if I ask if you're…” Joshua motions to his ear, then shakes his head, seeing that it might come across as insensitive. Instead, he points to his own mouth and then makes a questioning gesture with his eyebrows, hoping you'll understand what he's trying to ask.

You nod, understanding his question perfectly, raising your hand and making a simple sign, tapping your ear and then shaking your head. You've had this conversation countless times before, with strangers and acquaintances alike. But there's something different about the way Joshua asks𑁋something softer, more genuine.

“I should've realised sooner,” Joshua says. "I'm sorry if that came off as rude.”

You wave your hand dismissively and tap your temple, then point to his mouth, conveying that you could read his lips just as you've been doing this entire time, and Joshua could only watch your movements carefully. Though relief mixes with a tinge of embarrassment in his limbs. He hadn't meant to pry, but curiosity had gotten the best of him, and he didn't want to make you uncomfortable by putting you on the spot like that. He could tell you've probably heard this conversation many times with other people, yet you seem to handle it with such patience.

With a wry smile, you secure your can of soda under your arm before bringing your hands up, signing heartedly, “It's okay,” and Joshua watches your movements with awe and also... a little confusion.

“Can I ask what that means?” he asks slowly, curiously.

You wave a dismissive hand in front of his face, pulling out your phone, quickly typing out something before showing it to him.

It means that it's okay

“Ah, I see,” Joshua responds with a sheepish smile, attempting to clumsily repeat the action with his own hands, but he quickly brings it back to his side. “If I'm speaking too fast, feel free to let me know. I'll try to slow down.”

You shake your head, typing on your phone once more.

Thank you, but you're doing just fine, I promise

A blush creeps onto Joshua's cheeks as he reads your message. He's relieved you're not bothered by his questions, but the awareness that you've been understanding him all along makes him feel a bit silly. In a good way, of course. He takes a hesitant sip of his soda, the silence between you stretching just a bit too long. He wants to talk to you, really talk, but he's unsure where to begin.

As you both stand there, with the city's sounds humming around, Joshua feels the nerves crawling up his skin. He gestures towards the convenience store nearby, silently asking if you need anything. You shake your head, indicating that you're good, but then motion down the road, pointing at something down the street.

“Are you heading somewhere?” Joshua asks, and he feels his heart jump once he sees you nod, feeling proud for understanding what you're trying to say.

You pull out your phone again, typing:

The museum

“The museum?” Joshua repeats, picking his head back up to squint down the street. He feels the hesitation at the tip of his tongue, as if considering something. But then, the intrusive action takes over, and he points in the same direction. “Would it be okay if I walk with you? The café is near there. I was about to head there myself.”

You notice the uncertainty in his eyes. Joshua watches your face for a moment, searching for any sign of discomfort or rejection. However, you simply offer a warm smile and a nod in response, which makes Joshua feel a surge of relief. A small smile plays on his lips, and he falls into step beside you as you both start walking towards the museum.

The late afternoon sun dips below the city skyline, casting long shadows across the pavement as you and Joshua walk side-by-side, your steps falling into sync. You steal glances at him every now and then, captivated by the way his hair catches the golden rays and how the lines of his face soften. He catches your eyes a few times, which makes you both look away at the same time. It's a bit awkward admittedly, yes, but there's a certain charm to it when he's right next to you.

Joshua tries to find ways to bridge the silence, but his words tangle in his throat.

Instead, he waves a hand in front of you, earning your attention back on him.

“Do you like art?” he asks. “Back at the café, I noticed... you were drawing?” Then he does a scribbling motion with his hand.

The question hangs in the air, and you find yourself pausing to consider it. A thoughtful expression settles on your face, and Joshua watches as you take a pause to grab something from out of your bag𑁋your sketchbook𑁋before handing it to him.

He shoots a brief glance at you, as if asking for permission, but your trusting gaze encourages him. He gently opens the sketchbook. His breath catches in his throat as he takes in the first page.

It looks to be a sketch of the beach, capturing the vastness of the ocean, the setting sun in the horizon, and the small details of people walking across the sands. Joshua can almost feel the warm sand beneath his bare feet and the salty tang of the air on his tongue.

He flips through the next few pages. A bustling city street, a lone bird perched on a branch, its feathers so finely detailed they seem to shimmer in the sunlight, a child's laughter echoing through a park, portrayed in a burst of joyful strokes.

Joshua feels a lump rise in his throat. He looks up at you, eyes wide with admiration and something else he can't quite define.

“Wow, these are incredible,” he manages to say. “You're so talented.”

You smile shyly, feeling the heat crawl up your cheeks as Joshua flips to the last page. In an instant, he feels his heart drop, but not in a bad way𑁋it's a page significant with the brown stain at the corner, but it's the way you seem to use the stain as a part of the sketch, blending it into the colours of the sky and the warm tones of the café.

“I was worried about your sketchbook,” he confesses, looking back at you. “I thought I would have to buy you a new one. But... I'm glad it's okay.”

He hands you back the sketchbook, his fingers brushing yours once again as the exchange is made, and you both continue your way down the sidewalk.

And then, you reach the museum.

Joshua turns towards you, and you're already looking at him. Then you pull out your phone once more, typing in a message, before showing it to him.

Thank you for walking with me

“It's𑁋You don't have to thank me,” Joshua acknowledges, his eyes reflecting sincerity. “I enjoyed it. Besides, it's the least I could do after the, uh... incident.”

You both stand a distance away from the museum entrance, knowing that you have to part ways, yet there's some hesitation in there. Joshua peers at the museum building, taking in its appearance, trying to ignore the bubbling reluctance in his chest.

“Maybe I can see you around…” But when Joshua brings his eyes back to you, you're already trailing towards the museum entrance. The embarrassment catches in his throat. He stands there for a moment with his gaze following you, clutching the can of soda, feeling the warmth radiating from it seeping into his palm.

Joshua sees you stop short in front of the entrance, turn back to him, and offer a small wave of your hand, your eyes locked with his for a brief moment. He reciprocates with a reluctant wave of his own, watching as you disappear into the museum.

He lets out a breath he didn't notice he was holding as he turns away, drinking the last sips of disappointment down his throat before throwing the empty can into a recycling bin nearby.

And while on his way to the café, the thought of you tugs at the corner of his lips.

Joshua pulls one more time on the door to the café, the keys dangling in his hand clinging loudly together as he makes sure it's all locked. When he does, he adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, letting out a deep exhale coming straight from the core of his chest. 

The sounds of fallen, dried-up leaves crunch below with every step he takes. Joshua wearily casts his eyes around, watching as surrounding local shops and other cafés switch their lights off for the night. A bus rushes past him as he continues walking down the street, bringing with it a gust of wind that ruffles his hair. The city is slowly settling into its nighttime rhythm, and Joshua can feel the shift in energy around him.

As he walks, his attention is drawn to a figure up ahead. It appears to be an elderly lady, a large box in her grasp, her movements slow and careful. The box looks heavy, with whatever inside threatening to spill over the top with every wobbling step she takes. Joshua quickens his pace immediately, concern knitting at his brows.

“Wait, ma’am! Let me help you.” Once he arrives at her side, he shifts his backpack down to the ground and reaches out to steady the box. The elderly lady looks up at him with surprise and relief. 

“Ah, thank you, young man,” she says, voice quivering slightly as Joshua hoists a hold of the entire box, a groan leaving him at the unexpected heaviness.

“Where are we heading to?” he asks.

“Just… into there.” The older lady motions with a slender finger to the tiny store tucked between a closed dry cleaner and a flower shop.

He can’t really see where he was going, but he hears the ding of a door opening and the old woman’s voice gently guiding him inside. He carefully navigates through the narrow doorway as the smell of old books, musty paper, and something faintly sweet hits him as soon as he steps inside. When he feels his foot seemingly hit the leg of a table, he cautiously sets the box on top of it, making sure it's stable before straightening back up.

“There we go,” he mutters, huffing out a tired breath. “Is there anything else that you need help with?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” The elderly woman shifts past him to examine the box, before reaching over for a pair of scissors to begin tearing into it. “These old bones can’t do much anymore these days.”

Joshua laughs faintly at that, setting his hands on his hips as he takes a look around the bookstore. It’s noticeably tiny, with only a few tall shelves taking up more than half of the space and a cluttered counter at the front with stacks of books waiting to be set out.

He swipes a random book off the shelf, some dust particles hitting his nose and causing him to sneeze. He chuckles softly, feeling a bit sheepish. The elderly lady looks up at him, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“Bless you,” she says kindly. “Not many people find their way here these days. It's nice to see a young face.”

“Really?” he questions. “It’s very vintage. I bet there’s a lot of history here.”

“For sure,” the lady responds wistfully. “You should head home now. Sleeping early is good for your health.”

Joshua places the book back on the shelf before heading his way back to the front. The elderly woman hands him back his backpack, wiping away some grime and dust that may have settled on it in the meantime. She continues to shower him with thanks even after he steps past the door. He bids her a wave and a good night before beginning to head his way back home. 

However, a sudden thought crosses his head, and he doesn’t give the way his feet turn back around much hesitation at all. 

He pushes the door open to the bookstore, swallows a lump in his throat, and lets his eyes meet back with the curious old lady. 

“Actually,” he starts, smiling somewhat bashfully. “Do you happen to have any books on sign language?”

“Did you finish totaling it up?”

“Hmm, yeah. Give me a second.” Joshua quickly flips through the bills in his hand, splitting it up as evenly as he could, before handing the rest to Seokmin. “294 dollars.”

Seokmin chuckles, grabbing the money from Joshua before unplugging the microphone. “Not too bad, to be honest, and it's on the worser days of the week.”

“It did help that you were here today. I owe you for that,” Joshua admits cheekily, packing up his guitar inside the case and zipping it up. “Got time for a meal later? My treat.”

Seokmin clicks his tongue, shaking his head while wrapping the microphone cord around the stand. “Maybe next time? I have plans.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow, picking his head up to look at Seokmin. Oh, he knows what's going on, and Seokmin isn't really the best at hiding his facial expressions, or anything really at all. The older man just rolls his eyes, chucking a small pebble in his direction, making Seokmin let out a loud yelp as he dodges it.

“Alright, alright. I get it. Go enjoy your date.”

Seokmin's face reddens, and he huffs, “It's not a date! We're just getting dinner, that's all.”

“Sure, sure,” Joshua continues to tease, standing up and slinging his guitar case over his shoulder. “Whatever you say, buttercup. Have fun, though.”

Seokmin just shoots him a playful glare, grabbing a bag of his own belongings and the microphone stand before heading off, promising another day to catch up, and leaving Joshua alone in the quiet square.

Letting out a sigh, Joshua glances down at his watch, noticing the late time displayed. He contemplates whether he should head back to the café to help Jeonghan with closing, head straight back to the apartment, or stop by somewhere to grab some food, and the thought of food makes his stomach rumble𑁋he decides on making a quick stop at a convenience store.

The convenience store is a familiar sight, one that he goes to often and tucked away in a quiet corner of the street, its bright lights illuminating the surroundings outside and the wet streets. There's a slight drizzle that starts as Joshua enters inside, the door letting out a soft chime. The cashier welcomes him with a nod as he starts to stroll through the aisles.

Joshua wanders through the narrow aisles, scanning the shelves for a quick bite to eat. His gaze lands on a shelf filled with instant noodles, and he grabs a couple of cup noodles (and a can of beer for good measure), figuring they would be enough for a simple dinner. As he makes his way to the cashier, the door rings once more, and he turns to spot a familiar face entering inside𑁋you.

Your eyes meet in an instant as Joshua fumbles with the stuff in his hands, the cup noodles and can of beer suddenly feeling heavier than a sack of bricks. His guitar nearly slides off his shoulder too.

You stare at him for a moment as if in confusion or contemplation. Joshua thinks he sees a flicker of recognition in your eyes. Then your lips curve into a hesitant smile, and the world seems to tilt on its axis. You hadn't expected to see him again, not so soon, but the sight of him fills you with a sense of... comfort, perhaps.

A bashful look washes over your face, and you offer a small wave, your fingers curling into a silent hello. Joshua returns the gesture, his own smile hesitant but clearly genuine.

The silence hangs between you, awkward but strangely filled with something, both of you seemingly unsure of what to say.

Joshua shuffles the abominable weight in his feet, the cup noodles in his grasp feeling like ridiculous boulders.

“Hey,” he mutters out, struggling for words, mentally slapping himself in the face. “I was just about to grab some dinner.”

You watch him, gaze tracing over the lines of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the nervous glint in his eyes. You feel a sudden urge to reach out and somehow wipe away the worry engraving his features, but your hands remain clasped at your side. 

He catches your gaze, and his cheeks flush with a faint blush.

“Would you like to join me?”

The offer floats in the air, hanging between the two of you like a question mark. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, and Joshua fidgets nervously, almost regretfully, while waiting for your response.

Yet unusually, there's something about this that feels... right. Perhaps it's the familiarity of his presence, or something else entirely. You've never really been asked this before, and it feels weird and a bit intimidating, but for some reason, you don't exactly want to step away. The thought of sharing a meal with someone𑁋with him𑁋shoots a bullet of curiosity through you.

Whatever it is, you want to trust it. 

Taking a deep breath, you raise your gaze to meet his. Then you give him a shy smile, one not quite reaching your eyes, and nod ever so slightly.

The cashier looks between the two of you as Joshua places the cup noodles and can of beer on the counter. The chime of the cash register rings out as he pays, and you soon follow after with your own food, placing your own items on the counter, then you both head towards a nearby seating area together.

A growing tapping of rain hits the earth outside as the two of you pick a spot in front of the windows. Joshua sets down his leather bag and guitar, and you place your own painter-splattered canvas tote right next to it.

Joshua feels a tap on his shoulder while aimlessly stirring through his ramen, and he watches as you sign him something with your hands. He doesn't entirely understand what you were signing, but he picks up the motion of a guitar, and he brightens up.

“Guitar?” He gestures to the guitar case nestled at his leg, and he watches as you nod and point at him. “Me? Guitar?”

You give a thumbs-up, and Joshua chuckles, feeling proud for picking up on your words.

“Yeah, I... I've been playing since I was young,” he answers, and you read his lips carefully. “Just as a hobby though, not professionally.”

Your mouth opens in awe, then you lift your hands up again, making a swinging motion with one arm and motioning at him, and Joshua tilts his head curiously.

“Book?” he questions, and you shake your head. He thinks again, repeating your movements. “Oh! Music? Do I make music?”

When you nod again, his heart flutters with victory.

“I play and sing sometimes. Just... small gigs and stuff, nothing too fancy,” he admits meekly. “I've written a few songs too. I guess it's a way to express myself, you know?”

You soak in his words, your eyes focusing on his lips and the subtle shifts in his facial expressions. Joshua swears he feels himself shrink under your gaze, but it feels almost relieving to tell this to you.

You bring your hands up, signing something, and Joshua watches intently, attempting to replicate your movements himself while trying to catch the meaning behind the gestures.

“You... like music?” he ventures, and you give him a small nod.

Joshua smiles at this, before it falters slightly. He opens his mouth up to speak, and you perk up, but then he closes it quickly. He feels the anxiety blooming within him, not knowing how to approach the question without making you uncomfortable.

“Can I…” he starts, feeling regretful already. “Can I ask... how do you…”

You notice the hesitation in Joshua's eyes, seeing how he's trying to ask as delicately as possible without crossing a line. But you already know what he's trying to ask, and you feel yourself willing to answer.

You reach for your phone, and Joshua observes as you type out your words, eyes lingering on the features of your side-profile for a few moments. You show him the message:

Sheet music, song lyrics, vibrations, chords, memories of sounds

“Vibrations, chords…” he leisurely reads out aloud to himself, feeling a mix of understanding and admiration course through him. And when he pulls back to look at you, his eyes widen and seem to burn brighter than the city lights outside. He understands. He gets it.

Silence stretches between you again, but it's no longer awkward; it's more comfortable now. Joshua finishes the rest of his ramen, his gaze occasionally darting towards you, and he catches the way you seem to be staring outside as the rain pours down.

He stares outside too, listening to the rain crashing loudly against the window and the occasional burst of thunder that rumbles in the distance. But then when he looks at you, all of those sounds seem to fade away.

He can't tell if you're lost in thought or simply taking in the scene, but there's a quiet comfort in your stillness that seems to draw him in.

As you watch the raindrops dance on the windowpane, a soft smile plays on your lips, and Joshua catches it. He watches you for a moment, then a sudden thought occurs to him. Slowly, he brings his hands up to his ears, covering them completely, and stares back outside. The muffled sounds of the rain and the faint hum of the convenience store fade into the distant background. It's more peaceful this way.

He likes this quietness, especially if it's with you. 

You face him, tapping lightly on his forearm. Joshua brings his arms down and veers his attention back to you as you draw your hands up, separate and curl your fingers like a claw, before doing a downward motion. He finds himself repeating it as well, head tilted slightly, and then it clicks.

“Rain?” he guesses, motioning to the rain outside before signing it again. “This means rain, right?”

Your eyes widen in victory, a grin curving at your lips, giving him an approving nod. Joshua feels something catch in his throat, but you turn back to the window before he can say anything.

“Rain,” he mutters to himself, unconsciously signing the word right next to you. Then he brings his hand up again, shooting a glance toward you𑁋you're still staring out the window, and the look of content on your face makes his heart flutter a bit more𑁋before slowly fanning his hand across his face, as if to sign the word, “Beautiful.”

“I've seen you do better than this.”

The look of disappointment to your art teacher's face is unchanging as he signs to you. You feel your hands mold into each other under the desk, fingers fidgeting as you try to process the criticism. The words bounce off the walls in your mind, and the weight of them settles in your chest. 

It's not that your painting is bad𑁋it's just not living up to the potential he knows you possess. The colours lack vibrancy, the brushstrokes lack emotion. He leans in, his face mere inches from the canvas, inspecting every detail.

“If you're ever going to put your work in an exhibition, it has to tell a story,” he assures sternly while continuing to sign. “Your art should speak, not just visually, but emotionally. I know you can do better.”

Taking a deep breath, you nod in understanding, though the disappointment lingers. You've been wrestling with this painting for weeks, trying to capture a fleeting emotion, a moment in time that you believed would speak to others, yet you realise you don't have a clear answer. He observes your reaction, and though his expression softens just the slightest, the expectation lingers.

“He’s probably just in a mood,” Wheein reassures you, hands flying in the air as she signs. “You know how he is with deadlines.”

“I can beat his ass for you,” Seungkwan chimes in, emphasizing a punching motion with his hands, which makes you let out a quiet laugh. 

Wheein playfully shoves the younger boy in the shoulders, before snatching away the cup of iced coffee in his hands.

Seungkwan pouts in mock disappointment as Wheein steals a sip of his coffee, but the playful banter manages to lighten the mood a bit.

Wheein hands back the coffee to Seungkwan and gives you a few pats on the back. “You'll get it right, you always do. Just take a step back, clear your mind, and try again, okay?”

Her words make you faintly smile. It's not a secret that you've been experiencing a lot of pressure for this upcoming exhibition competition at the museum, an opportunity for you to finally get your art out there in the world. But the thing is that there are plenty of other artists also fighting for the spot as well, and never in your life have you felt so stuck, so drained of inspiration, so dried out of colour. 

You feel a little lighter from the reassurance from your friends, but at the same time, you feel like it isn't quite enough. There's still a part of you that feels heavy inside𑁋what if you're not meant for exhibitions, if your art can't truly convey the emotions you want to express? What if you're just not meant for this? What if your art isn't enough to convey the emotions you want to share with the world?

The thought lingers as Wheein and Seungkwan dismiss themselves for the evening, and you're left alone roaming the quiet streets on your way back home. The city's lights begin to flicker to life, casting a warm glow on the dewy pavement, the streets a bit more barren than what you are used to. You try to shake off the doubt at the back of your mind, but it clings to you like the raindrops on the leaves.

As you stop at the pedestrian crossing, you shoot your eyes across the street.

A figure stands tall under the glow of a streetlamp, his features highlighted by the warm light. He's also looking across too in your direction, though it doesn't take long for his gaze to drift and land on you, and suddenly, he's waving at you.

It takes a moment for recognition to dawn on you, but when it does, time seems to stand still𑁋it's Joshua. He's standing there with his guitar case slung over his shoulder, waving at you. At first you look behind you to see if it was meant for someone else, but when you realise there's no one else around, you feel an odd pull tugging at your heart.

Because he looks... happy to see you. 

Hesitantly, you raise a hand and give him a small wave back. You notice some contemplation wash over his face, and then you observe as he brings his hands up.

“Nice to see you. How are you?” he signs, albeit clumsily and a bit slow, but the effort is cute, and you find yourself lowering your gaze for a moment to bite back a chuckle.

“Tired,” You sign in response, and mimic the gesture of rubbing your eyes, a small grin playing on your lips.

Joshua's eyes crinkle at the corners, and a soft chuckle escapes his mouth as he watches your playful sign. He follows suit, pretending to yawn and miming the act of stretching, exaggerating the movements comically. It's a simple exchange, but it breaks the ice, and you find yourself smiling more genuinely now.

He ushers a hand up to his cheek. “Home?”

When you give a nod, the signal light turns green, you make your way across the street, noticing Joshua waiting for you on the other side. As you approach him, you catch the nerves in his eyes. He shifts his guitar case on his shoulder, seemingly caught between wanting to say something and waiting for your lead.

With a small tilt of your head, you gesture down the road, asking if he's headed in the same direction as you. But he shakes his head apologetically, signaling that he's heading the opposite way. For a moment, you lift a brow in question, but then Joshua points to himself and then in the direction you're heading.

“Can I…” Your eyes focus on his hands and lips. “walk... you home?”

Your breath catches in your throat, but not from any fear or apprehension. A flutter of nerves dances in your stomach, but is quickly overshadowed by a warm feeling that spreads through you.

Hesitation lingers in the air for a moment, a tiny voice in the back of your mind reminding you of the uncertainties. You didn't want him to take a detour just to walk you home, especially since he was heading in the opposite direction. But then you see the nervous tremor in his hands that mirrors your own, and how his hopeful and vulnerable gaze holds yours as if afraid he had crossed a boundary, and the doubt seems to melt away.

And so, with a soft smile, you sign, “Okay.”

As the two of you set off, the silence that follows feels different than the heavy weight of earlier. It's comfortable, expectant, like a blank canvas waiting for the first splash of colour. You steal glances at him, admiring the way the dim streetlights play on his features, the gentle twinkle that shines in his eyes, how cutely comfortable he appears wearing an oversized jean jacket that almost seems to swallow him whole. And then your eyes set on his guitar case, and curiosity fills you.

You gesture a hand at his guitar, and Joshua raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, I…” He lets out a nervous, airy laugh, fiddling with his hands as he attempts to sign and explain, “I had to get some guitar strings replaced. One of them snapped on me earlier, so I stopped by the repair shop.”

You flash him a worried look, motioning a finger at his skin.

Joshua just shakes his head, signing back comfortingly, “I'm okay.”

He watches as you tilt your head just slightly, as if in amusement, like you had caught him saying something suspicious.

You type out something on your phone before showing it to him.

The way you sign is funny

Joshua giggles quietly, and he playfully pouts, a small laugh escaping his lips. “That's mean.”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest at his reaction, like a tiny seed of affection sprouting. It's almost like he's attempting to paint with his hands, and the shade isn't quite right, yet it blends in perfectly with just a few more strokes.

There are many people you’ve encountered in life who have communicated with you through sign language, and you noticed that they all have their own unique way of signing. Whether it was Seungkwan with his more expressive and sharp gestures, Wheein with her dainty and flowy style, or Joshua with his uncertain yet gentle movements, you liked they were all different. 

Not being able to hear doesn't bother you anymore, not like it used to when you were younger. It used to build walls around you and separate you from the world. Yet now, you've learned to read sounds with your eyes, hear the voices that emit from a simple smile, a frown, an arch of the brow, because there are a lot more people who can hear than those who can’t.

But out of all those people, someone was the one to wave first across the street.

Joshua finds himself staring up at the intimidating brick façade of your apartment building. When you turn back to him, you offer him a tentative smile, and there's something different about it that makes his chest tighten.

Finally, you muster the courage, your fingers slowly dancing in the air.

“Thank you,” You sign to him. 

He lets out a quiet chuckle, eyes softening. “How do I sign ‘goodnight?’”

You nearly hesitate for a second before bringing out both of your hands. You could feel Joshua watching you carefully at the way you bring your right hand up to your chin and then back down to meet the palm of your other hand, signing the word good. Then you flip your left hand so that it’s facing down, and your other hand brushes over it like the sun is setting over the horizon, signing the word night. 

Joshua watches at the way your hands move gracefully. He follows your movements carefully, a faint smile spreading across his face as he tries to mimic your gestures.

“Good... night,” he repeats slowly, the miniscule dust particles whirling around his fingers as he traces the air. His eyes meet yours, and he could possibly see the flicker of proudness in them. It's a simple exchange, but at this moment right now, it feels significant.

As you unlock the door to your apartment, you turn to look back at him, and he shoots you another wave. Joshua stands there for a moment, watching your door close, before taking in a deep breath to relax the racing of his heart.

Three years ago, Joshua Hong moved away from his family in the hopes of pursuing a music career. It most certainly wasn't an easy decision, leaving behind the familiarity of his hometown and the warmth of his loved ones.

Almost three years later, he might have realised how damn stupid of a choice that might have been.

It's a bit lonely, to put it lightly.

The gigs are sparse, the pay is minimal, and the dreams he once held so tightly in his grasp seem to be slowly slipping away as the days pass.

The journey has been anything but smooth, filled with constant rejections, financial struggles, and moments of self-doubt; and lately these lows seem to be overpowering the highs more than ever. Yet, despite all this, he still chooses to cling to this passion as if it's the air he breathes, because it's something that he loves to do.

Music is the voice he uses when his own isn't enough. He's constantly surrounded by noise, whether it's from the strumming of his own guitar, the sounds of the bustling city, or conversations from strangers that he accidentally overhears when crossing the street.

But then there's the silence𑁋the kind that settles in the spaces between chords, in the moments when he puts the instrument down and the world seems to hum a little quieter. It's in these moments that the loneliness can be deafening.

And then there was you.

The melody playing in his mind for the past week is... hesitant, unsure, much like his own feelings. He isn't sure what it is yet𑁋this feeling that tugs at his chest and paints his cheeks with a faint blush. He only knows that it's connected to you, to the way your eyes narrow in focus when your fingers dance so graciously in the air, and the warmth that spread through him when you thanked him for walking you home the other night.

It was just a simple offer to walk you home, why is it playing on repeat in his mind?

A sigh leaves him as he runs a loose hand through his hair. He tosses away the dirty rag in his hand and stores the cafe's cleaning supplies back and under the counter. The colours of the sun setting outside filters through the large windows, casting orange and red hues on the wooden tables and floor of the empty café.

“You look like you need a drink,” Jeonghan's voice rings out teasingly, and Joshua could only scoff. “You still got that gig later this weekend, right?”

Joshua nips at his bottom lip, releasing a sigh. “I've been feeling a little under the weather, honestly, and I don't really have anything prepared.” I feel like I'm losing my touch.

Jeonghan arches a knowing brow. “Since when do you back down from a gig? Just go up there and pour your heart out. It's what you do best.”

“I'm just not feeling it right now, I guess,” Joshua replies with a half-hearted smile, shoulders only taking on a shrug. He pushes himself away from the counter, and just as Jeonghan is about to crawl under his skin, the bell above the door chimes. “Welcome in…”

He should really learn how to control his stomach from flipping when seeing you𑁋the familiar sight of your paint-smudged canvas tote, the comfort you seem to radiate𑁋but it's not just you alone. There's a girl who he doesn't recognise there too, with her arm linked with yours, and another boy he swears he's seen a few times... Seungkyung? Seungwan? Seungkwan?

Joshua lets his gaze drift to you, and there's a gloom to your face that he can't quite decipher, a certain apprehension that he notices when your eyes make the smallest of contact. He attempts to get your attention by bringing one of his hands up, and you catch sight of it.

“Same?” he signs, as if asking if you want to order the usual drink that you get.

You meet his eyes, and despite the lingering doubts that have been plaguing you, there's a sense of comfort in the familiarity of him. You nod, and that's all it takes for him to brighten up, his smile breaking through the clouds that seem to hang in the air. He watches as you exchange a few words in sign language with Wheein and Seungkwan, then Seungkwan comes over to the counter to place the order.

Maybe he's just seeing things, or maybe it's his mind overthinking for him𑁋there's an undeniable shadow around your eyes that he notices when he brings a tray full of fruit smoothies and iced teas to your table. He sets the drinks down carefully, unable to ignore the way your gaze seems to linger on him for a fraction of a second before flitting away again.

You don't seem to be entirely present in conversation, often drifting off before Wheein or Seungkwan would have to nudge you back into reality. Then a ghost of a smile would draw over your lips, attempting to engage in the conversation with your hands, but all the words seem to disintegrate into ashes.

Another tap at your wrist makes you blink, and you turn to see both Seungkwan and Wheein peering at you with worried expressions on their faces.

“Are you okay?” Wheein mouths quietly, signing lightly with her hands.

Seungkwan turns his head slightly, eyeing something behind him, a scowl to his expression before it curves into a slight smirk; his back was facing where Joshua stood behind the counter, taking in orders for another group of people.

“Café boy?” he mouths to you.

You follow Seungkwan's line of sight, and sure enough, Joshua is there behind the counter𑁋mop of dark hair falling in his eyes, a polite smile playing on his lips𑁋taking and preparing orders with casual ease. You feel a gentle tug in your chest, and for a moment, your gaze locks with his. There's a flicker of concern in his eyes as he watches you, before the corners of his mouth tugs upwards, and you quickly avert your gaze, fingers playing with the straw in your drink.

“He's cuter than I thought,” Seungkwan signs jokingly to you, lifting a teasing brow. “I'd have a crush on him too𑁋ow!”

He's met with Wheein's sharp elbow to his side, making him let out a squeaky wince that might have gained the attention of the entire café, and she scolds him with a shake of her head and a finger to her lips, but it manages to crack a small smile to your face. Seungkwan only grins in victory, tapping his wrist against his heart and giving a thumbs-up as if satisfied with the response he got out of you. 

Ah, the benefits of sign language and being friends with two absolute idiots... No one really knows what the hell you're talking about. 

“You do think he's cute though, right?” Wheein scrunches up her face cheekily, and you could only let a finger drift across the icy surface of your cup, the cold offering little comfort against the sudden warmth blooming in your cheeks to her words.

You roll your eyes, though your face seems to betray you even more. 

“You're not denying it,” Seungkwan adds in, narrowing his eyes at you in a smirk. “Just say you have a crush on him.”

You form a mock-scissor gesture with your fingers, and the threat earns a burst of laughter to leave Seungkwan. The playful jab cuts through the tension, but the truth is, your heart aches a little at his words.

Crush? The word felt alien, yet somehow, it fits. The way your heart skips a beat whenever his gaze met yours, the way his smile warms you from the inside out, the way his clumsy attempts at sign language makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time𑁋these were all signs of something, weren't they?

The atmosphere at the table lightens a bit. It feels nice, spending time with your friends and momentarily pushing aside the doubts of your artistic soul and worries of everything else that have been flying in and out of your head. 

Eventually, the rest of the afternoon wears on, and you somehow manage to survive through Seungkwan and Wheein's (mainly Seungkwan though, unsurprisingly) overbearing and teasing attempts to get you to spill your thoughts on café boy. They give up by the end of it, saying their goodbyes with a tight squeeze of a hug and urging you to keep your chin up. Seriously, you wouldn't know where you would be right now if it weren't for them.

At the back, when Joshua steps out of the restroom, a sudden slap at the wall next to his head startles him back.

“So I see.” Jeonghan circles a finger in front of his face. “You're feeling under the weather, aren't you?”

Joshua groans. “Don't you say it𑁋”

“Under the weather of love𑁋”

“You're having more customers than before because of me. Don't ruin that.”

“Then stop looking like a lovesick puppy and ask them out already, idiot.” Jeonghan shoves the boy forward with a not-so-gentle push to the back. “or at least invite them to your gig. Maybe you won't feel under the weather then.”

Joshua opens his mouth to retort. “Dude, I can't just𑁋”

But before he can finish his sentence, Jeonghan has already disappeared in the back, leaving Joshua standing there in a puddle of embarrassment. He glances towards the table where you were sitting earlier, seeing that you and your friends have already left, and panic shoots through him.

He's never been good at taking risks, but maybe, just maybe, it's time to change that.

Racing out the door, the cool evening air greets Joshua as he steps outside, quickly scanning the surroundings for a glimpse of your familiar figure. He spots you not too far away, heading down the sidewalk, before quickening his strides. He doesn't know what's driving him, but there's a sudden urgency to catch up with you𑁋to not let you slip away just this once. 

And when he finally manages to catch up to you approaching the pedestrian light, he finds himself breathless in front of you, heart pounding in his chest and cheeks flushed, still wearing the café apron around his body. When he looks up to you, clearly startled by his sudden appearance, he feels the heat crawl up his neck. 

“I, um…” he starts, voice coming out way more flat to his ears. Then you watch as he brings his hands up to sign. “Question?”

You feel your heart pick up its pace. He ran all the way out here to ask you a question?

“I have a performance…" His face lights up when he signs the right word. Cute. "...this weekend. I was wondering if you’d like to watch it?” 

You swear you can see the city lights blinking in anticipation around you, your own eyes fluttering in surprise to his question. He's... inviting you to watch him perform? He knows you won't be able to fully understand him, to hear him, yet he's offering you anyway?

Part of you wants to immediately say yes. The thought of watching him sends a wave of thrills through you, a glimmer of excitement warming the chill wrapped around your heart since leaving the café. But the other part𑁋the cautious and guarded part that has learned to retreat behind walls of silence𑁋is reluctant.

Hesitation flickers across your features, and Joshua's hands fly in apology.

“You don't𑁋if you're uncomfortable or if you have plans, it's okay," Joshua reassures quickly, speaking almost too fast for you to catch everything tumbling off his lips. “I could give you my number and text the details if you decide to come. Just... think about it, okay?”

The streetlight casts a soft glow on Joshua's features as he waits for your response. You glance up to the pedestrian signal, noticing that time is ticking down before you would have to leave, before bringing your gaze back to him.

You swallow a lump down your throat, and give a nod. A faint grin breaks across his face. Joshua fumbles with his phone, pulling it out of his pocket and offering it to you. You swiftly type in your phone number, then hand the phone back to him, and then the pedestrian signal switches to green. It's your time to go. Each footstep you take feels heavier and heavier. 

Joshua watches you go, but not before you both exchange your habitual waves to each other.

He can get used to that, he thinks.

The colours on your palette just look absolutely wrong. 

It may just be the lighting playing tricks on your eyes and the exhaustion hanging on your eyelids, but it all looks slightly off-shade, the teeniest tiniest bit cooler or warmer. You frown, dipping your brush into the paint, attempting to mix them until they match the image you have in your mind. But it's like trying to catch sunlight with your bare hands𑁋the more you try, the more it slips away.

You let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in your chair, and your gaze wanders to the canvas. The painting stares back at you tauntingly. It's like a stranger's work, not your own. A sense of defeat washes over you.

Groaning, you hop to your feet, untangling the apron around your waist and letting it fall to the ground before taking your paint brushes to the sink in your bathroom. You wash off the paint with a bit too much force, the bristles scraping against the porcelain, almost as if you were trying to scrub away your own frustration. The paint swirls down the drain, the colours blending together into an ugly, murky green before ultimately disappearing. 

You chug down an entire glass of water from your kitchen, then shut off the light hanging above your canvas. Sprawling on top of your bed, you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that the walls could cave in and swallow you whole, if only for a moment.

When you reach behind to fish for your phone annoyedly, your eyes nearly bulge out of its skull. 

You don’t even have to read out the entire message for you to jump up from your bed. Your eyes dart from the time displayed at the top of your phone, and to the words jumping at you from the screen.

[06:26PM | joshua hong] Hey it's Joshua! Sorry I know it's a bit last minute, but my performance is supposed to start in about 15 [06:29PM | joshua hong] But I totally understand if you aren't able to attend. It's no problem at all :) 

And perhaps it's the adrenaline from reading the message knowing it’s from Joshua, because you’re suddenly standing up and racing to the bathroom. You don’t understand how you look more disheveled than before, and you can hardly do much to touch yourself up before you’re shrugging, grabbing a jacket, and leaving. 

You nearly trip on the way out the door, and you could already feel the multitude of curses echoing through your head. 

Gosh, you can hardly believe how much time has slipped away from you. The stress coming from painting and deadlines has been gnawing at you day by day. It’s been the only thing pulling you back from doing anything else. Yet with every stroke you bring to the canvas, it feels empty. You feel empty. 

The streets of the city feel busier than usual, the air thick of your already deteriorating patience, and an unnerving anxiety gnaws at your insides. 

You don't have to attend𑁋you know it's a choice you could make, but why does the thought of not seeing him perform make your heart clench? Why does the thought of simply not seeing him make your steps quicken even more?

The doors to the bus ahead slam shut the second you stride up to it, and your hand comes up to pound at the heavy metal surface in anger. With a huff, you step back from the edge of the street, ignoring the stares being shot towards you by passersby while watching as the bus pulls away, leaving you standing uselessly on the sidewalk.

A person almost bumps into you once you turn around. Every taxi that you attempt to grab is immediately taken. You blink back some heat in your eyes, arms wrapping around your body as if trying to mask away the sinking feeling at the pit of your stomach. You brush past a sea of shoulders and weave through the bustling streets of the city. Seriously, why the hell is it so busy right now? 

But even as you continue to float your way through the crowded streets, you could feel all the hope at getting to Joshua’s performance deflate. The day really wasn’t all on your side right now, and it all seems to rain down weights at your feet, slowing you down with every step you take. 

Why does it matter? You ask yourself inwardly, skepticism knitting at your brows. Why does his performance matter so much? 

A sharp nudge at your shoulder blade makes you wince. And when you bring your eyes back up, you suddenly realise you’re the only one left standing at the pedestrian light, watching as the sea of people ahead of you cross without any worry. The other side seems so close yet so far. 

Your gaze flickers up at the seconds counting down, your thoughts thinking back to Joshua, and you suddenly find yourself darting across the street.

Joshua's brow twitches faintly when his calloused fingers strum at his guitar strings. 

It’s a bit warmer this evening, the air feeling strangely muggier than usual. The note that leaves his guitar sounds slightly off-tune, but he doesn’t get himself to fix it. Instead, he hunches over to aimlessly grab at his guitar case right at his feet, snatching the coins he may have missed picking up before beginning to pack everything up. 

Joshua glances around the beautifully lit-up busking area, eyes scanning over the dwindling crowd. It’s a relatively small, circular area making up the heart of a tiny social sphere surrounded by local markets and restaurants. Despite that, there’s an emptiness lingering around him, one that feels awfully familiar yet more noticeable than ever before. He gazes back down and pockets the coins with a practiced shrug, a movement that barely hides the disappointment nagging at him.

When a coin slips out of his grasp, he bends down to retrieve it. But as he’s about to come back up, a shadow seems to loom above him, and the outsole of a shoe nearly steps on his fingers. 

Joshua picks his head back up, half-expecting for it to be a complete stranger and totally not half-hoping that it would be… you, hunched over and out of breath.

“Y/N?” he asks, swiftly putting the coin away. “You came.” 

You only give an imperceptible, apologetic nod at his words. Joshua glances around for a moment, before looking down at his guitar, and back to you.

He scratches the back of his neck bashfully. “You just missed it.”

A thin line forms at your lips as you sign, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry.” Joshua waves dismissively with his hands in a slight panic. “You must have been busy, right?”

You smile faintly at that, nodding once more, before taking out your phone to type:

I wanted to come

Once Joshua reads it, you see the way his eyes widen ever so slightly. “You did?”

The curve at your lips lifts even more, but just barely. Joshua’s head falls down for a minute as he peers down at his feet, attempting to hide away a grin threatening at his own face, before looking back up at you and clearing basically nothing in his throat. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

“I’m glad you came,” he says, a sweet, appreciative tone to his words. You can’t hear it but you can see it in the way his eyes seem to smile as wide as his lips. “I was… kind of hoping you would show up. Not… not in a weird way or anything! I just𑁋I think I would have felt a little more confident if you were here. A face that I know.” 

Your face scrunches together in a bit of worry and a pinch of surprise, but Joshua just shakes his head and chuckles it off. 

The two of you stand there for a few moments. It’s really your first time being right in the centre of the busking square. Fairy lights hang on the few trees that dot around the area. You could see some small and large groups of people huddling nearby, presumably watching other performers performing, but you and Joshua just stood adrift in your own little bubble, like two stars separate from their own galaxies. 

The fairy lights cast a warm glow on Joshua's face, highlighting his hair that was floofed out in soft wisps around his forehead. You watch the way he runs his hand through it before taking a deep breath and returning to packing up his guitar. You casually wander close, looming over as you observe him in curiosity. 

Once Joshua slings his guitar back over his shoulder, he turns back to you. 

“Are you…” he starts to ask while signing. “...going back home now?”

You glance down at the time on your phone, pursing your lips together lousily. You should probably head home to start back on your painting, but that’s not what your thoughts are telling you to do, nor your heart. Or maybe your entire body, in fact. 

“If you are,” Joshua’s hands catch your attention again, then you focus in on his lips. “can I walk you home again? Like last time? It’s the least I could do since you ran all the way here. I have to give some worth to your effort, right?” 

You almost swear you could read the playfulness on his features, like the way his eyes crinkle subtly at the corners, or even in the way his head is tilted unnoticeably.

You can get used to that side of him, possibly.

You only abruptly turn around, leaving Joshua puzzled for a second, before he’s snatching the rest of his belongings and jogging to catch up to you. Then the two of you are walking side by side just as all the times before, the distance between you closing naturally. 

The world you’re used to is already quiet, silent even, but it’s different now. Joshua’s presence is loud, not in sound, but in the way it seems to comfortably fill the space around you. You don’t really know how to describe it without sounding awfully obvious that… you like when he’s around you; or, you like when you’re around him. 

His guitar case occasionally bumps your hip at his side, and his every attempt to create more space only seems to bring him back to the tiny amount of distance between you two anyway. Then Joshua switches carrying the case from one shoulder to the other, and as he does, his free hand briefly brushes against yours. The touch is fleeting, but enough to send a jump to your stomach. He quickly looks at you with a sheepish grin, muttering an apology that you can't hear but can easily read in his expression. 

The night air is cooler now, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves overhead and causing them to fall to the ground like feathers at your feet. 

Joshua feels a light tap at his arm, and he turns to see you showing him a message on your phone.

Did your performance go well? 

He smiles nimbly at that, but you can tell in the way his eyes seem to cast a shadow over his face that he's not entirely satisfied. He only nods slightly, a noncommittal gesture. 

“It was alright,” he says while signing, fingers moving reluctantly. “The crowd was small, and I wasn’t at my best. But it’s okay.” 

You frown a little, and the way he casts his head down to the ground makes your chest squeeze. 

“Maybe it was good that you didn’t come,” Joshua mumbles under his breath, and you hardly catch what he was saying, but you could sense the diffidence emitting from him. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you either.” 

Both of your footsteps slow down ever so slightly as you approach a familiar street corner, the dim glow of a lamppost shining down on the two of you. Joshua notices the pensive expression to your features as your fingers dance across your phone screen. 

You hesitate for a moment before showing him. 

You tried your best. That’s all that matters

Then you’re abrupt to take your phone away before Joshua could process your words, typing something else again before flipping your phone around for him to read.

You wouldn’t have disappointed me

Joshua stares at the simple message. A hearty sound seems to bubble out of his chest, then another, and another, before it turns into a brief fit of coughs and a mix of laughter altogether. You can’t help but giggle at his reaction. It's light and airy, like wind chimes dancing in the breeze, and it feels like breaking a sound barrier you didn't even know existed between the two of you.

When he returns his gaze to you, he grins again, beaming even, a sliver of teeth expressing relief and a newfound confidence. 

“Thank you,” he tells you. “That means a lot to me.” 

You nod your head coyly, and before Joshua can say anything else, you’re already turning around and beginning to walk. Yet just after the first few steps, a boom of thunder echoes in the distance, and a raindrop lands at the top of your head. 

You stop and turn to see Joshua racing after you, and he stops right next to you. 

“Rain,” he simply signs. “It’s raining.”

And then, the two of you don’t even have to say anything before you’re running through the incoming rain together. You try to run as fast as you can without looking back because you know that Joshua is behind you, the rain beginning to fall down heavier and heavier as you dart through the streets and into the area where your apartment is located. 

Joshua stops right at the entrance, the same place where he had stopped last time. He watches as you continue to dash away from him, before coming to a halt, and turning around to notice him standing there under the pouring rain. 

Raindrops plaster in your hair and clothes as you face Joshua standing at the entrance of your apartment building. His hair is damp and matted to his forehead, damp clothes clinging to his frame as the rain running in rivulets down his face. Despite the downpour, his eyes meet yours with an unwavering gaze.

“Are you alright?” he signs nearly frantically, and you squint your eyes to be able to see him more clearly. 

While catching your breath, you motion for Joshua to come closer, shielding yourself under the small awning of your apartment building. He hesitates for a moment, glancing around as if assessing the situation, but then he’s jogging up to you, joining you under the small shelter of your building that could probably only fit two people. 

Both of you stand there as you watch the rain pour down to the earth in front of you. Then you glance at Joshua, and then at your apartment, then back outside again. He can’t go home in this rain right now without a singular bit of protection.

A tug at Joshua’s sleeves makes him turn to face you, softening at the way you look so concerned yet… cute in your own little way.  

Without any thinking, you gesture towards your apartment, as if silently offering him an invitation.

The surprise on Joshua's face is clear. His eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth falls open slightly. He glances back at the downpouring rain, then back at you with uncertainty. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

You nod again, even opening the door for him and waiting for him to step inside. He hesitates again, but the apparent adamancy on your features brings some warmth to blossom through his chest. He fixes his guitar case on his shoulder and steps past you into the dry hallway, water from his hair and clothes dripping down to the ground. 

Joshua follows you down the narrow hallway toward your apartment door, his shoes squeaking slightly on the tiled floor below, a slip of nervousness with every step he takes. The hallway is dimly lit, with a faint aroma of incense lingering in the air. You unlock the door and hold it open for him, gesturing for him to enter first. And as he steps past you, he’s immediately greeted with the warmth of your place.

You take off your own shoes right after him as he stands somewhat awkwardly in the middle of your apartment. It’s smaller than he imagined, but it’s enough for him to recognise glimpses of your personality scattered around. It’s cozy, minimalist, yet it’s home to you, and that’s all that matters to him. 

You appear back in front of him with a towel in your hands, and you hold it out to Joshua, who takes it from your grasp gratefully. He starts to dry his hair and face, the towel absorbing the rainwater and providing some warmth against his skin. As he does so, he steals glances around your apartment, catching sight of an easel holding up a large canvas. 

There are other paintings on your walls too. He smiles to himself as he steps closer towards the canvas, the painting appearing unfinished and a bit weathered with all of its strokes, but nevertheless eye-catching, filling him with wonder about what the finished product may look like. 

You emerge from your bedroom and scan around the room, and when your eyes land on Joshua, you find him peering down at your unfinished painting, a thoughtful expression on his face as he cards through his hair with the towel. He turns to you, eyes widening at the sight of you in a set of new, dry clothes, then shifts his gaze to what you're holding.

It’s an oversized, grey hoodie, and it proudly displays the name of the museum that you frequent. You hold it out to Joshua with a shy look. He sets the towel aside and takes the hoodie from your hands. Immediately, you take a deep breath and face yourself away to let him change, and Joshua watches as you disappear into the small kitchen area, giving him a moment of privacy.

After propping his guitar case next to your easel, he strips off his wet shirt, replacing it with the dry, oversized hoodie. It’s warm and extremely comfortable, smelling like it’s been freshly washed with a scent hinting at lavender, and instantly offers the relief he needed after running through the rain earlier.

Then Joshua gazes around your apartment again. There’s a bookshelf lined with art books and tiny succulents, a small couch with a knitted blanket draped over its arm, and a table with a collection of paintbrushes, unused palettes, and an endless collection of bottles of paint. It’s a different sight than what he’s used to, that’s for certain𑁋he’s used to microphone chords being tangled together, the worn leather of his guitar case at his fingertips, and the hum of music drifting through his life. 

The sound of your footsteps echoes softly from the kitchen, drawing Joshua's attention away from his thoughts. You're holding two mugs in your hands, steam curling up from the brims, and the scent of herbal tea wafts through the air. You carefully hand one to him, before settling on the couch, snugly tucking your legs underneath yourself. Joshua follows suit right after, sitting down right next to you while taking a steady sip from the warm tea. He feels the warmth seep into his fingers as he cradles the mug in his hands. 

He glances at you, noticing how relaxed you seem all curled up on the couch, the soft light casting a gentle glow on your face.

Joshua leans down to set the mug back on the table, catching your attention. 

“Thank you,” he mouths quietly, signing to you. 

You offer a small nod in response, then take out your phone to type:

Is it still raining hard outside? 

Joshua leans back on the couch to listen, narrowing his eyes intently. He still hears the rain outside, but it seems to have calmed down quite a bit. Yet the thought of him staying longer in your place makes his ears burn hotter than the steaming cup of tea in his hands.

He turns back at you and nods his head, knowing it’s a bit of a white lie but deciding that it’s worth staying just a little longer with you. He watches the way your face shifts into a contemplative look. 

Your fingers dance along with your screen once more. 

You can stay until it stops

“Are you sure?” Joshua questions incredulously. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.” 

You shake your head firmly, the smile playing on your lips widening just a touch. It's clear in your eyes that you’re genuinely telling him it’s okay, and that assurance softens something in Joshua's chest. He glances down at his mug on the table, staring at the way the steam curls up into the air like delicate wisps.

It feels almost natural to do this𑁋to sit here under the excuse of sheltering away from the rain, but really, it's a bit more than that, more obvious than what you both assume. For some reason, it’s easier to be around each other than sitting alone in your separate worlds of sound and art. 

When Joshua drinks the rest of his tea, he catches a glimpse of his guitar case standing right next to your easel, and a light flickers on his head. 

“Since you missed my performance,” he starts to say, signing a bit flimsily and unconfidently. “I was wondering if I could… maybe sing for you?” 

You cock your head to the side, curiosity piqued. “Sing?”

“Sing.” Joshua copies right after you. He remembers when you mentioned that even though you can’t hear, you can still feel the vibrations, read the chords and lyrics, and enjoy the music like others.

And while he feels nervous, the way his heart flutters at the thought of you listening to him sing makes him feel a bit… hopeful, confident, like he told you before. He likes to think that your presence alone is much more comforting and reassuring than a group of strangers gathered around him in the busking area. 

Joshua takes a deep breath, before standing up and fetching his guitar gently from its case, resting the instrument on his knee. The rich scent of wood fills the air as he tunes it, deftly plucking each string with practiced fingers until it comes to the correct note. You could only watch in awe, glancing between the guitar and his focused expression. His brows knit together tightly and his eyes come to a close for a few moments𑁋you can’t seem to tear your own gaze off him. 

When he finishes tuning, he opens his eyes, seemingly noticing how attentive you’re to his every move. A faint blush creeps up his neck, and he casts his eyes down for a moment before meeting yours again. He clears his throat awkwardly, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder.

“Can I…” he begins to ask, holding out his hand towards you. You peer down at it, noticing how it hovers expectantly between you. 

As your hand is about to brush against his, Joshua gently takes your hand with his own, his calloused fingertips meeting your soft ones briefly. He guides your hand on the body of his guitar. Your fingers rest lightly against the smooth wood, feeling the vibrations as he strums a few chords softly. 

Your eyes widen as you look back up at him, surprised at how vivid the sensation is right at the ends of your fingers. 

“You can read my lips too.” Then he pauses, before continuing, “if you want to, at least.” 

With that, he plays a few chords, the vibrations running through the guitar and to your hand, even down your body. And when his lips start to move, you try to focus on his every word, watching the shape of his mouth as he sings. 

For years, you’re used to reading sound with your eyes. Sure, you’ve touched instruments, like the piano in the music room during elementary school or the drumset you would see backstage before a school concert. But no one ever played them𑁋nobody ever played for you. 

So when you read from your eyes, there’s always that second of disconnect when you blink, and the inner anxiety that you could miss even the tiniest detail of the music. However, everytime you blink now, you could feel Joshua singing and playing right at the ends of your fingertips, as if he was telling you that it’s okay to keep your eyes closed without worrying, simply because he was right there. 

This is what passion looks like on someone else, and for some reason seeing all that unfold before you makes it all more beautiful. 

You notice Joshua closes his eyes or peers down sometimes when he gets more focused, yet it doesn’t take anything away from his singing. The way his fingers effortlessly glide over the strings of his guitar, or the subtle lift to his lips when he’s singing𑁋you know that his heart is completely in it. 

It’s beautiful. He’s… beautiful.

The song ends before you hardly notice. You keep your hand resting on the guitar, the vibrations still buzzing ever so slightly on your fingertips after Joshua strums the final set of chords. 

Joshua shifts uncomfortably for a moment, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the guitar in his lap. He scratches the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. 

“Did you... like it?” he asks tentatively while searching your face, signing the words as he speaks.

You merely blink up at him too, as if you’re still stuck processing everything and nothing all at once, before nodding reassuringly. 

Joshua's expression softens with relief, his shoulders relaxing visibly as he lets out a quiet sigh. He glances down at your hand still resting on his guitar, a certain warmth spreading through his chest at the way you're looking at him.

“You felt it, didn't you?” he asks quietly. “The vibrations?”

You consider nodding again, but instead, you reach back for your phone to type.

It was beautiful. I haven’t felt music like that in a long time

Joshua can’t help but smile to himself, and there’s no point in trying to hide it anymore when he does. He likes knowing that he’s happy around you, likes feeling himself be happy around you. It’s a feeling that feels easy, natural, like he doesn't have to try too hard. 

He gently places his guitar back in its case, the soft click of the latch echoing in the quiet room. You notice his fingers linger on the case for a moment, before he turns back to you.

“I think that I was right about what I said earlier,” he affirms, and there seems to be content hinting on his features. “about feeling more confident… when you’re around. I just wanted to thank you for that.”

Of course, he was nervous, anxious if anything𑁋but in between all that nerves was the comfort of someone who listened to him more intently than any audience ever could. 

Joshua clears his throat and peers around after setting his case back down, trying to brush off the fact that you’re sitting way more closer to him than before. You’re typing something on your phone again, the bright screen emitting on your face and making you bat your eyelashes together. 

You lightly tap on his shoulder to get his attention, showing your message:

You can always practice here, if you want

“Practice? Here? You want𑁋I can practice here?” The disbelief in his face makes you purse your lips together endearingly. “I hardly ever have the chance to practice because Jeonghan𑁋my roommate𑁋is sick of me being loud, at this point. I’ve been saving up to move out, but it’s been hard.”

When he realises how fast he spoke and the way you’re watching him closely, all he does is smile faintly.

“I’ll be sure to use the opportunity wisely,” he assures you, and there’s that lightheartedness back on his face again.

Your knee rubs against his when you stand up to put away the empty mugs back in the kitchen. It gives Joshua the chance to look around your place again, and his eyes settle on your unfinished painting on the other side of the room. 

“Could you…” he starts to ask once you’re walking back to the couch, his fingers moving unsurely in the air. “Could you tell me about your paintings?” 

At first, there’s a bit of hesitancy in your movements. But the genuinity you see in his gaze seems to tug at your heartstrings more than ever. You show him a message on your phone:

As long as you tell me about your songs

Joshua’s eyes light up at your message, a grin spreading across his face. 

“It’s a deal,” he says.

You could probably count the individual dust specks floating in the sunbeams pouring inside the classroom. 

Warm water trickles down your hands and into the sink below as you rinse off some paint brushes, before placing them in a discoloured, paint-covered bucket right beside you.

The museum has a variety of art classes, mostly for people who aspire to get their artwork shown in exhibitions. You aren’t any different from them𑁋you all seek the same goal, which is to be heard and recognised for your work; this small inkling to be known or even vaguely known by someone.

Once you finish cleaning up, you dry your hands on a rag and take a moment to look around the desolate classroom. The smell of paint and the sight of easels and canvases everywhere feels like home, but lately you’ve been questioning if it’s actually home, or just a temporary refuge. The question nags at you as you gather your belongings to put in your worn-out tote bag.

Stepping out of the classroom, you start to walk through the nearly empty museum, passing by hallways with art ranging from contemporary, to modern, to as far back as the classics. You’ve probably been through these halls a countless number of times𑁋retaining everything from the title of the piece to the artist’s name and technique𑁋and you would still be in utter awe. 

However, just as you reach the main area of the museum, a figure peering up at a painting catches your eyes. The guitar case that hung on his shoulder stuck out like a sore thumb among every other person in the room, and the sight makes you chuckle to yourself because you recognise Joshua instantly. 

You stand there for a moment, observing him from a distance as he studies the painting with a thoughtful expression. His fingers tap lightly against the strap of his guitar case, and you feel like if you focus even more, you could possibly see the thoughts wrapping around his head. 

Joshua glances at his phone for a millisecond before turning around, abruptly stopping when he sees the sight of you standing not that far away from him. The corners of his lips lift into a gentle smile upon seeing you, or his face seems to almost brighten up entirely, you can hardly tell. He brushes a hand through his hair before offering you a small wave, which you reciprocate back with one of your own without any hesitation. 

There’s a rush of warmth that flows through you as he approaches up to you.

You stare at him quizzically as you lift your hands up to sign, “What are you doing here?” 

Joshua shoots a bashful look down at his own feet before picking himself back up. 

“I wanted to see you,” he says quietly while signing, and his hand movements are as shy as his words. 

His words hardly process for a few moments, and Joshua thinks he might have overstepped. The hopeful glint in his eyes dims subtly, replaced by a shy apology already forming in his hands at the shock to your features. Maybe wanting to see you was a bit too forward of him. 

But it’s the way your hands nearly come in contact with his own to dismiss his worries that stops him mid-apology. You shake your head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 

“I…” You start, then pause, because Joshua’s focused, unwavering, yet patient gaze tugs at something inside of you. Gathering your thoughts, you continue signing slowly, “I thought about seeing you too.” 

A surprised, somewhat choked laugh escapes Joshua's lips, a sound as light and unexpected as what you just said. Relief washes over him, clear as the day outside and the sunlight streaming through the museum windows. He seems to hold his breath for a moment before a grin splits his face apart. 

“Really?” he signs back, and it’s cute seeing how expressive he is when he’s surprised. 

“Yes,” You reply back firmly, hopefully being able to emphasize it enough with your fisted hand.

Joshua rubs at his nose nervously, and even the gesture being so small feels charming somehow. The weight of your art supplies feels lighter in your bag than they have in a while. 

“I have some time before practice though,” he shares, pondering lightly. “Would you like to grab a bite to eat first?”

Your lips lift at the offer, and you scramble a hand in your bag to retrieve your phone. But your fingers fumble, encountering only paint brushes and sketchbooks. Panic starts to rise in your chest as you frantically dig deeper within your bag. Your phone. It's not there. It’s probably back in the classroom.

You shoot an innocent look at Joshua, catching sight of his worried, furrowed brows. You try to explain to him with your hands, but your movements are hurried and you could tell he didn’t entirely understand. So you settle with a helpless shrug and a motion towards a deeper part of the museum, and he seems to catch on. 

Joshua feels the hesitation in his step when he sees you turn around and begin walking away. Considering for a second, he catches up to you quickly, the sounds of his shoes bouncing off the museum floors. 

He follows right next to you quietly, taking in the museum’s atmosphere as you navigate through the familiar halls. When the two of you reach a room, you hold the door open for him, and Joshua swears he hasn’t really seen anything like this before. 

The room is large and very open, the natural lighting from the outside flowing in from the windows. Unused easels and canvases stood at the corners of the room. There’s a long, wooden table perched in the middle of the room, and a whiteboard that takes up a small portion of the wall. Joshua takes the time to look around as you dash to the cleaning station where you were putting up the supplies, and there was your phone𑁋sitting idly with a few drops of water on its screen that you wipe away.

Joshua is standing with his arms crossed at the whiteboard, eyes squinting as if he was trying to discern the faded markings. You stand right next to him once you come up, bringing your gaze also to the whiteboard. 

He turns to you, seemingly inquisitive. “Is this an art class?”

You manage a nod. But you feel like it isn’t enough of an answer and decide to pull out your phone instead. 

It’s an art class for the deaf, and for those who want to show their work in the exhibitions here

Joshua’s mouth opens in awe as he reads the words on your screen. A flicker of understanding lights up his eyes as he processes the information.

“That's amazing,” he tells you while signing back, expression visibly softening. “I had no idea they had classes like this here. How long have you been coming?”

He watches as you look back down to type on your phone, taking the few seconds as a chance for his eyes to drift over your features, silently taking in the concentration etched on your face. When you finish typing, you show him the screen. 

Just for the past year. There’s only a few of us in the class. Sometimes I’m the only person who shows up though

“Ah,” Joshua only hums contemplatively. He glances around once more, as if trying to see the room through your perspective. “That must feel lonely sometimes.”

You nod, letting out a low sigh as you type out your next message:

It can be. But it's also peaceful. Gives me time to think and create without any distractions

“I get it.” Joshua nods with a small smile. “You’re dedicated. I admire that.” 

Your heart swells a little at his words. It's always a vulnerable thing𑁋sharing a piece of your world with someone else, but Joshua’s presence seems to make it all a little less daunting, a little more comfortable. 

Joshua’s eyes settle on a corner where a few canvases lean against the wall, seemingly forgotten or awaiting their turn under someone’s hand. He steps closer to it, running his fingers lightly over the rough edges of one of the frames, then turns back to you.

“Do you have any of your work shown here in the museum?” he asks curiously. 

A rush of emotions floods through you, a frown caressing your face—pride sprinkled with uncertainty, hope clouded by doubt. You've always dreamed of showcasing your work, to be recognised and understood through your art. However, you feel a twinge of self-consciousness creeping in, because the dream of one day having your work displayed alongside the masterpieces lining the museum walls feels both distant and impossibly close at the same time.

Sensing your shift in mood, Joshua raises his eyebrows in question. You fumble with your phone again, typing out a response and showing it to him. 

I’m not sure if my work is good enough for that

Joshua's expression softens even further. “But you wouldn't keep creating it if you didn't believe in it, would you?”

Oh, he’s got you there, you think. A certain warmth starts to spread through you at his perceptiveness, a twitch at your lips from a suppressed smile trying to break free.

“And even if you don’t believe in it right now,” Joshua starts, placing himself right next to you gazing down at the empty canvases waiting to be touched. “I believe in you. I mean it.”

You exhale softly, a weight lifting off your shoulders as you absorb his words. For the first time in a while, you begin to see your art through a different lens—not just as smears on a canvas, but as a reminder that this is something you love.

It’s been a while since someone’s said that they believe in you, and it hits you right in the heart. 

“Is the painting in your place the one you want to finish for the museum?”

You nod in response to that, though the sullen look to your face doesn’t seem to exactly agree. 

There’s an exhibition being held just a few weeks from now, which is also the deadline for submitting your painting, which was being judged. The pressure has been getting to you, admittedly, and it feels like time is slipping away faster than you can paint. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll get back home later today and pick up your paint brush without it feeling like a burden to hold. 

Joshua says something you don’t catch quick enough when you face back to him, and you tilt your head in question.

“I’m not sure if I did the sign right.” And then he brings his hands up, signing to you, “Good luck.” 

Heat crawls up your neck to his words, and a smile fights its way through the lingering uncertainties and stretches shamelessly across your face. 

His hand comes awfully close to yours when he brings them down to the side. 

You draw yourself away when you feel your phone vibrate in your hand, only seeing that it was some useless notification. Joshua fixes himself up as well, turning to you fully, and you both exchange shy grins.

“Food?” He brings his hand up to his mouth, almost mimicking like he was putting a piece of food there. 

You adjust the strap of your bag and double-check to make sure you have your phone with you, before nodding. The two of you head out of the classroom together.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re both basically dating.” 

The way your face scrunches up in visible disgust to Seungkwan’s words has Wheein shoving the younger boy with a daggered stare, nearly making the stick of tanghulu fall from his grasp. 

“You can’t just claim that,” Wheein retorts back.

“He walks Y/N home! He’s been inside their place! He wants to see them! Y/N doesn’t even let us come inside their place these days and yet here’s this guy waltzing his way into their heart!” 

“I can’t tell if you’re insulting him or thanking him,” Wheein points out playfully, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms. 

“I'm not doing either,” Seungkwan protests, feigning a snarky look. “I'm just stating the facts. If it walks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it's probably a duck.”

At this point, your friends are speaking almost too fast for you to catch everything being said, but all you could do is bring your head down and gaze to your footsteps, a subtle, amused grin playing to your lips. They’re arguing about your life, and yet it makes you feel… acknowledged, seen, heard, because your world before seemed to revolve solely around you and your art only for the longest you can recall. 

An adamant tap lands on your shoulder, and you bring your head back up to face Wheein. 

“Isn’t the exhibition next week?” she asks, signing with a sense of urgency in her expression.

Your face falls a little, and the thought of the deadline and exhibition seems to loom over you like a dark storm cloud. It feels like yesterday you were just staring at a blank canvas, and now every inch of it is covered in a mess of colours that is undeniably far from what you can consider a masterpiece.

Wheein and Seungkwan could already tell by the weak nod that you give that you’re feeling the pressure of it all. The two of them exchange a knowing look with each other, and it isn’t long before you feel another tap at your shoulder. Wheein motions to something up ahead, and as you face forward in order to see what it was, a hand grabs at your sleeve and you find yourself being dragged forward by your two best friends.

You can hardly control where your feet are landing in front of you, and the only thing you could catch ahead is a crowd and the familiar sight of what appears to be the busking centre. There must be some kind of performance going on, and it peaks your interest. 

The faces surrounding you are all bleeding out enjoyment, with their wide eyes and mouths blossomed into large grins. Their hands are all clapping in unison, some even mouthing the words to lyrics you can hardly make out.

You don’t recognise the small band that’s performing. But then you imagine Joshua being the one at the centre of the crowd, playing his heart out, captivating the audience just like how he captivated you, and the disappointment melts away. 

You find yourself standing at almost the core of the crowd, with Wheein and Seungkwan clapping and cheering animatedly on either side of you. In an odd way, this position feels familiar, as if you’ve stood from this exact same angle before.

You're close enough to see the raw energy pouring off the musicians, the way their instruments become extensions of themselves𑁋the same as Joshua sitting across from you on the couch with his guitar in lap, eyes closed in concentration, and fingers dancing effortlessly along the strings. The memory of that night floods your mind, and you can almost feel the vibrations of his music under your fingertips once again.

It all brings a smile to your face. 

As the music surrounds you, you can see the passion radiating from each band member’s face, carrying away the weight of the upcoming exhibition and the pressures you've been feeling. In this moment of respite, it's just you, your friends, and the music.

When you get back home to your apartment that night, you find yourself focusing on clicking through the photos on your camera roll, almost like you were searching for a particular one. 

And then you find it𑁋the photo you took at the busking square all those weeks ago, the photo you took of that man singing and strumming along his guitar…

…the photo that you took of Joshua Hong, where you didn’t know his name at the time. And now, he’s standing in the middle of your thoughts, and singing directly to your heart. 

It’s almost suffocating to be sitting in this chair right now. Your posture is stiff as a rock, legs shaking underneath your hands that were folded on your lap, other people𑁋other artists just like you𑁋surrounding you like flies. 

You feel excruciatingly hot in your outfit, a formal one that you picked from the depths of your wardrobe that still somehow fits your body still. It’s been a while since you put this much effort into your appearance𑁋you can hardly remember the last time you dressed up like this, honestly𑁋and the unfamiliarity of it all prickles at your skin. 

The day of the exhibition is more chaotic than you expected for it to be. It’s practically held to the public, where almost anyone can walk in and watch the event for themselves. 

Across the vast room, you catch glimpses of other artists, seeing their diverse styles of clothing. There’s a woman with a shaved head and a tattoo snaking down her arm; at the far end, a man in a crisp suit, frown etched at his face, large glasses, with a neatly trimmed beard.

The walls are covered with various works of art, each piece representing the countless hours of dedication and passion of the artists. It’s a grand showcase, bigger than any small ones you’ve seen. The large hall that you’re standing in has been temporarily transformed into a visual showcase where curators and critics would walk around and judge the pieces. By the end of the night, only about half of the submissions would be considered to be permanently displayed in the museum. The thought makes your stomach churn with anxiety.

Joshua had sent you a simple Good luck! You’ll do amazing :) text before you arrived at the museum. It comforts you a little bit, but not entirely𑁋you feel like you’d feel better if he could be here with you in person. He couldn’t come because he had to look after the café. Wheein was also here somewhere too participating in the exhibition, clearly not anywhere near where you were placed in the vast hall. 

The exhibition begins with a formal speech from the museum's director, who talks about the importance of art in society and how this exhibition aims to bring fresh perspectives to the world. As the speech concludes, curators and critics start moving around the large room, closely examining each piece and approaching all the other artists. 

Your eyes follow a few as they approach your painting. They stand before it, whispering among themselves, their expressions indecipherable. You wish you could hear their thoughts, but instead, you focus on their body language𑁋the subtle nods, the thoughtful gazes. Some of them barely have their lips moving for you to be able to read them, while others are simply not speaking at all. At the corner of your eyes, you’re able to make out a few artists speaking with confidence to the curators, explaining their creative process and the message behind their pieces. Disappointment claws anxiously at your chest. 

The sign language interpreter that is supposed to accompany you doesn’t show up until after a few crucial moments with curators have passed. By the time she arrives, introducing herself and quickly apologising for the long delay, you’re already feeling a sense of defeat settling in, struggling to muster the enthusiasm in your hands as you greet her back.

You have a hard time connecting with some of the visitors who stop by, heart sinking even more when they pass by your painting without pausing. Their attention is clearly drawn elsewhere𑁋that’s all you can think about as you watch them move on; their indifference is practically slicing through the air like a knife. 

It’s like you’re invisible. 

In the back of your mind, you figured this would happen. It wasn’t entirely your best work, or the best you’ve put your efforts in. For some reason painting didn’t come as naturally to you as it did before. If anything, it felt forced. The pressure to create something worthy had left you with a piece that felt uninspiring, meaningless. 

You aren’t meant for this. This grand exhibition hall, the feeling of being judged𑁋it all felt like a journey’s away from the joy you used to find in simply creating. The other artists around you seem to belong in this environment more than you do. They stood proudly beside their work, and all you could do right now was let the lump in your throat tighten even more. 

You aren’t meant for this. 

By the time the big announcement comes, you catch a glimpse of the evening sky outside the large windows of the museum. A hush falls over the room as the museum director steps back forward. Even as you let your eyes drift between the director and your interpreter right next to you, you already knew deep within you that the night wasn’t ending in your favour. 

“We congratulate all the artists whose works have been chosen,” the director says warmly, listing off names that resonate through the hall. Each name being called is met with applause and cheers.

Your name isn't called. You would know if it was if the expression on your interpreter’s face wasn’t so solemn, the meek curve at her lips that she wears doing hardly anything to ease you. Despite the sinking feeling, you send her a small, acknowledging nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. 

Wheein finds you when the evening starts winding down and the museum begins to clear away. She taps lightly at your shoulder as you’re packing your belongings, yet the eager look on her face is quick to fade once she sees the dejection painted all over yours. 

“You’re not going to stay for a while?” Wheein asks, signing with concern, her brows furrowing as she watches you continue to pack your things. “I heard there’s an after dinner event later on, and they’re letting anyone join. Maybe you could meet some of the other artists!”

Letting out a quiet exhale, you shake your head, the movement small and defeated as you sign back, “Going to head home. Tired.”

“Are you sure?” Wheein insists. “I was planning to introduce you to some people𑁋”

“It’s okay,” You sign quickly, interjecting her words. But the pout and puppy-eyes that she gives makes you roll your eyes. “Congratulations. I’m so proud of you.” 

A grin is swift to cross her face, and a few seconds later she’s wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug. You return the hug back, feeling a bit of your disappointment melt away in the face of your genuine happiness. 

“I'll text you later,” Wheein signs after pulling back. “Please get home safe, okay? I love you!”

The dramatic kisses she blows in your direction make you laugh despite yourself, and you nod, giving her a small wave as you head out of the museum.

The cool night air nips at your cheek when you step outside, and you feel way less constricted in your clothes than being inside the museum. As you walk briskly down the street, you let the night clear away your muddled thoughts. Your feet seem to guide you, almost on autopilot, not quite ready to head home and face the solitude that’s waiting for you.

You pass by a few late-night cafés, convenience stores, and small shops, their warm lights spilling out onto the pavement. 

The sight reminds you of Joshua. 

And for some reason, that’s all it takes for your feet to pick up its pace. There’s almost determination you can feel in each step that you take, the thoughts of the exhibition pressing farther and farther into the back of your mind. If there’s anything that could make you forget everything that has happened today, it’s just seeing him for a moment. A singular moment. 

The lights of the café switch off when you’re coming up to it. You come to a halt in your tracks, and your gaze lands on a lone figure stepping outside with its back turned towards you.

After a minute or two, the figure turns slowly, and you recognise Joshua's face illuminated by the fading light of the café's sign. There's a moment of hesitation before he notices you standing there just a couple of steps away, and when he does, his features seem to light up even brighter than the flickering stars above. But it’s quick to melt away when he watches the way you’re trudging up to him.

His eyes flicker over your face for a moment. “What happened?” 

You could see the worry in the way he signs to you, his eyes searching your tired ones. He peers at you so softly that it nearly makes your heart ache. But there’s a comfort there that you desperately find yourself wanting to cling to.

Without a word, you simply lean your body forward, letting your head fall onto Joshua’s shoulder. His presence emits a warmth that brings you back from the high of cloudy thoughts and back down to the surface of safety.

Joshua’s eyes widen imperceptibly for a second, before a quiet understanding washes over his face. His arms twitch at the weight of you leaning on him, and then almost hesitantly, he slowly wraps them around you, fingers brushing against the small of your back tentatively, delicately, as if unsure its welcome. 

His warmth seeps through your clothes and settles comfortably within the hollow spaces of your chest. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and reassuring, against your ribs, and smell the lingering scent of coffee on his shirt. A sigh escapes your lips, a soft exhale that contains the tension and worries accumulated throughout the day.

Joshua doesn’t press you. He can feel everything you feel in his embrace, everything you wish to let out. He can feel your dejection, your disappointment, knowing that your efforts, all the blood, sweat, and tears you put into your art had fallen short of your dreams. But he doesn’t pry or question. He simply holds you, and perhaps that’s all that matters right now𑁋he can’t let you fall apart. Not in his arms, anyway. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stand there, right under the dim café light that casts down on your figures. When Joshua feels you shift in his hold, he loosens his grip ever so slightly, gaze caressing over your face for a few moments. His eyes hold a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.

There’s a reluctance in your movements as you start to peel yourself away from him. Joshua slowly lets his arms unfold from around you, but his hands linger for a moment, as if hesitant to fully let you go just yet. His expression remains gentle, silently asking if you’re okay; if there’s anything more he can do. 

“It didn’t go well, did it?” Joshua asks warily. “The exhibition?”

All you do is shake your head, and a small resigned sigh tumbles out of you. 

Joshua purses his lips together, brows knitting together in worry. He knows the sting of rejection all too well and how deep it could cut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly, fingers moving with a grace through the air that matches the empathy in his eyes. He’s been getting more confident recently in his signing. “But it doesn’t mean your art isn’t worth anything. You tried your best, and maybe that’s what matters. Remember what I told you before?”

You tilt your head in question, waiting for him to continue. 

Then, all Joshua does is smile faintly, before picking his hands up to sign. He starts by putting his hand in a fist and sticking his pinky finger upward. Then he points his index finger to his forehead, before bringing it down into his open hand. Next he fixes his right hand downward, forming the other one into a cup shape, and dips the fingers of his right hand into it. 

And finally, he points to you. 

“I believe in you.” 

The words fly off his fingers and wrap around you like a blanket. The proud look that he captures on his face is washed away in a fit of timidity, and you can’t help but chuckle, a genuine, warm sound that fills the night air, even if you didn’t notice how loud it is. It's the first real laugh you've had all night. And when Joshua hears it, a blush creeps up his neck, reaching to his cheeks. A relieved smile spreads across his lips. 

When you gaze back up at him, the weight of the day feels a little lighter. Slowly, you lift your hands up to sign, ensuring each movement is clear and deliberate. 

“I missed you.”

Joshua’s expression softens even further. He watches your hands, then meets your eyes, understanding completely. He lifts his hands to respond, fingers moving tenderly through the air, and responding with his voice,

“I missed you too.”

taglist (open) ʚɞ @haowrld @icyminghao @slytherinshua @jeonride @eternalgyu

@lockburn-castle @vrnism @weird-bookworm @ryuwonieebae @wonwooz1

@mark-geolli @caramyisabitchforsvtandbts @aaniag @wootify @carlesscat-thinklogic23

@phenomenalgirl9 @mirxzii @bookyeom @parkjennykim @melodicrabbit

@bewoyewo @honglynights @bananabubble @treehouse-mouse @starshuas

@totomoshi @armycarat2612 @etherealyoungk @maesvtr0 @gigification

fic taglist (open) ʚɞ

@iamawkwardandshy @hope122598 @bokk-minnie @writingmeraki @lllucere

@gaslysainz @intoanothermind @chariseiswriting @sarranghao @minvxq

@lullips

[crazyoffher]

BEST INTEREST.

sam carpenter x fem!reader

summary: you find yourself back in a jealous ex's bed.

warnings: smut (18+) - missionary (r receiving), fingering, strap-on referred to as "cock" during some points, teasing, one instance of pussy-slapping, withheld orgasm, dom!s + sub!r

word amount: 3600+

a/n: i wanna make this a part two, but i don't know if i would even commit to it.

“Aren’t you sweet, hm?” The curl of fingers traced under your chin made you shiver for all the wrong reasons. You quickly scanned the room, and the best you could muster was a tight-lipped smile toward her, revealing vulnerability in her eyes. You were naturally flirtatious; that much was true, and she detested it more than she enjoyed it.

Call it condescending, a way to patronize—immature even—but the bruising hold of her calloused hands as she holds your waist and thrusts forward, veins popping from the sheer tightness of her hold. The way she made you feel—you hated it more than you loved it—oh, do you love it. 

To stare at her, you wouldn’t tear your eyes away from the clutch on her glass. It dawned a hold much less broad than the one she’d sensually have around your body at times, pulling you into her.

Though apart romantically, the sexual aspect couldn’t have opened as wide as it rather shouldn’t have. A click sounded from your tongue as you watched Sam stand in front of you, drenched from the outside rain with a look in her eyes that craved more than just a ‘talk’, not even 24 hours after she slammed the door shut to your shared apartment and left you crying in the shared bed.

That was the start, and all that resulted from it was sheer roughness that pleaded mercy on your body, but growing desire in your soul.

You didn’t know she’d be in the college bar on this day; Tara wasn’t with her, though it looked like she had been coerced into attending by the Meeks-Martin twins. Heavy eyes locked with stressed ones, and you pretended the feeling in your stomach watching her eyes darken when the random man’s hand on your thigh didn’t appear.

“I think I might head out now. I-”

“Are you sure? It’s only nine; why don’t you stay a little longer?” He cocked his head sideways and, if even possible at this point, traveled his hand farther up your leg. You let out a small yelp, quickly jumping off the barstool and spilling some whiskey in the process, before shrugging your reactive expression off with a forced grin. To have his hand move much further up, like his plan, and graze over the boundary-breaking point would have Sam’s built frame consuming enough rage to bash his head against the countertop.

“I’m sure of my answer. Have a good night… you,” and in a sheer failure to remember his name, you swung down the rest of your whiskey before beelining toward the door, having already caught wind of Sam standing the moment you jumped off the barstool.

“Letting people touch all over you now?” The barbaric tone coming from those sweet lips would have failed your stance at that moment, but instead, it only desired you to turn around and face her.

“It’s called flirting, Samantha. Getting back out in the dating ga-”

“You don’t even like men!” Her shouts bounced off the walls of the secluded alleyway that you had absent-mindedly wandered into moments before. “You think I don’t know why you’re doing this to me?”

Of course, Sam knew why you had let a man feel you up moments before, a week ago, and then two weeks before; jealousy tactics riled up the woman just enough to get you what you desired. However, you would never truly admit that.

You started, “I’m not surprised; I shouldn’t be after all. Making everything about yourself; it’s what you’ve always-” Sam’s sudden movements almost caused your legs to rip out from under you. Finding yourself pushed against the wall by the proclaimed dominant girl, with retractive muscles flexing from the short sleeves of her shirt, she had a dangerous look that made it almost impossible for you to cross her any further.

“What you’re going to do,” you hadn’t noticed until that moment how close she was to you, her breath fanning your face in a more sensual way than you’d like to admit, “is stop fucking around with me and let me take you home. Now.”

You had the impression that a serpent was wrapping itself around your back, and as the pain between your legs began to intensify, chills from her insistent voice filled your body. “And if I say no?”

“That’s not an option.”

The sheets of Sam’s bed were soft against the realms of your skin; you were wearing nothing but your panties while her icy hands rested on your chest. You first protested in the alleyway, resisting Sam’s tugs at your arms, but ultimately succumbed to her sweet mouth joining yours in desperate kisses. 

You couldn’t keep away from one another, no matter how hard you tried.

Sam knew what kind of person you were—she presumably knows you better than you know yourself—and so she knew how you felt, and you felt her.

Her hands slid along the ridges of your ribs, which flared from your deep breaths, making you tremble at her fingertips—so light yet humiliating. The only clothing gone was the cross-body wrap over her chest from earlier outside motions, and your naked thigh rested against the cotton of her jeans. Her gaze was drawn away from the trail that her hands were following, and instead to the peculiar details of your body—a body she'd seen many times before, but her gaze raked over the scars of a past you'd wished to forget, as well as the marks that Sam herself had voluntarily made.

Her hands met your inner thighs, delivering a tough squeeze and placing a falsely delicate kiss on your knee. Those eyes, which were always filled with great emotion, raked up the delicacy of your body before meeting a set of glazed eyes that stared back at her.

The look in her eyes was one of familiarity. Her hands twitched eagerly, like she was unable to restrain herself with such visionary strength any longer. She beckoned for release, not just from the contentments of pleasure but of a full release from you—if she could even manage a week without you curled up in her bed, head resting on her chest, fast asleep after an ignorant night out.

Sam saw it as though you alone were to blame, as though you were the only reason she was unable to let go, but in your eyes and in the manner you treated her when she was pleading for your touch, she only had herself to blame in the end.

“What are you waiting for?” “Hm?” Her eyes furrowed at the look in yours; previously daunting and kind eyes now darkened in the manner of needing sensation but also the unknowing barricade that was preventing it. “You’re hesitating. Why?”

“I can’t take in you and your body for just a moment? I can do whatever I want with you.” Her tone deepened, almost to a low whisper, but you weren’t buying it for a second. She knew you better than you likely knew yourself, but it wasn’t like you couldn’t read her the same.

You pushed her off, to her surprise, and sat up on the bed, ignorant of the bareness of your body, but another matter lingered in your mind. “No, you’re just regretting this.”

“Why would I regret this- hey!” She grabbed your arm after your quick attempt to leave the bed. You were back on the mattress with Sam straddling your lap and holding your arms to your sides before you could even utter a protest. Her hand met your jaw, cupping it in a harsh hold, and turning your head to face her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Avoiding myself from being another quick fuck.”

“Well, good luck with that.” Her hands seemed to have a mind of their own—or maybe it was just the versatility that Sam’s actions could lengthen to—as she popped two fingers in your mouth to prevent any other words that might make her feral at the hands of your brattiness. “It’s all you’re good for.”

You knew she didn’t mean it, and that mindless confirmation allowed you to feel something within yourself other than offense, much more like deprivation. You failed to notice all that time how close she had been to you, her hot, clearly bothered breaths hitting your skin as the fog behind her eyes contemplated her next move. 

“Don’t try that again, ever.” You were too inebriated to even process her words, preoccupied with her fingers tickling your throat and the obvious strap in her pants, even as she spoke in the most staged and artificial voice possible in an attempt to make you feel horrible. All you could do was nod your head in understanding. The sight of you below her—lightly sucking on her fingers with glazed eyes, all ready for her—was enough for Sam to finally snap.

She slid off your lap and into the crevice between your legs. With her free hand, she tugged at your left arm, then your right, toward her belt buckle. “Take it off.”

You did so without a second thought, and Sam grinned mentally at your submission. "Good, baby, now unbutton my pants.” You did as she said, feeling the fabric around her waist relax as you undid the button. She was using one hand to keep your mouth drilled shut with her fingers and the other to stroke your hair.

“Pull them down,” and short of a second later, Sam’s pants pooled down to her knees, leaving her in underwear that couldn’t hide the comically large strap—her biggest—even if it tried. “Now, do me a favor and pull these down too.” She motioned to her underwear by thrusting her hips forward ever so lightly, hitching your breath in anticipation of what awaited you. Trembling fingertips met the waistband of her underwear, lightly grazing her defined skin before letting her underwear pool down to meet her jeans.

You knew better than to touch her anywhere without her permission, no matter how much you desired to have your hands on her. Sam stripped off her shirt and bra, mentally shaking her head at the sight of you drooling over her perfectly rounded breasts. Amid admiration, you jolted at the warming feeling of the strap’s tip grazing over your clit; you hadn’t even registered the discarding of your undergarments per Sam’s hands, but you weren’t complaining.

“Oh, fuck.” Your hips thrust forward, as if they had a mind of their own, to feel more of what Sam’s teasing could offer. Though you were aware of the usual punishments received for acting out of order, something in Sam’s mind allowed you to grind desperately against the strap she wore, finding ecstasy in your desperate ruts. A finger traced along the inner sides of your right thigh, drawing delicate and smoothing shapes while nearing your core; it lingered further, tracing the outline of your reddening pussy before hastily sliding into you.

Your moan was deafening and one of shock. “Fuck! Sam…” It had quickly morphed into a whine, feeling the slow pace of her lone finger fasten as you bucked your hips up once more, then twice, and thrice. How good you could feel was beyond your imagination. “Don’t get greedy.”

“I’m no—ot.” Your breathing grew heavier from your efforts; sweat was building on your forehead, and it wasn’t enough. You looked up at Sam, who was attracted to your desperate expression. You wanted—no, needed—for her to overstimulate you, whisper muddy words into your ear, and simply grab your hair and fuck you until you were twisted past breaking. “Please, Sam.”

“Please, what?” Sam bucked her hips lightly, gaining pressure on your needy clit and causing you to squirm in pain at the lack of relief. “Use your words. I don’t have all day.”

It was hard for you to speak when Sam thrust forward continuously now, adding more and more pressure to your clit while her finger stuck inside you, occasionally curling her finger within you and allowing you loud yelps. “Please just fuck me. Please, Sam, I need you so bad.” The voice that spoke these words wasn’t yours, no, because they were three octaves higher and overly desperate for a fake cock

Your desperation always reached new levels from each meeting the two of you had, finding yourself more infatuated and needing than the last meeting, but not less for the next. It was unrecognizable to you, and you found yourself unconsciously more addicted to Sam every time you felt her smooth body rake against yours—mostly for the binding fact that, toward the end of each night, you came to the sudden realization that you couldn’t claim her as yours anymore. You were a romantic, once a teenager who gagged at the idea of estranged hookups without any purpose to them, now finding yourself a pawn of stress relief to a jealous ex.

Unfortunately, the sex was too good for you to not think twice. Every. Time.

“That bad, hm?” She curled her finger once more, cursing herself mentally at the pulsating feeling of your clit aching against her thumb, slowly tracing circles while adding a second finger inside. You squirmed, begging Sam for some sort of release; you couldn’t handle the snail's pace of her fingers working— and just like that, her movements became ferocious.

Your back arched off the bed, hands finding their way to the bedsheets to pull at them while the squelching sounds of your wet cunt filled the room. You felt too good. Sam was a pro, finding education in senseless hookups back in Modesto, but after you, she wouldn’t even think back to them anymore.

The moans you ached grew progressively louder, phasing between whiny whimpers and groaning pleas as you felt the white-hot burning in your stomach, thigh muscles starting to contract on their own and close in on Sam’s hand. “You know,” her voice was chilled, and it scared you, “orgasms hit you harder when they’ve been delayed.” She thrust her hand forward, curled her fingers inside you again, and then pulled them out of your dripping cunt. Sick of the burn that was still present in your stomach, you whined her name, and she slapped you on the pussy, making you cross your legs and lean to the side in response to the stimulation.

She let out a small laugh at how swiftly you became a ball of putty for her to mold. “You’re gonna thank me in a couple minutes,” she said, making eye contact with you, taking her two fingers that were previously inside you and putting one inside her mouth, jerking her finger while sucking on it. She took her other finger, “open,” and upon compliance, stuck it inside your mouth, jerking her finger back and forth while you copied her movements. When she removed her finger, a pop sounded from your mouth, her hand moving upward to ball your hair in her fist.

“Sam…” Despite your sexual frustration, you couldn’t help but give a second thought to the large cock adorning her strap harness. It was a new one; Sam had only ever owned a few, and this one didn’t bring a sense of familiarity to you in the same fashion as the others did.

Trust me, you would have remembered this one.

“I don’t thi- fuck,” you barely held yourself upright when Sam rubbed the head against your cunt, collecting your slick and gazing at the way it connected between the cock head and your cunt when she retracted it. “It won’t fit.”

With her hips pushed forward, Sam lined up the strap with your cunt, her mouth's curves quirking slightly. “Oh, baby,” she spoke, thrusting the head into your cunt with a loud gasp-moan coming from you. “I’ll make it fit.”

With one hand in your hair, she rested the other on your hip to stabilize you. Groans emitted from your mouth, feeling the stretch of the strap slowly opening you with every lasting second that Sam pushed herself forward. She enjoyed the pained look on your face, knowing that in a short time, that expression would morph into euphoric pleasure, the same lips that your teeth dug into pleading her name with every thrust that she maneuvered.

Sam’s hips met your inner thighs. A sigh came from your mouth in an attempt to relax yourself. “Taking it so well, see?” And you did see the sight of a non-existent gap between you and her, but feeling so filled with Sam’s new favorite strap was turning your brain to mush with each growing second. “Now you just lay there and let me use you, yeah?”

Sam’s hands released from their former positions to curve underneath your knees, bringing your legs up to rest over her shoulders. It gave her a better angle to thrust herself deep inside of you, as deep as she could, and that she did.

The most pathetic whine escaped your mouth when Sam’s hips retracted halfway and snapped forward again, veins protruding from your hands at how tightly you were gripping the sheets. Sam’s hands now snaked around your legs and rested on the fronts of your thighs, leeching for support at the growing pace she was fastening with every thrust that occurred.

Her eyes never looked away from your face. She took in your parted lips, letting out heavy breaths and whiny pleas, and occasionally a loud, sensual moan when the strap came into contact with your g-spot. Your eyes were screwed closed, your eyebrows furrowed so tightly you were sure they’d create wrinkles, and it felt like you were drowning from reality through every fierce thrust that Sam initiated. 

Her groans could have set you over the edge. When she wasn’t the one under you, harness and strap buckled to your waist while her high-pitched whines filled your ears, she was in the opposite position—her rough groans replaced whines, and her hands were all over your body in successful attempts to further stimulate herself.

“Come on- fuck, I know you’re close.” Sam could feel you getting tighter; it was getting harder for her to thrust at the same pace when your walls were closing in on the strap. She bent down and teased your nipples with her fingers, feeling like a tease. They were stimulants to you, sensitive in that area and it only pushed you closer to an orgasm. You could feel the burn rising again. “Hold it.”

Your whines got louder. You hated being denied—Sam was entertained, watching you struggle and squirm under her. It showed she was in control, and with that alone, she could go all night with you. She bucked her hips harder into you, feeling the strap’s base rub against her clit each time the cock head hit your cervix.

In a way, you could tell that she was close too, and you let out a mental sigh of relief. Her groans turned into a half-moan—half-groan, now whimpers slipping out as she was reaching her high. 

Curse words spilled from her mouth, eyes fixated on the way your breasts bounced with each thrust that she made, eventually looking to make contact with your big eyes. They sent her silent pleas, and her mouth formed into an ‘o’ shape as her thrusts quickened, if it were even possible by how fast she had been moving per that point.

“Shit, shit.” Her hands were firmer against your skin, and a loud whine passed from her lips. “Cum for me, baby, now.”

It took less than three seconds for the coil within you to finally snap, hands on Sam’s back pulling her into you. Breathy moans left the girl’s lips, biting your neck as her thrusts slowed from within you. She never wanted to pull out; she’d stay inside of you forever if she could. Your breathing became irregular, head resting against Sam’s as you came down from your euphoric high.

Sam’s head nudged against yours, pulling herself up by her elbows to bump foreheads. You could sense the smallest smile on her face without even looking at her mouth, eventually crashing lips in a slow kiss, one inverted to the commotion that happened moments before. That was your favorite part of her—her lips. They spoke volumes, sweet nothings (most of the time), and were so undeniably full and perfectly shaped that you couldn’t help but constantly stay glued to them.

It had been weeks since a situation familiar to this arose between the two of you. You had dodged calls, texts, ignored messages forwarded from Sam to you through Tara, and even forced your roommate to communicate that you weren’t inside whenever she’d show up at your dorm. You tried to get over her, saying that enough was enough. Unfortunately, the moment you locked eyes with her in the college bar earlier, you knew that you were going home with her that night.

Her bulky arms slid underneath you to your back, wrapping around you in a hug before flipping you over. Your body rested on top of hers now, big brown eyes staring into yours with nothing but overwhelming emotion floating within them.

Her voice was one of whispers. “I missed you, baby.”

You refused to believe it, you always had. Why would she miss you? She was the one who ended it, made you feel like shit and made only empty promises toward the end of your relationship. She closed herself off toward you.

“Missed what? Fucking me?” You let out a small laugh, your smile soon fading when you saw that her expression hadn’t changed.

“You, (Y/N). I missed you.”

[mrchiipchrome]

Rain

W.C.- 3k

“So, when we’re on the topic, did any of you know that the world cup wasn’t Alexia’s first time dyeing her a crazy color?” You ask your scattered teammates, the team bonding being at your and Alexia’s place after a lot of fuss. The midfielder slung across your lap looked at you with wide eyes, the story embarrassing from her perspective.

“Amor, let’s not talk about that” Alexia’s nails close around the skin of your torso where your shirt had ridden up. The action makes you yelp, it being fairly unexpected, but out of your peripheral you can see the way she smirked in self amusement.

“No, no, let’s talk about it.” Mapi’s face is lit up by a mischievous grin, clearly wanting to hear the embarrassing story. It was the first time since her injury that she seemed like herself again, she’d been so sullen as of late.

“Yeah Ale, we want to hear the story.” Pina shouted from her place across from where you and Alexia sat together, her back leaning against the couch as Patri poked at her. The younger girl is getting all the more annoyed at her best friend's repetitive actions, slapping away her hand every so often.

“Por favor Ale, it’s a funny story.” Your hands run up and down her thighs softly, squeezing ever so lightly at times. It’s fun to see the way her resolve breaks with every stroke of your hands, the way her eyes slowly shut as she thinks about the implications that the story might bring.

“Okay then, tell it, but you have to finish what you started later.” The last part is whispered only for you to hear, leading to an embarrassing dark red color spreading across your cheeks. You sit up straighter and shift the midfielder around on your lap for it to be more comfortable for you both.

“Let me take you all back in time, sometime in September of 2010…”

September 7th, 2010.

“Amor please, I’m in need of some new hoodies, since you steal them all as soon as I put them on.” You pleaded with your girlfriend, the muddy clothes covering your body nearly leaving a trail of dirt behind you.

“That’s just because you buy the best hoodies, it is not my fault.” She puts her hands up in an ‘I’m innocent’ gesture, the girl looking at you with her most innocent expression. You weren’t asking for much, wanting her to bike with you to the mall located an hour away to spend some time together.

Well, it wasn’t like you were apart often, the two of you stuck at the hips.

“I need clothes, you don’t want Mila to see me shirtless, right?” Mila was another girl in your team, a girl that pretty clearly had a crush on you, something that Alexia detested.

“No. You’ll just have to wear my clothes I guess.” Her little self-assured smirk melted your heart, a puddle at the bottom of your stomach.

“Mhm sure, your clothes don’t fit me amor, but good try.” You wink at the brunette, her shy smile covering her lips.

“Y/n Y/l/n, you better have not tracked dirt into my house.” Alexia’s mum, Eli, called out to you. She knew your habits and how you’d always forget that your shorts were dripping dirt.

“I haven’t Mrs Putellas, I promise.” Eli always knew when you were lying, and that sing-songy tone was a sure sign.

“Okay, but you’re the one who’s going to wash up. And once again, call me Eli.” Your cheeks darken at the reprimanding tone your second mother used. The Putellas family was as much family as your own.

“Yes Eli.” 

“Y/n/n, I’m going to take a shower, you stay out here. Don’t sit on the furniture until we’ve washed you off.” Alexia is already halfway up the stairs when she calls out for you, her sister peeking her head out of her room at the sound of your girlfriend's voice.

“So, Y/n, I heard that you were having trouble getting Alexia to agree with you and I have a preposition for you.” The young girl told you, your face showing the confusion you were experiencing.

“Preposition? Where did you learn these words Alba?” Her expression turned into that of a nonchalant person, waving it away.

“Don’t you worry about it, now I want to pull a prank on Ale, but I need money and help for it, and you need hoodies. So you give me money, and I’ll buy a couple of hoodies at the mall, then you help me set the prank up, okay?” She went through the plan like it was the easiest thing in the world, and really it wasn’t that difficult.

“How much money do you need? And what is the prank?” You asked the girl, her smile immediately turning mischievous.

“Oh I need like 100 euros, so we prank Ale by putting that temporary hair dye in her shampoo, the one that goes away in a few washes, give her a scare.” Alba rubbed her hands together like a supervillain would, laughing evilly.

“Alba? What are you doing? Stop trying to scare my girlfriend off.” Alexia, freshly showered, comes back down the stairs to the sight of her kid sister imitating the joker. “Come on amor, it’s your turn to shower.” Your girlfriend led you up the stairs by your arm, giving you the chance to look back at her still laughing sister. Nodding, the younger girl knows that you’ve agreed to her plan.

————

“Wait, so it was Alba’s idea?” Mapi asks full of confusion, she didn’t know that you and Alba had been so conspiring.

“Yeah, but I had to do basically everything.” 

———-

“Is that enough?” You hand your girlfriend’s younger sister a bunt of money, the girl looking over it quickly and giving you a quick thumbs up.

“Mama, Alina’s dad is driving us to the mall, I’m going now.” The girl was clever, that much you couldn’t deny. 

“Choose a good color now Alba, okay?” She nods quickly at your quiet whisper, she knows not to choose black or blonde or any other boring color.

As she leaves, you make your way up to Alexia’s room, tripping over the random footballs laying all over her floor. On the soft bed she laid, your amazing girlfriend whom you couldn’t love any more even if you tried. Her smile distracted you even more as you tripped once again, hands catching your body.

“Bébé, you need to be more careful, you can’t be tripping and falling like that. We need you on the pitch.” She chastises you playfully, eyes flitting over your prone body. 

“Yeah yeah I know, I’ve heard it before, you’re just so distracting.” You push yourself off the floor in one swift move, ending up on the brunette’s bed. She smiles as you shimmy your body up the bed, eventually settling comfortably beside her.

Your hand comes up to cup her jaw softly, thumb moving over her bottom lip, pulling it down carefully. She leans in slightly, letting you make the first move to initiate the kiss. Your lips meet hers in a soft embrace only moments later, pushing your tongue inside her mouth.

The impromptu make out session ends when there’s a knock at the door, Alexia’s father peeking in to see what you were doing. He isn’t shocked to see the two of you laying next to each other, talking. 

All you could think there was ‘thank fuck for quick reflexes’.

“Come on amor, I’m taking you on a date.” You pat her leg as to tell her to get up from her position on the bed. 

“Where are we going?” She jumps off the bed and sprints over to the wardrobe in the corner of her room, throwing the door open to ruffle through her clothes.

“I was thinking that we could go to a restaurant maybe, I want to spoil you.” The hand that holds up your head shakes when she glares at you with that sexy intensity, like she knew about your shenanigans with her sister.

“What are you planning?” She asks suspiciously, eyes reduced to slits as she looks at you.

“Nothing! I swear it’s nothing.” Alexia looks at you for another second, trying to decipher if you were telling the truth, which she seemingly deems you to have done.

“I’m watching you, don’t think I’m not.” 

“I know you are, I’m so hot that you can’t keep your eyes off me.” You can see the way her eyes roll at your fake enthusiasm, shaking her head like a mother would at their child doing something funny that they definitely shouldn’t.

———-

“Another question, why would you take her on a date?” This time it’s Pina who asks, tilting her head at you.

“Well Pina, that’s what you do when you have a girlfriend who’s as hot as mine, and I’ll get to the other reason soon.” The girlfriend in question turns her head toward you, her fiery cheeks catching your attention.

———

“Wow, that was incredible.” Taking her to one of the most expensive restaurants in the city wasn’t on your list of what to do, but alas that was what happened.

You wanted to treat her before you pranked her.

“Thank you for taking me here bébé, the food was amazing and the company was even better.” You smile at her kind words, swirling the cola around in your wine glass.

The server comes back with your card after a few moments, just as you tell Alexia that you were going to the bathroom. The text you send to her sister gets an almost instant answer, telling you that everything was set up and ready.

“Amor? You ready to go?” She picks up her jacket at the question, walking with you to the exit of the restaurant. Her red lipstick smudges against your cheek as she presses a kiss to your cheek, the dark night sky lit up by the stars.

“Te amo bébé, thank you so much for this.” You can’t help but smile at her, she was all you wanted and more.

The rest of the walk back to Alexia’s house was spent in comfortable conversation, the girl asking if you wanted to stay over at hers.

When you both arrived home, she told you that she was going to take a quick shower whilst you made yourself comfortable in her bed.

Thankfully she can’t see the way your eyes widen, knowing that your plan was going to make it’s appearance way too early.

Waiting for Alexia to get out of the shower was almost as anxiety inducing as the prank itself, her reaction was sure to be good though.

It was when you were playing around with some stuff on her desk that you heard her furious voice calling out for you and her sister.

“Y/N! ALBA! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” You rush out into the hallway to be met with Alexia in a black towel, her now blueish hair dripping onto the floor.

Alba runs into your back only moments later, looking like she was going to piss herself with laughter seeing Alexia’s face.

“What is this?” Alexia asks sternly, pointing at her hair. Alba doubles over in laughter, but you just stand there with a guilty look on your face. You recognise the expression on her face, one of incredible rage.

“We switched out your shampoo for hair dye, oh you should’ve seen the look on your face.” Alba says through laughs, her hand over her stomach, doubled over.

“WHAT.” 

“Amor, it’s not permanent, it’s gonna go back to normal in a few washes, right Alba?” The young girl looks up at you guiltily, her not immediately agreeing, making you worried. “Right Alba?”

“Uhm, I might’ve accidentally bought the permanent one, pleasedontkillmeAle.” At the murderous glare she gets, the young girl runs off, her sister staying rooted in front of you.

“Don’t lie to me, were you involved in this?” At that moment you felt the most fear you’d ever felt, she was glaring at you like she glared at your opponents.

“Yes, I gave her the money and got you out of the house.” You answer truthfully, the wrath she’d get if you lied was way worse than anything else.

“Get out of my house.” Her voice is stone cold as she orders you to get out.

“Amor please, I’m so sorry-“

“No. Get out.” This time you didn’t even try to argue, her tone held one of finality.

And so, you walked home in the now cold night, freezing like no other. You deserved it though, of course you had to prank her.

—————

“Wait, how did you get her back? I mean you’re together now so you had to get her back somehow.” Lucy asks, the third time someone has asked something during the duration of your story.

“Shush, I’m getting to it.”

————-

Alexia hadn’t responded to your texts the entire weekend, she was reading them, but not responding. Though you had heard from her sister that she’d decided to commit to the blue hair and got it fixed at the salon.

Even though you’d apologized 100 000 times, she wouldn’t forgive you, and when she passed you in the hallways without saying a word, you decided it was time to take out the big guns.

Sprinting over to the middle school her sister went to, you quickly got her out of class. Alba looked at you weirdly when you told her teacher that you were there to take her to the doctors, even more so when you gave the teacher a paper, but nonetheless she followed you out.

“Y/n, what are you doing?” She asked curiously, looking up at you.

“We are going to make it right between me and Alexia, you are going to help me.”

The preparations only took a few minutes, the only hard part being stealing the ladder from the janitor's office, your elaborate plan was relatively easy to execute.

You knew at what time Alexia got out of class, it wasn’t hard when that was the class you were absent from. But it seems like the teacher was keeping her after class as you and Alba hid behind a nearby row of lockers.

“Where is she?” Alba whispered sharply, looking at you like you were stupid. 

“Soon, she was probably just kept after class.” You whisper back just as harshly, the hallways empty by now leading you to spot your girlfriends much easier.

You can see her angry movements as she throws open her locker, taking out a few books. She’s closed it by the time that you reach her, Alba hidden behind you.

“Close it again.” You tell her, the woman looking at you with a mean glare, a glare that lightens when she sees the hopeful look in your eyes. The smile on your face widens as Alexia opens her locker again, gesturing for Alba to climb up the ladder and start pouring water onto your head.

Your hair plasters against your forehead, cold water making your clothes stick to your body. When you deem it enough, you quickly knock at her open locker door, the girl closing her locker again.

She can’t help but smile at the idiocy that was going on, her sister pouring water over your head with a flower waterer. In your hands were flowers, her favorite flowers.

“Alexia, I’m so sorry for pranking you, it wasn’t right even though you look amazing. Please let me make it up to you.” The water that ran down your face and into your mouth quickly turned your speech slightly slurred but Alexia couldn't help but think of how adorable you looked, doing the rain apology inside only for her.

“It’s okay, I forgave you as soon as I saw how hot I looked with this hair color. Just don’t do it again.” She breaks out in a full fledged smile, seeing how the water suddenly stops running down your face and how a paper rainbow appears above your head. “Oh look, it stopped raining.”

“C’mere.” You pull her into you by her waist, her lips meeting yours sweetly, before the sound of gagging breaks you apart.

“You guys are disgusting.” Alba exclaims as she gets down from the ladder, scrunching her nose at you.

“How did you even get Alba here bébé?” Alexia questions, you looking at her sheepishly.

“I may or may not have forged your mothers signature so I could get her out of class.” Your girlfriend slaps your arm at the confession, glaring at you playfully.

“Mama is going to be so mad when she finds out.” 

“Meh, we all know that I’m the favourite.” 

—————

“That’s how you got her back?” Lucy asks, her eyebrows raised at the peculiar way of apologising.

“Yup, she couldn’t resist my charm.” You tease the girl sitting on your lap, slipping your hand into hers, fingers fitting perfectly between hers.

“And Eli wasn’t mad when she found out?” Pina asks, the girl practically family.

“Oh, she was furious with me but only for a little, I am the favourite child after all.” Alexia rolls her eyes at you lovingly, the smile on her face tells you as much. You couldn’t believe that she was real, and that she was yours.

“It’s not like capi to let you get away scot free.” Mapi teases, the two of you had gotten up to a lot of shenanigans during your shared time at Barça and you’d always gotten punished somehow.

“She didn’t, I had to wear children’s clothes for a month after that since I quote ‘couldn’t grow up’, and yes there are pictures.” The girls around you immediately start trying to convince you to show them the photos, which you do after some convincing (and maybe one or two promises to take responsibility for your next prank.) 

Safe to say that you get teased for the foreseeable future, though they do leave you alone after you’ve finally proposed after nearly 16 years of dating their captain.

[avastrasposts]

The Guard Dog

Written for @studioghibelli Writing Challenge themed around History and Art History.

Plot: Sent to your uncle's bleak castle in the north of England, you expect only a dreary existence until you meet his groundskeeper, a scarred, frightening Spaniard. But love in the Victorian era is not easy and life doesn't follow straight paths.

Groundskeeper!Pero x Reader

Warnings: this is mainly all fluff with a bit of angst. Some of that casual racism and predjucde of the period rears its ugly head though. I've tried to keep the reader as blank as possible, but it's Victorian England and she's a lady so I have to presume she doesn't speak Spanish and has fair skin. No use of y/n.

Word count: 18k (yeah, I know....)

The ancestral home of your uncle’s family, Yotes Castle, was not a place that made people feel comfortable or welcome. Built on the ruins of an old thirteenth century castle, some of the old rooms still part of the house, it cast a forlorn gloom on the surrounding landscape. The long drive up to the house, the ancient portcullis cutting visitors off from the outside world, and the dark granite stone, it all made the place look as bleak as something out of a penny dreadful. The one forgiving feature was the big park surrounding the house, sprawling and wild with endless pathways curving through the trees and shrubs to small hidden glens and meadows. This is where you’d often taken refuge when you were allowed, and it was where you’d first met him, the groundskeeper.  

You’d arrived at the house the previous autumn, just as the weather turned cold; heavy rains and thick fog rolling in from the nearby Irish Sea. Your father had passed away long before you could remember him, and for most of your life, your mother had raised you with the help of a governess and her maid in the London house. But your mother’s health was never what it should be, and when she too passed, her brother became your legal guardian. And rather than let you stay in London, he gave you a choice; to come and work as his children’s governess at Yotes, or stay in London and be cut off once your mother’s meagre fortune ran out. You had no choice but to pack your bags and make the long journey north.  

You’d never been to Yotes Castle, only heard your mother’s stories about it and how much she’d detested it growing up; dark, lonely, stifling. She’d married your father and left for London as soon as she could, and she’d never returned to the north.

Your own first impression of the castle was not promising either. The place had been shrouded by heavy mist, the whole place damp, inside as well as out. Long, dark corridors and staircases confused you as the butler led you to your uncle’s study when you first arrived, his nose turned up at your carpet bag luggage. Your uncle had greeted you like you were a new servant, not his departed sister’s daughter, and dismissed you after letting you know he expected you to take full responsibility for his two children. You were assigned a room next to the children, but at least you were allowed to eat with the family and not the servants. Although, after a few days, you thought it might be nicer to eat with the servants than suffer the stilted conversation and heavy silence in the family dining room. 

The housekeeper, Mrs Pluck, might think otherwise though. She viewed you as a servant, and would ignore any requests you made, sending up lunch only for the children, and not you, when your aunt and uncle were out. Making sure you weren’t served dinner in the dining room, instead making you go downstairs and explain to the cook why you hadn’t eaten. Until one day, Amelia, your ten year old cousin, told your aunt about this, and Mrs Pluck was told to make lunch for you too. After that, Mrs Pluck seemed to view you as her mortal enemy, doing anything she could to trip you up. 

Amelia, on her hand, had not told her mother out of the goodness of her heart, rather the opposite. She wanted you gone, as did her eight year old brother Albert. In the interim between their old governess leaving and you arriving to take her place, the children had run wild. Your attempt at making them learn at least the basics were met with protests and complaints. To say that your first winter was trying was an understatement. 

Spring was slow to arrive in these parts, but as the weather dried up, you could at least escape the house while the children had other lessons. The days were still chilly, you’d grown accustomed to breaking the ice on your wash basin in the mornings as your uncle refused to heat the house properly. But despite the cold, you wrapped yourself in layers of wool and escaped into the park, leaving the bleak house behind. 

You had a favourite spot, right at the end of the wooded area and well out of sight from the house. The path led through a thicket of rhododendrons and curved around a small lake, more like a pond really. On the far side of the pond sat a small cottage where no one seemed to live, covered in dark green ivy and climbing roses, all devoid of leaves this early in the spring. Where the path ended was a bench with a view across the lake and to the cottage. Even on the dreariest of days, the spot seemed bright, the weak sunlight of early spring reflecting in the lake’s mirrored surface. 

The first time you saw him, the sound of the cottage front door closing made you jump. The thump echoed across the small lake and you looked up, startled. On the other side a man had just come out of the cottage, a heavy looking axe in one hand. He stopped as he saw you, your eyes meeting briefly before he turned, a deep scowl on his dark face as he stalked away, disappearing from view behind the trees. You lifted your hand to shield your eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of his retreating back, but his long legs took him into the woods and he vanished in moments. Instead you looked at the cottage, it still seemed abandoned but now you saw the thin tendril of smoke rising from the chimney. Whomever he was, it seemed as if he was now living there.  

You returned to your book, but the man had disturbed your peace, his look at you had been so troubling. It was almost as if he disliked you on sight, while you didn’t even know who he was. What could have made him regard you with such aversion? 

With a sigh you closed your book and stood up, your favourite spot suddenly seemed less welcoming. 

It was a few days before you saw him again in the park. The weather had turned milder after two days of rain, and you’d left the children with their riding master. Slowly strolling through the copse of beeches at the far end of the park, reading your book, you didn’t notice the man leaning on his spade, or the ditch he’d dug. 

“Watch where you’re going!” 

The warning came too late as the ground disappeared from underneath your feet, and with a gasp you stumbled forward, just as a hand closed around your arm, pulling you back. 

“Cuidado!” he snapped, his fingers digging into your flesh as he all but shoved you back from the edge of the ditch, “Keep your eyes on where you are going, girl. I won’t explain a broken neck to your uncle.” 

You staggered back, his hand letting go of your arm as the book fell to the ground. 

“Th-thank you,” you stuttered, finding your balance again as the man shook his head with a scowl. 

“If you fall and break your neck or your leg, I’m without a job, so don’t get in my way,” he snarled, snatching the book from the ground and shoving it into your hands, “Now get away from here, go back to your books and keep them indoors.” 

Without a backwards glance he turned and grabbed the spade again and jumped into the ditch. You hesitated for a second, but the man stabbed the dirt with the spade with aggression, and began digging without another word. 

Holding tight to your book, you hurried away. The man’s fingers had left painful imprints on your upper arm, and you rubbed them as you made your way back towards the house, your heart still beating hard in your chest. He had scared you as much as almost falling into the ditch had. The scowl he’d given you had been amplified by dark eyes under his dishevelled mop of black hair and unkempt beard. It made him look foreboding and very dangerous. But what had really frightened you was the scar that marred his face, a wicked looking gash across his left eye. Even to your inexperienced eyes he looked like a man who had fought many battles and lived a hard life. What he did here, working for your uncle, you couldn’t even begin to imagine. His accent had been foreign, and he’d used a word you didn’t recognise when he first shouted at you. With a shudder you tried to calm yourself as you pulled open the heavy back door to the big house. 

The kitchen of the house was the only welcoming room in the place, much thanks to the elderly cook, Mrs Robertson, who ran it with a scullion to help her. Now Mrs Robertson greeted you with a smile, looking up from the dough she was kneading. 

“Hello, dear, you look frozen solid, is it still cold outside?” 

“Hello, Mrs Robertson. No, it’s not too bad, it’s just still cold in the shade,” you replied, unbuttoning your wool coat and hanging it over a chair in the corner. 

“Well, put the kettle on anyway, it’s time for some tea and you do look as if you could do with some warming up.”

She tucked the dough into a clean bowl and washed her hands while you filled the kettle and put it on the hob, stoking the coals to get it going. 

“I ran into a man in the park,” you said, taking down the teapot and cups from the cupboard, “did my uncle take on someone new?” 

“Tall, dark haired fellow with a nasty looking scar?” Mrs Robertson asked and you nodded. “That’s Mr Pero Tovar, he’s the groundskeeper. He’s been away for a bit, he usually is during the winter when there’s less to do. He must’ve returned recently, I haven’t seen him in a bit.” 

“I almost fell into a ditch he was digging but he caught me just in time, gave me a terrible fright.” 

“He will do that to you, poor man,” Mrs Robertson replied, “I met him once coming back late from the train, I was just coming up to the main gate, and he stepped out from the small path there. Nearly gave me a heart attack with the way he looked. But he apologised for scaring me and carried my luggage all the way up to the house,” she sat down at the table as you poured the boiling water into the teapot. 

“He’s not a wholly disagreeable man, even though he’s foreign,” she added as an afterthought, as she made sure you heated up the pot. 

“Do you know where he’s from?” you asked, “He had an accent I couldn’t place.” 

“Spain, I think. He mentioned it once when I asked why he didn’t drink tea. Apparently they prefer coffee there,” she shook her head as if the madness of not drinking tea was too much to imagine. 

You didn’t give the man any more thought, except to keep an eye out to avoid him when you were wandering the park, not wishing to be on the receiving end of one of his scowls again. The weather turned mild and soon daffodils and snowdrops were cropping up and you took the children outside to give them some lessons in botany. They were less than interested, and you soon gave up, letting them play in the stream flowing down towards the small lake while you brought out your sketchbook and began drawing the scene in front of you. The sun was warm, filtering down through the branches that were just starting to show the first hint of green again and you relished being out of doors, away from the house. The weather even felt warm, and you removed your heavy coat, before picking up the sketchbook again. 

The sound of footsteps crunching on last year’s dry leaves made you look up towards the path, only to be met by Mr Tovar’s dark eyes. He was all but marching towards you, a heavy looking tool bag in one hand and several long planks over his shoulder. Just as you thought he was about to scold you for some unknown trespass, he marched right by you with barely a nod, and made his way to the small wooden bridge crossing the stream. 

The bridge was really just a simple row of flat planks attached to logs long since hammered into the mud. The planks were beginning to rot and warp, and you’d kept the children away from it, it didn’t look safe. And Tovar proved you right when he knelt down and ripped the first plank away, the wood coming away in pieces in his hands. Soon he’d measured out the right length, and replaced the first plank with a fresh one, moving on to the next. 

You tried to return to your drawing or keep an eye on the children who were still playing further down the stream, but you kept glancing back at Tovar. Despite his intimidating appearance, or maybe because of it, you were drawn back to watching him as he worked. You weren’t unfamiliar with men, even though you’d grown up only with your mother. But this wasn’t the curious attraction you’d felt as a stable hand smiled at you. This was something else, something that made your eyes drift back to him, leaving your drawing unfinished as you watched him work. 

He had his back to you, a well worn black workman’s shirt stretching tight across his shoulders after he’d shed his jacket. It was mesmerising watching the broad back move and shift as he worked at the stubborn planks, the odd grunt reaching your ears. Hunched down as he was, he seemed to possess immense strength in his large hands, the planks groaning and protesting as he planted his feet wide and pulled. He always won the fight, tossing them behind himself in a careless pile. With an impatient movement he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve and straightened up. As you watched, he unbuttoned the cuff of his left hand and began rolling the shirt up over his forearms, exposing tanned skin dusted with dark hair. Done with one, he rolled up the other one before bending and grabbing the nearest loose plank, throwing it over his shoulder. 

As he turned he suddenly caught your eyes on him, and for a few seconds you were caught in his dark stare, unable to move. Slowly the scowl transformed into a smirk, and you dropped your gaze. From the corner of your eye you could see how he kept staring at you, his mouth pulled into a crooked grin as he seemed to study you in return. You felt your cheeks heat up and you turned away, looking down towards the children. From behind you, you heard him attack the planks again, another one tossed to the pile. 

Needing to remove yourself from the temptation to glance back at him again, you stood up and made your way down to the children. Albert was busy building a dam while Amelia threw rocks at it, he protested loudly while she laughed. 

“Amelia, don’t do that, let him build his dam,” you told her, knowing full well she would ignore you. She only sniggered and picked up another rock from the bottom of the stream, the hem of her dress soaked through. 

“Amelia! Stop that!” you snapped at her as she let the rock fly, narrowly missing her brother’s head as it went over him. 

“No!” she laughed, while Albert yelled at her, “I want to make him wet!”

“You’re ruining it! Albert hollered, as Amelia’s next rock hit the sticks and splintered his carefully constructed dam. With an angry roar he leaped for her but she easily jumped out of the way, laughing as she took off up the stream towards the bridge with Albert behind her. With a sigh you followed. You at least had to try to make them not kill each other. 

Pero stood up as the children came racing up the bank, Amelia laughing loudly as Albert yelled at her. When they spotted the tall man scowling at them, they both stumbled to a stop, looking up at him while you caught up behind them. Pero glanced over at you and then back at the children. 

“You should listen to your governess,��� he said and gave Amelia a stern look, “And do not throw rocks at your brother.” 

But Amelia was not about to listen to the groundskeeper either. With an arrogant look on her face she put a hand on her hips and sniggered. 

“My father says you got that scar in prison. I think it makes you look like Quasimodo,” she smirked, pointing at Mr Tovar’s face as Albert started laughing. 

“Amelia!” you snapped, horrified at her behaviour. Mr Tovar’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline for a second before returning into a deep scowl. 

“Little girl,” he said, his voice low and serious, “you should not mock strangers.” 

“You’re not a stranger,” Amelia replied as Albert continued to giggle next to her, “you’re father’s groundskeeper, and you have to do as we say or he’ll send you back to prison with that ugly scar.” 

She was puffing her chest out as much as her scrawny ten year old frame would allow, and you could already see her mother’s haughty manners in the look she was giving Mr Tovar. He looked at her with a furrowed brow, his dark eyes almost hidden under his eyebrows, a dangerous sneer on his lips.  

“Amelia, that is enough,” you said, grabbing her arm and pulling her around, “you should be ashamed of yourself, apologise to Mr Tovar right now.” 

“No!” she yelled at you, struggling to pull free from your grip on her arm. 

“Amelia, you will apologise to Mr Tovar or I will tell your father how you have misbehaved.” 

“No!” she yelled again, and Albert joined in, yelling “No!” at the top of his lungs as Amelia continued to fight against your grip. Suddenly she lashed out and slapped you right across your cheek, and in shock you let go of her arm. The two children took off at a run, back towards the house, while you stood rooted to the spot, your left cheek stinging. 

Pero scoffed and came up to you, dropping the plank he’d been holding. 

“Delightful creatures,” he said, the sarcasm dripping from his voice as he looked down at you. With a surprisingly gentle touch, he took hold of your chin and tilted it to the light, examining the place where the slap had landed. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked and you nodded. 

“It stings,” you replied and he let go of your chin, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. 

“Come here,” he said, walking over to the stream and pointing at a flat rock just by the edge. He dipped the kerchief in the water and wrung it out as you sat down on the rock. His touch was gentle when he pressed the folded cloth to your cheek, the cool fabric soothing your skin. He held it to your face while he looked at you, and you realised his dark eyes weren’t really black, but a rich brown colour, much warmer than you’d first thought. And when he looked at you now, they even held some sympathy. 

“Why do you let them treat you like that?” he asked, the lilting accent in his voice less harsh now as he carefully refolded the kerchief, pressing another cool side to your skin.

“I have no power over them, and they know it. My aunt and uncle detest that I’m here, that they had to take me in. But I have nowhere else to go, so I put up with them until I can find some other family to work for.” 

“They will grow up into nasty adults,” he replied, “I hope you find a new family soon.” 

Pero dipped the kerchief in the water again and placed it back on your cheek, his hand still holding it in place and he was very close, closer than you’d ever been to any man that wasn’t in your family. You found you had to drop your eyes from his face, it was too intimidating to have him look at you like that. 

“Thank you, I can hold it myself,” you said, lifting your hand to take the kerchief. But he shook his head. 

“I’m keeping pressure on it so that it won’t swell up too much, although it will be tender for a few days.” 

He continued to keep his hand on your cheek, folding the cloth again and placing the cool side to your cheek. You glanced up at him, his face still close to yours, and found that he looked less scary now. The scar still added a grim element to his face, but despite the serious set of his mouth, his scowl had disappeared. 

“How do you know my name?” he asked, dipping the kerchief in the stream again. 

“Mrs Robertson told me, she told me you’ve recently returned as my uncle’s groundskeeper,” you replied, and his lips curled up in a small smile. 

“She is a good woman,” he said, “and she’s right. I returned a few weeks ago. I was away for the winter.” 

You wanted to ask where he’d been, if Amelia was right about him being in prison, but you didn’t want to break the spell of the moment. Instead you glanced down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes any longer. Tovar was crouched in front of you, and you saw how his trousers were worn and patched not only over the knees. His boots were mended and patched too, and the collar of his shirt was frayed. You realised as you took in the details of the man, that it looked as if he was living, or at least had lived, a hard and poor life. 

Pero dipped the cloth again, but this time he handed it to you. 

“Here, keep it pressed to your cheek while you go back to the house. And see if Mrs Robertson can give you some ice.” 

He stood up as you took the cloth, and then he held out his hand for you, to help you to your feet. You hesitated for a moment, looking up at him as he stood towering above you, with his hand out. He raised his eyebrows in question, and you found yourself again, putting your hand in his and letting him pull you up. He let go as soon as you were steady, but the warmth of his hand lingered in yours, the rough calluses of his palm imprinted on your skin and you realised it was not an unpleasant feeling. 

“Thank you, Mr Tovar,” you said, giving him a small smile, “I’ll make sure you get your kerchief back soon.” 

Tovar gave you a small nod, his dark eyes burning your cheeks as the corner of his mouth pulled up in smirk. 

“My pleasure, señorita.” 

You felt his hand in yours the whole way back to the house, it was a strange feeling. He was a coarse and angry man, he frightened you a little, although not as much as before. But yet the way his hand had felt on your chin, the way his eyes had been such a warm, brown colour up close, it seemed to linger in your mind. 

Mrs Robertson only rolled her eyes when you told her what had happened, giving you ice from the cold storage for your cheek. 

“And there’s no use telling your uncle about Miss Amelia’s behaviour,” she added, shaking her head, “She has him wrapped around her little finger.” 

You agreed with her, and said nothing to your aunt or uncle. But you didn’t take the children out into the garden any more. Instead you took refuge there yourself when you had time. More often than not, you went down to the bench by the small lake opposite his cottage. You hoped you’d see Mr Tovar, but he never seemed to be there. Instead you saw him from a distance as he went about various jobs in the park, always too far away to say something and he never looked in your direction. 

Until one day. 

Weeks had passed and summer had arrived and you had more time on your hands than what you knew what to do with. The family had left the house and travelled to the south of France for the summer. You had been told you would not be allowed to go, something that suited you well, even though your aunt expected you to be deeply upset by this. Both she and Amelia had hinted that you would be missing out on a world of amusements, but you didn’t have it in you to care. To be away from the family, to not have to deal with the children, that would be your holiday. 

Mrs Pluck had made it her mission to make your life in the house as miserable as possible and to escape her, you disappeared into the gardens for hours. On rainy days you asked Mrs Robinson to enlist you in the kitchen so that Mrs Pluck couldn’t accuse you of shying away from work. But it was a fine summer and most days you found a nook in the garden and read or drew. 

He found you down by the stream one day. The air was warm, especially for England, and you’d unlaced your boots and sat down on the bridge he’d repaired. With your feet in the cool, peaty, water you’d disappeared into your book, Mr Darcy declaring his love to Elisabeth for probably the twentieth time. 

Unbeknownst to you, Pero paused at the edge of the clearing as he spotted you, stopping in his stride to take in the peaceful scene you’d created in one of his favourite spots. The dappled sunlight danced across the stream, the gentle babble of the flowing water disguising the sound of his footsteps and he paused by the last tree of woods, the scene too tranquil to disturb. As he watched, you turned a page in the heavy book and pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling at whatever you were reading. 

Pero would be the last person to admit it, even to himself, but he’d spent too much time thinking about your smile in the past few weeks. He was a man used to being on his own and didn’t pay much attention to the world around him unless it was threatening him or presenting an opportunity. The smiles of pretty women was not something he lingered on, mainly because the only women who smiled at him were the kind he had to pay to get. He knew his appearance, not just the scar, but his darker skin and guarded face, put off the women he met, and not just the women. So he’d arranged his features into a scowl that kept them all at bay, unless they needed him for a job. 

And this governess, he’d seen how you’d been frightened by him when you nearly stumbled into the ditch, and he’d dismissed you as one of the many women who took one look at him and baulked. But then he’d sensed your eyes on him as he worked on the bridge, seen your shy, awkward gaze when he caught you looking at him, no fear in your eyes. And the children were as cruel to you as to him, but you had to put up with them to keep your place in the house, to keep a roof over your head. You were a better person then he was, he would’ve struck the girl and thrown her into the stream. Instead, you’d stood there in shock as the children ran off, your hand on your stinging cheek. And he’d suddenly found himself pitying you, a creature too gentle to fit into the family of vipers that ruled the house. 

Before he’d even really considered it, he’d taken out his handkerchief and taken upon himself to soothe your swollen cheek. Your eyes had looked up at him with surprise and trepidation, but like the lamb, you’d followed him to the edge of the stream and sat down when he told you to. You really were too gentle and trusting for this world he thought, too innocent. He would’ve, should’ve, dismissed you easily, you were not his responsibility, not someone he needed to consider at all.  

But then you’d taken his hand and smiled as you thanked him, and he found, painfully, that you were not easy to dismiss, no matter how hard he tried. Instead your smile lingered in his mind, the spark it brought to your eyes, and how soft it made your features, matched only by the way your hand felt in his for the brief moment you held it. He’d never felt the urge to protect anyone else but himself before, but like a wolf turned guard dog, he suddenly felt the need to shield you, stay by your side and keep you safe. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and he’d pushed it aside, burying it deep inside. 

The next day he’d found his kerchief wrapped in a brown paper package on his doorstep. Clean and ironed, with a small sprig of lavender tucked between its folds. It was somehow now the prettiest thing he owned, and he couldn’t bring himself to use it again. Instead it stayed on his dresser, the lavender spreading its delicate scent around the room where it rested on the neatly folded fabric. Whenever he walked past the lavender shrubs in the garden, he thought of you, your smile seemed to live on at the forefront of his mind. 

He didn’t like how you made him feel, he didn’t want to feel like he needed to protect anyone but himself. If you were that weak and feeble, let you fend for yourself like he always had. It had made him strong and hard, he had no need for anyone and no one would treat him like those children had treated you. He avoided the lavender shrubs, and the spots where you often sat, making sure to never acknowledge you when he saw you in the distance. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from glancing across the pond every morning when he left the cottage, only to find the bench empty. You never seemed to return to that spot.  

But now he stood at the edge of the woods, watching you turn another page, and smile again. He didn’t want to disturb you, didn’t want to see you smile at him again, didn’t want to see the softness of your eyes as they locked on to him and made his heart rage against anyone who hurt you. And at the same time, he knew he wanted you to notice him, to turn your head and smile at him instead of that book, to bring him to his knees and make him feel needed by you. He would be your guard dog for the rest of his miserable life if you only smiled at him. 

He felt it all battle inside him as he stood by the sturdy tree, a hand on its rough bark, one foot twitching to move forward, the jerk of the other to turn back. And maybe he made a twig snap, loud enough to make you lift your head from the book and turn, meeting his eyes as he tried to decide what to do. 

“Mr Tovar,” you said, and you’d made the decision for him. He felt his feet move, towards the bridge, before he’d decide anything. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I left the kerchief by your door,” you said, looking at him as he stopped by the edge of the bridge. 

“I found it,” Pero replied, his large hands twitching by his side, “You didn’t need to clean it, but thank you.” 

He shifted his weight, testing the new planks he’d laid down, pretending to inspect them while you continued to look up at him. 

“How’s the-” he started just as you spoke. 

“Thank you again fo-” 

“Sorry,” you immediately apologised, “you first, Mr Tovar.” 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he replied, “How is your cheek?” 

His voice was gruff, but his scowl was less this morning as he looked at your cheek. The skin had bruised but the swelling had disappeared after just a day. You put your hand on your cheek as if to feel the texture of the skin. 

“It’s fine, the bruise has disappeared and there is no pain, probably thanks to your quick thinking.” 

“I bet the little lady had no punishment for her actions,” he growled, bending his knees and dropping onto his haunches. He gently took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, just like had the day it happened, and tilted your head to the side, inspecting the flawless skin. 

“No, I never told her uncle anything,” you replied, “What would be the point? It would probably only get me into trouble instead.” 

Pero dropped his hand from your chin, your eyes weren’t on him anymore and he chided himself for acting on the impulse to touch you again. He could feel the guard dog in him bristle at your words, at the way you’d so easily let Miss Amelia get away with her actions. He would not have let her even speak to you the way she did, let alone strike you. 

You dropped your gaze back to the open book in your hands, your feet still dangling in the cool water. Pero knew he should stand up, go back to his cottage, and continue to stay away, to push any thought of you to the back of his mind. Tell the guard dog in his chest to ignore the woman in front of him, you were not his to protect. 

But instead he found his voice and spoke. 

“What are you reading, señorita?” 

You looked at him in surprise, why was he interested in your book? But the gaze that met yours was curious, despite the serious set his jaw still held. 

“Pride & Prejudice, by Jane Austen,” you replied, showing him the spine of the book. It was a well worn copy, a gift from your mother many years ago, “Have you read it?” 

“No,” came his swift reply, almost as if he was scoffing at the thought of reading such a book. 

“Well, it’s very good, it’s probably my favourite,” you said, looking back down at the book, stroking the front cover with a gentle touch, “I’ve read it many times."

“Why?” he asked and as you looked up at him, his eyebrows pulled together in a questioning look, incredulous even. 

“Why not?” you retorted, “It’s a good story, I enjoy the characters, and every time I read it I discover something new, a detail I hadn’t thought about. Have you never re-read a good book?” 

“Never,” he said, and this time he did scoff and you wrinkled your nose at him, looking back at your book and opening it up to the page you’d been on. 

“Well, maybe you should try it sometime, it’s a good experience to revisit things you like.” 

Pero could sense he’d offended you in some way, and yet again he was drawn in two directions by his mind, he should stand up, leave you to your book. 

“I never learnt how to read,” he said instead, regretting the words the second they came out of his treacherous mouth. He felt heat rise up his neck as he cursed himself. He’d never admitted to anyone that he couldn’t read, even though he’d learned a whole new language as an adult. Just repeat what others said, it was easy. Interpreting the little symbols on pages, whether in Spanish or in English, proved impossible in both languages. But so desperate was his mind to stay connected to you, that not even his deepest secrets seemed safe when he was in your presence. 

Now it was your turn to look surprised as you closed the book again. The scowl on his face was back, like he was expecting your mockery as his neck flushed a deep crimson. 

“That’s a shame,” you said, your voice small. You felt as if he would be very angry with you if you pitied him or accidentally made him feel inferior, his deep scowl still frightened you as he waited for your reaction to his confession. 

“Reading makes me very happy, and it opens up new worlds,” you continued carefully, “There are some great stories by incredible writers, they really make me see what they are describing and make me feel so much. I hope you can experience that some day, if you learn to read.” 

Pero dropped his gaze, down to his hands, and sank down onto the bridge, sitting down next to you as he shook his head. He saw the softness in you again, that gentleness that made the guard dog in him spring to life. He wanted to protect you, even against himself, didn’t want to frighten you. So he looked at his large hands, dirty from the soil and rough with callouses and tried to make his voice less harsh, his features less abrasive.

“I’m too old to learn how to read now, I was never able to do it in Spanish or English, what use is it to try now? Just tell me what your incredible book is about.” 

“I’m sure you could learn if you had a good teacher, Mr Tovar,” you said, but he just rubbed at the dirt on his hands and furrowed his brow as he shook his head in response. 

“Better you tell me what your book is about, then I don’t have to learn how to read,” he replied, keeping his voice low. What was he doing? He should not talk to you, he could already feel his heart pounding in an unfamiliar way, small tendrils reaching out towards you. 

“It’s…it’s about a woman called Elizabeth Bennet. Her family wants her to marry a man for his money, but she wants to marry only for love. But to her, all the men she meets are fools, none are worthy of her. Then she meets Mr Darcy, and she’s too prejudiced against men to see that he would be a good match for her. And he, on his end, is too proud to admit that a woman of a lower class than him could provide him with the kind of marriage that would make him happy. Both of them are bound by social expectations and restraints. But it has a happy ending,” you smiled at Mr Tovar who was watching you speak with curiosity, “I know it has a happy ending but I’m still nervous every time I read it.” 

“Do you wish to marry for love?” he asked, “Is that why it’s your favourite story?” 

His gaze made your cheeks heat up, it wasn’t the question you’d expected, and his deep brown eyes seemed to see through to your soul and see the true answer that lay there. 

You shrugged, looking down at the water rushing over your feet, to hide yourself from his eyes. 

“I very much doubt I’ll ever marry, for love or not. I’m a governess, I have no money and won’t inherit any either. If someone would want to marry me, they’d get nothing for it anyway. And what’s to say that he is someone I want to marry? Then I’d rather be like Lizzy and not marry at all, because I doubt there is a Mrd Darcy waiting for me.” 

Pero watched you, as you watched the water slip around your bare feet, the guard dog growling in his chest. 

“Any man would be fortunate to marry you, señorita,” he said, “just make sure you love him before you say yes to him.” 

He stood up suddenly, it almost made you jump it was so sudden, and was halfway across the small bridge before you had the sense to speak up. 

“Mr Tovar, will you let me teach you how to read?” 

He stopped in his tracks, turning back to you with a look that confused you and almost made you regret your spur of the moment question. His jaw ticked to the side, he glanced back down the path where he was heading, and his fingers twitched. But his eyes looked almost hopeful, like a light had been lit inside him. But then he sighed and closed his eyes, his head dropping down on his chest with a muttered string of words you didn’t understand, you knew he’d say no to your offer. 

“Señorita, if you want to waste your time on a hopeless case, who am I to say no?” 

“Really?” 

His reply surprised you so much that the book almost slipped from your hand, and you quickly placed it on the bridge behind you as he took a few steps back to you and nodded. 

“Who else is going to offer to teach me? I’d be a fool to turn you down, even though I doubt you can even teach this dog to read.” 

“Don’t say that about yourself, Mr Tovar,” you gently scolded him, “I’m sure we’ll get you reading in no time.” 

“Pero,” he said, a small smile softening his features as he held out his hand to you. “Don’t call me ‘Mr Tovar’ if you’re to teach me, señorita.” 

“Pero,” you replied, trying to roll the name around your tongue the way he did. It felt nice, unfamiliar in the way it sounded, but it suited him, and the way his harsh features changed when he smiled, was reward enough for your attempt. 

“Maybe I’ll teach you Spanish while you teach me to read,” he chuckled, a warm sound from him as you took his outstretched hand and shook it.

“Tomorrow at ten, at the bench by your cottage?” you asked and he nodded in agreement. 

“Tomorrow at ten.” 

Meeting Mr Tovar, no, Pero, you corrected yourself, quickly became the favourite part of your day. The summer was fine and most days dry, so you brought your books to the bench every morning at ten, and remained with him until you had to go back to the house for lunch and he had to take care of his groundskeeper duties. 

It quickly became clear to you that Pero’s biggest obstacle was his own belief that he wasn’t able to learn how to read. Once he’d cracked the code, he seemed to rehearse the alphabet every chance he got and soon he made his way through your easiest book. He read out loud, his finger following along in the text and he sounded out every letter before he put them into words, but he was reading for the first time. It was also the first time you saw him smile properly, a wide grin on his face as he correctly sounded out and deciphered his first word on the page without your help. 

Seeing Pero slowly gain confidence in his new found skill made you happy and satisfied and for a while you pretended that was the only reason you enjoyed your lessons with him. But you knew, because of the way your heart felt when you saw him, that that wasn’t the only reason you enjoyed teaching him. Far from it you had to admit. The lessons had been only an hour at first, you knew that it became hard for any pupil to focus after an hour. And at first you’d said your goodbyes and left when that hour was up. But then Pero offered to teach you some Spanish, and soon your hour had stretched into three while he asked you about your life, and he slowly told you about his. The man who had seemed so frightening at first, so angry and intimidating, was now the one thing that made your life at Yotes Castle bearable, even enjoyable. 

Little by little you saw more of the man behind the facade he’d held in place for so long. Carefully you asked questions about the things that seemed to shape the way he was now, and his eyes would go black, painful memories forcing themselves to the surface. But he always seemed to overcome it, choosing to share even the more grim parts of his life with you when it didn’t make you pull back from him in revulsion. 

“I was a good soldier,” he said, “but the only reward for a good soldier is to stay alive and be sent into battle again. I made as little money as the man driving carriages in the streets and less than the man who sold groceries to the army. So when I could, I left the army and sought work as a mercenary. There is no honour in it, but at least it kept my belly full and I could choose my own master and make a bit of money.” 

Pero shrugged, hunched over with his arms on his knees, his shoulders by his ears and looking out over the small lake in front of the bench, while you looked at his strong profile, the light hitting the scar across his face. It used to look nasty and mean to you, now it seemed to be a part of him as much as his dark brown eyes, just a mark of the hard life he’d lived before coming here. 

“I did things as a mercenary that I’m not proud of,” he said, his eyes still on the lake, “I’ve killed more men than I can remember. Most of them I just forget in the heat of the battle, others…they stay with me and I can see their faces sometimes. But I did it to stay alive, it was me or them, and someone was going to make that gold and it might as well be me. Better I kill the men who needed killing and let some poor boy from London keep his sanity and his life while I make the gold.” 

He turned his head and looked up at your face, half expecting you to be grimacing in distaste at his greed, but you just met his eyes with a concerned look. 

“You’ve seen so many terrible things, Pero. It makes me worry for you.” 

“Worry for how I sleep at night?” he asked, quirking his eyebrows at you with a slightly mocking tone. But you shook your head. 

“Maybe, but I worry about how you think the world always sees you. Those you meet here don’t know about your background, and don’t judge you for what they don’t know, yet you assume they do, and scowl at us all even when we-” 

“Even when you’re just a lonely governess trying to be polite?” Pero interrupted and you had to smile at him. 

“Yes, even when that. I was frightened of you after our first meeting, you looked so menacing and seemed very angry with me.” 

“Querida, I was never angry with you,” he said, his voice low and smiling as he sat up straight again and turned to you. 

“I know that now,” you smiled back at him, “but that’s what worries me about you. Maybe you are missing out on friendship when your past always makes you think that the world will judge you harshly.” 

“You became friends with me,” he replied, “maybe that’s all I need?” 

“You need only me as a friend? You’re settling for very little, Pero,” you scoffed, but still smiling at him. 

Pero shook his head, “Querida, you’re selling yourself for very little if you think that your friendship isn’t worth everything.” 

His words made your cheeks heat up, and for a few long moments you felt lost in the way he was still looking at you, his face serious and his dark eyes locked on yours. When you finally managed to pull yourself away, you looked down at your hands, rubbing at an ink stain on your thumb. Beside you Pero shifted, suddenly leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to your temple before he stood up. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, mi amorcita.” 

The kiss lingered long after he’d disappeared, your fingers finding the spot as you walked back to the house. You wished he’d continued, but you weren’t sure with what. 

“I was never in prison,” he told you one day, “well, not a real prison anyway,” he added with a smirk. “I was in China, working as a mercenary, and there was a misunderstanding. They put me in a cell but another mercenary got me out, he was good friends with the General, luckily.” 

“You’ve seen so much of the world, Pero, I’ve only ever been to London and here,” you replied, “What was China like?” 

“Interesting, and very different. Their language is very different from both English and Spanish. With English, I can recognise some of the words, with Chinese, nothing made sense,” he took the pencil from your hand and drew a strange symbol in the notebook. 

“That is the sign for gunpowder, I learnt it while I was there, important to know so that you don’t accidentally light a pipe next to it.” 

“That says ‘gunpowder’?” you asked incredulously as you looked at the seemingly disorganised lines he’d jotted on the page and Pero nodded. 

“They write words with pictures instead of letters, one of them explained it to me. And even I could tell the difference between our letters and their symbols. And my friend, who could read, couldn't interpret it at all, he said it looked nothing like anything he could read.” 

“I can see why,” you said, tracing the lines with your finger, “I see no similarity with our letters at all.” 

“I hope you get the opportunity to see more of the world one day, señorita, there is a lot more to it than just London and this miserable castle,” Pero huffed. The more you’d told him about your life, the more his anger had grown at the way your uncle was treating you, and letting his children and wife treat you. It made no difference of course, Pero was just the groundskeeper, and a foreigner at that. But it was nice to have someone on your side, someone as strong and intimidating looking as Pero, to tell you that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

“Maybe you can show me some day, Pero,” you said, the words slipping out before you’d fully considered them and you felt your cheeks heat up in a flash. Pero gave you a quick grin. 

“You wish to travel with the ill-famed Spaniard, a mercenary and dirty foreigner?” he laughed, “What would your uncle say?” 

“To hell with my uncle,” you giggled, it felt deliciously reckless to say it out loud, “To hell with him!”

Pero smiled at your glee, it was good to see you happy and dreaming of something other than your life at Yotes Castle. 

Two fat drops of water suddenly splashed down onto the page and you both looked up at the sky. Dark clouds had gathered above and now it was starting to come down hard, the first two drops quickly joined by many others. With a groan you realised you’d be soaked by the time you got back to the house, you had no umbrella with you, and your thin summer coat would not withstand this downpour. But Pero had already sprung into action with other plans, with a few quick movements he gathered up the books and notes from your lesson and held his hand out to you. 

“Come, quickly, we’ll run to my cottage until this is over.”

Without thinking, you took his warm hand and it closed around yours as he pulled you along at a brisk pace around the small lake. He kicked the door open and ushered you inside just as the downpour really started. Standing together at the entrance of his cottage, you watched the world turn liquid and grey in seconds. 

“Well, I guess that’s the end of summer then,” you said, peering into the gloom. 

“It will clear soon,” Pero replied, “but it will be wet for a while. Let me hang your coat up to dry, querida.” 

You’d told Pero your name, but he rarely used it, instead he’d continued to call you ‘señorita’ and explained what it meant. But as your lessons continued, he’d slipped into calling you ‘querida’ instead and you hadn’t yet had the bravery to ask him what it meant. It felt more intimate than miss, his choice to use it seemed to correlate with the deepening of your friendship, when reading lessons turned into longer conversations about your lives. Just giving him lessons, spending time alone with an unmarried man in secluded corners of the park, felt exhilaratingly dangerous. You hadn’t even told Mrs Robertson about it. But to acknowledge that you had more than just cordial feelings towards him, or that he might even have them too, that was an even more frightening thought that you shoved to the back of your mind and refused to entertain. It was an impossible scenario, your uncle would never allow his groundskeeper to court his niece.  

It was hard to keep that thought at bay here though. When he helped you shrug out of your coat, his fingertips brushed over the back of your neck as he took your scarf too, the gentle touch burning your skin. His touch seemed to linger a few more moments than needed, but you thought you’d happily stand still in his small hallway for days, if it meant you could continue to feel the warmth from his hands on your skin.

And Pero felt it too, the velvety smoothness of your skin, the warmth of your body as he stood just a little bit too close for just a little bit too long. He inhaled quietly, catching the scent of your soap, and took a reluctant step back, taking the coat with him. 

He hadn’t lit the fire this morning, but now he hung your coat over a rack and busied himself with the kindling while you looked around the modest house. The cottage was old, the stone walls thick, and you could tell not many of the items here belonged to Pero. You moved among the few items as the fire came to life, its crackling filling the room. You let your fingers brush over the sprig of lavender that lay on top of the still neatly folded handkerchief, a comb lying next to it along with a small sharp knife that you guessed he used to trim his hair and beard. 

A photograph caught your attention and you moved to stand in front of it. It stood propped up against the wall on the dresser, a simple portrait of two men. They were dressed in uniforms and looked with serious faces into the camera. You recognised a much younger Pero, his face smooth but still covered by his patchy beard, and no scar across his eye. The other man looked older and was light haired and as tall as Pero. 

“My friend William,” Pero said, coming up behind you and seeing what had caught your attention, “We were friends and mercenaries together, he’s the one who saved me in China.” 

“Where is he now?” you asked, picking up the photograph and studying the fair haired man.

“He met a woman and settled down, took a job with her father, helping them run the farm,” Pero replied, and yet again he was standing so close behind you that you felt the heat from his body through the layers of your own clothes. 

“It’s a good job for an old mercenary, he seemed very happy when I last saw him.” 

“Would you rather be a farmer than a groundskeeper?” you asked and Pero nodded. 

“Yes, if I found a woman who had a farm I could help run. But like your Elizabeth Bennett, I wouldn’t want to marry just for convenience.” 

“You want to marry for love?” you turned around surprised, looking up at him. He’d never struck you as a romantic. His demeanour towards you may have softened slightly, but his outer layer was still very much that of the scowling, dark minded man who’d rather the world just left him alone. Seeing him as someone who wished to marry a woman for love made you see him in a new light, maybe another crack in the facade he was slowly letting you through. 

Pero gave you a shrug and shook his head. 

“I don’t know, I don’t think I’d ever be fortunate to marry for love so I never considered marrying at all.” 

“But if you fell in love, you’d want to marry?” you asked and Pero gave you a humourless laugh. 

“Señorita, does it even matter if I’d want to marry at all? For love or for convenience, no one will marry an old mercenary, a piss poor old soldier, who thoroughly dislikes and distrusts the world.”

His face pulled up in a twisted grimace of a smile as he turned away from you and picked up the kettle on the clean scrubbed table. 

“Do you dislike me too?” you asked, placing the photo of Pero and his friend back on the dresser and moving over to the fire, “And distrust me?”

“Querida, no, of course not,” he replied, his eyebrows shooting up in concern, “I didn’t mean you, I’m sorry if you thought that.” 

He came to stand next to you by the fire, his dark eyes suddenly more concerned than you’d seen them before, searching yours to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently made you regret the friendship that the two of you had built up over the past few weeks. 

“I’d hate for you to think that I don’t trust you,” he said, “I’m glad you’re my friend and I hope you don’t regret the time you’ve spent teaching this old soldier to read.” 

You shook your head and without thinking, put your hand out and took his, stroking your thumb over the rough knuckles. 

“I don’t regret it at all, and I’m glad you trust me. You’re the first friend I’ve made since I came here and you’ve made this summer much better than I could ever have hoped. How could I regret the time I’ve spent with you?” 

Relief seemed to flood his features, his dark eyes turning warm in the glow of the fire light as he smiled and wrapped his fingers around yours. 

“I’m pleased to hear it, querida, our lessons are the best part of my day.” 

You smiled back at him, his hand, calloused and rough as it was, sent a delighted shiver through your limbs, fighting back the urge to step closer to him, to envelop more of yourself in the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. 

“Can I confess something, Pero?” you asked with a small smile and Pero nodded in reply, one eyebrow lifted in question, “My favourite part isn’t the lesson, but the time we spend talking about everything else afterwards. All your stories make me feel like I’ve seen more of the world because of you.” 

“I wish I could show you all of it,” he smiled in response, “maybe one day I’ll come back with a fortune and be able to take you with me on my travels,” he was smiling and he didn’t let go of your hand, still holding on, and now he was the one stroking your fingers, letting his thumb trace your knuckles, gliding up so that he felt the faint thrum of your pulse under the thin skin of your wrist. 

But you felt your heart twist at his words, you hadn’t even considered that he would leave. 

“You’re leaving?” you asked, the small moment of standing close to him, alone in his cottage shattered, and you pulled your hand from his. He had no obligation to you, no commitment, but it suddenly felt like he was breaking a promise. 

“After the summer, yes,” he said, the smile falling from his face when you let go of his hand, he reached out for yours for a split second, as if he wanted to stop you from pulling away, but thought better of it, “There’s not enough work for me through the winter so your uncle won’t pay to keep me on. I go south and find what work I can.” 

“Do you always come back in the spring?” you asked, the very thought of spending winter here without Pero making your heart sink into the pit of your stomach. Last winter had been torturous, the only thing making you not dread the coming winter was the thought of Pero and continuing to meet him. 

“I come back if I have to,” Pero replied, regret lacing his voice, “If I can’t find better work over the warm season, I come up here. Your uncle prefers hiring someone he already knows, and he’s prepared to pay a bit extra for it, so the wage is decent.” 

“But you might not come back next spring? And you’ll be away all winter?” 

Pero felt his treasonous heart clench when he saw the disappointment in your eyes. He’d tried very hard to see you as the teacher, a teacher who’d become his friend. Convincing himself that the guard dog that growled in his chest was only raising its hackles because a friend was being treated badly by the family that employed you both. Not because he had any deeper feelings for you, any feeling of love, he did not fall in love he told himself, he kept his heart from feeling anything more than friendship. 

But now his heart ached at the dismay he saw in your eyes, and he clenched his fists, digging his broken, dirty, nails in to his palms to stop himself from pulling you back to him, pulling you into his arms and telling you he wouldn’t leave, not without taking you with him. 

“Querida…” he mumbled, “I simply don’t know if I’ll be back next spring. But I promise, if you’re still here, I will do my best to return.” 

“I’ll miss you,” you said quietly as Pero carefully reached out and took your hand in his again, a small gesture of consolation, “Last winter was dreary and miserable but it will be worse now when this summer has been so nice.” 

You looked down at your hand in his, his golden, tanned fingers wrapping around yours, the back of his hand criss crossed by small scars. You’d seen them before and asked him about them, he’d let you trace your fingertips over them, seeing the evidence of the hard life he’d lived as a mercenary, while he’d kept his eyes on you. Now you did the same again, memorising each line, committing to memory how his skin felt under your fingers, the warmth, the sparse dark hairs that made his hands look so different to your own. 

Pero watched how you caressed his rough hands, hands he knew had been covered by more blood and grime that he wished to remember. So many lives ended by the movements they could perform. You knew about it all, you’d made him speak openly about the darkest memories his mind held, you knew these hands were capable of unimaginable violence. Yet you ran your soft fingers over the scars again, not pulling back from the man he was, no longer frightened by his violence, his scowl, the facade he knew he kept between himself and everyone. The way you looked at him, open, smiling, it made his heart do things he didn’t think were possible, feel light and buoyant, a small crack opening up. 

His hand moved without his consent, carefully coming up to your face, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing across it as you lifted your head and looked at him. 

“I’ll miss you too,” he whispered, barely recognising his own voice, his hand still softly caressing your cheek as you leaned your head against his palm, your eyes closing with a soft exhale. 

His heart soared in his chest.  

He thinks he moved first, but the warmth of your body was pressed against him before the thought had crossed his mind, your mouth so close and turned up towards him. When his lips touched yours, a small sigh escaped you, the warm air brushing over his bristly moustache. Your hand closed tight around his, holding onto him as if to stop him from leaving, but Pero knew nothing could make him step back now. He pulled you closer instead and pressed himself to you, a low, satisfied growl coming from deep inside his tight chest.

His lips were warm and tender against yours, the sensation so much softer than you’d ever imagined. He gently caressed your cheek, moving his lips against yours as you took in the sensation of being pressed so close to him. With your eyes closed, every movement and sound seemed heightened to your senses; the light scratch of Pero’s moustache, the calluses on his hand rough against your cheek, his other hand moving, wrapping around your waist, warm and firm against the small of your back as he held you close, the small gasp of breath from you when he left your lips for a moment to angle his head and capture them again, deepening the kiss.

You’d never been kissed like this, only experiencing chaste, dry kisses pressed to your cheek by your mother. Now Pero moved his lips against yours, gentle and firm, in ways you’d never felt before. He held you close, your whole body pressed against him as he took your bottom lip between his, giving it a gentle tug. It pulled a whimper from you, heat shooting through your body, and you felt your knees buckle as the sensation overwhelmed your senses. Pero tightened his grip on you, but pulled back a little, looking down at your closed eyes, your lips parted as you caught your breath. 

“Mi vida…” he breathed softly, “open your eyes.” 

You looked up at him, his dark brown gaze so permissive, more tender and open than you’d ever seen him before. 

“The rain has stopped,” he said, his voice still low, “you should go before they send someone to find you.” He didn’t think anyone would come looking for you for hours yet, but his grip on propriety was weakening.

You nodded, but neither of you made a move to break apart, Pero’s arm was still holding you firmly pressed to his solid body, his hand on your cheek. Your hands had entwined in his shirt, holding it as if it kept you from falling. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” you murmured, your eyes slipping to his lips, wanting to feel him on you again. 

“I’m not leaving for many weeks yet, querida,” he  replied, his hand leaving your cheek to push a strand of hair away from your face, “And many things can happen between now and next spring.” 

“Please kiss me again,” you asked, “Just in case,” and your cheeks heated up at your boldness, as he smiled at you, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a grin. 

“Anytime, mi amorcita.” 

He sent you on your way after another long, lingering kiss. He’d parted his lips, let his tongue come out to carefully taste you, his hand on your jaw prompting you to slowly open your mouth and taste him in return. The sensation was strange, almost too intimate, your already burning cheeks heated up even more and it made you shy, stilling your kiss. Pero had pulled back, pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth and smiled at you again. 

“Your kisses are like the sweetest wine, querida,” he said, slowly letting you go, “and a hundred times more addictive.”  

Your heart beat a new rhythm as you walked back to the house, thrumming in your chest, as your lips felt hot and tender, still imprinted by Pero’s kisses. Whatever measures you’d taken to protect your heart had proven worthless, the man who only a few weeks ago had seemed so intimidating and frightening, had become your friend through the lessons. After the afternoon’s events...your heart seemed to both ache and soar when you thought of him. This was an impossible situation, an impossible man to fall for, yet you knew it was too late to pretend, to hide the truth from yourself. 

You were hopelessly in love with Pero. 

But Pero felt fear grip his heart as he watched you walk away from his cottage. The guard dog in his chest growled and clawed at his innards, making them sting with guilt and dread. This was foolish, the most foolish idea, why had he let it go this far? Why had he kissed you, not once, but twice? Why had he not tempered his heart to this weeks ago? But your presence in his cottage, your upset when realised he’d be leaving and may not return, confessing that you’d miss him, it had broken down all of his carefully laid plans to only be your friend. It was reckless to kiss you, a severe lapse in judgement. To let himself taste your lips, feel you so close to him, the softness under his hands, to feel for just a few minutes how it would be if you were his. But he had nothing to offer, and even if he did, you were impossibly out of his reach. This would only end with heartbreak if he let it continue. And he knew his heart would recover and harden when told you it couldn’t continue, but he might break yours for good. 

Pero was already by the bench when you came there the next day, but he wasn’t sitting on it as he usually did. Instead he stood next to it, his large hands twitching with nerves as they hung by his thighs. 

You smiled at him, but it faded when you saw the serious set of his face, and he didn’t return your smile. 

“Señorita,” he said, his voice low and heavy as he nodded to you, “I apologise for my behaviour yesterday, I shouldn’t have kissed you. I wish to remain your friend and continue our lessons, but no more, I will not let myself go any further.” 

Your heart plummeted into the pit of your stomach, the fantasy you’d been nursing since yesterday afternoon shattering as Pero kept his eyes off you, looking at a spot on the ground between the two of you. You knew it was a silly dream, imagining a life where you and Pero could marry, be together and create a life for the two of you. But you’d held on to it, bolstered by Pero’s words that a lot could happen between now and next spring. 

But now here he stood, not meeting your eyes, his hands seemingly trying to keep something at bay with the way they kept moving, never stilling. He must know what he was doing to you, the pain his words caused, and you could see the struggle in him. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark under his deeply furrowed brows and you felt yourself breaking. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and quickly you turned and sat down on the bench, opening your bag to take out the books while you shook your head. 

“It was nothing, Mr Tovar, and you’re right, we shouldn’t have done it. Let’s continue our lessons as friends.” 

You didn’t look at him, but you felt the bench shift as he sat down at the other end, and you handed him the book he’d been reading from. 

“From page ten, Mr Tovar, please.” 

“Señorita…” he replied, his voice doing a bad job at hiding the pain he felt at your cold demeanour, even though he’d been the one to break your heart, he knows it, he can see it in the way your eyes are filled to the brim with tears, “please call me Pero, you are still my friend.” 

“I think it might be best if we continue with titles, Mr Tovar. Please, page ten if you wish to continue our lessons.” 

He opened the book to the page, biting back all the things he would rather say, but he’s made a decision. He knew he’d hurt you, he knew this would hurt, but what he was foolish enough to start yesterday, has to end as quickly as possible. So he focused on the first word of the page, and tried to remember how to interpret the illegible markings that face him. 

He read from the book, you corrected him and helped him when he got stuck, just as you’ve done through all the lessons. But you don’t smile at him, and you don’t sit close to him. When the hour is up, you told him to practise a passage tonight, and then gathered your things and stood up. 

“Same time tomorrow, Mr Tovar,” you said, a statement rather than a question, and he can only nod in agreement. You gave him a short nod too, and walked away, quickly disappearing into the woods. 

The tears began to flow as soon as your back was turned to him, silently, holding back the sob that had been lodged in your throat for the past hour. You rushed through the small woods, not towards the house, but towards the winding maze of rhododendrons that offered a thicket of sheltered pathways under their heavy boughs. There, in the centre of the labyrinth, you sank down on the worn stone bench under the thickest trunks. Their season was long gone, a reminder how late the summer was getting, their bright petals turning brown on the forest floor. Covering your face with your hands, you gave into the grief that was squeezing your heart, whimpering as tears began to flow in earnest. It was so much worse than if he simply didn’t love you in return, you know he does, he couldn’t hide the pain on his own face as he told you it could go no further. But he pushed you away anyway because he realised it was a hopeless dream and it crushed you under the weight of how bleak it was. 

“I wish I’d never met him,” you whimpered, gripping the cool stone, digging your nails into the unyielding surface, “I wish I’d never met him.” 

Pero held onto the branch of the rhododendron bush so hard it might break under his iron grip. The guard dog in his chest was threatening to spring forward, to wrap itself around your broken form on the stone bench, to hold you, tell you it would all be fine, he’d find a way, protect you from everything, even himself. It was a mistake to follow you when you left, but his determination to not let the love between you go any further did not stand a chance against the urge in his chest to protect you from the world. Even if he would not let himself come close to you again, the guard dog still pushed him to follow you, the despondent shape of your shoulders, the quiet sobs pulling him just as much. 

When you whimpered, your wish to never have met him, he felt as if you’d slid a blade into his heart, and he only deserved it. He deserved as much pain as what he could hear in your voice, more even, he’d take it all from you if it wasn’t for the fact that he was the one causing it. 

You didn’t hear the careful crunch of his boots as he turned and walked away. 

Even though your heart was breaking, and sat in the pit of your stomach like a heavy weight every morning when you woke up, you still continued to see Pero almost every day. You both knew it probably would’ve been wisest to not continue the lessons, that it would make it all that much harder, keeping the pain fresh every day. But it wasn’t something either of you were prepared to give up, so you met on the bench by his cottage and you kept Pero at a distance, and he did the same with you. Always sitting at the far end of the bench, reading the passage you assigned him diligently, but never moving closer. 

Your one concession, the thing you found you couldn’t be without, was to extend the hour and stay even though the lesson was over. Listening to Pero’s stories of his life before he came to England, his childhood in Spain, his adventures as he travelled the world as a mercenary. But he kept his facade up, never letting it fall the way it had before, never letting you in again like he had.

He does teach you some Spanish though, teaching you how to pronounce his name the way he does and smiling when you greet him in Spanish every morning, telling him what a beautiful day it is, no matter how dreary the weather is. He tells himself he can live like this, have you as a friend in this place, someone who will make him come back next spring. He might even believe it. 

You count down the days to the end of the summer with growing dread, the ache in your heart doesn’t lessen. Rather it grows, rips through you when he smiles at your successful attempt at asking him how old he is. The Spanish he’s teaching you becomes your link to him, the one thing you’ll have left when he leaves, and you hoard the words in your mind, asking him to translate every word you can think of. 

But he never calls you mi amorcita again, and you never ask what it means. 

No summer is endless, and one day you returned from the lesson to find the house in uproar. Rooms being opened up, aired out, sheets pulled from the furniture as Yotes Castle was prepared for the return of the family. 

You saw their carriage coming up the drive as you left the house the next morning, and you hurried away, ducking out of sight. The horrid day of the children returning to their lessons is already here, and you wish to keep it at bay as long as possible. 

When you arrived at the bench by the cottage, Pero wasn't there yet. He’s usually first, he only walks over from his cottage, but now you sit and wait for him for what feels like an age. Finally he arrived, coming down the path from the big house, not his cottage.

“Buenas días, Señor Tovar, qué lindo día,” you greeted him and he nodded but didn’t smile. 

“The family is back at the house,” he said, stopping by the bench, but didn't sit down as usual. 

“I know, the house was turned upside down for their return yesterday and I saw their carriage as I walked down here,” you replied, taking in his face, a deep scowl pulling at his eyebrows, “Did something happen?” 

“I spoke with your uncle, my contract will run out in four weeks, I’m to leave at the end of the month.” 

“Oh.” 

It was all you could say, a small puff of air escaping you as you looked at each other, so much unspoken over the past few weeks, the events of the afternoon in the cottage suddenly sitting between you as if it had just happened.  

“I…I’ll miss you,” Pero said eventually, the silence stretching out for too long, “I’ll come back next spring, I promise.” 

You didn't reply, dropping your gaze to your hands, a lump in your throat had formed at his words. The very thought of him leaving, of spending the long dark winter without him…it clawed at your heart, forced tears into your eyes as the reality that you’d been trying to push back made itself known. 

“Querida…” he said, his voice low, pleading, “I’ll come back. But we still can’t…” he trailed off as you inhaled deeply, your shoulders shaking as you bit your lip. 

“Querida…” he tried again, stepping closer to you, his hand hovering over your shoulder, but pulling back before his hand reached you, “If things were different, but a man like me shouldn’t court a woman like you, it’s not right. I’m…I’m not….” 

He didn’t finish his sentence, instead he just stood next to you, his fingers trembling as he watched your shoulders heave in another deep inhale. 

“Pero…” you mumbled, your voice watery and his heart ached, you hadn’t called him Pero since the day you kissed and he’d never gotten used to you calling him Mr Tovar again. 

“Don’t come back next year if that’s all you see for us,” you forced out, your jaw clenched tight to hold back tears, “Don’t tell me who I should let court me. If I didn’t want it to be you, do you think I would’ve continued our lessons?” 

You looked up at him, your lashes heavy with tears and Pero sighed, dropping his head rather than to see the pain so clear on your face. 

“Querida…” he breathed out, a third time, and you let out a hollow laugh, a wretched snort with no mirth at all. 

“Is that all you have to say, Pero? ‘Querida’? What does that even mean, just an empty word when you’re too much of a coward to actually mean it?” 

You didn’t see the frustration that flashed across Pero’s face as you stood up, rubbing your hands over your face to wipe at the hot, angry tears that were slipping over your cheeks, turning to leave him. But Pero growled, a low noise coming from him as his hand shot out to grab your arm, closing tight around the fabric of your coat. When you looked back at him, his face was set in hard lines, his dark eyes boring into you under the sharp demarcation of his eyebrows pulled tight together.

“I’m no coward, I mean it when I call you ‘querida”, he scowled,  “But I know what I am, and that I have nothing to offer you but a life fighting to keep poverty at bay as I drift from job to job. Don’t call me a coward when you have seen nothing of the life outside of this house and your mother’s household. I’ve slept in hedgerows, I’ve gone hungry for days, walked my shoes to threads. It is not the life I want for you.” 

“I didn’t realise we were already married,” you spat out, your eyes as dark as his, as anger coursed through you at his presumption, “You’re not my husband, you do not decide over my life. Unfortunately, that privilege still lies with my uncle. And I never thought you and him would like to lock me up in the same cage.” 

“I don’t want you locked up, I hate seeing the way you’re treated by them!” Pero raised his voice, stepping closer to you, his hand tight around your arm as he pulled you in, “I would pull down every brick in this place to set you free if I could. Do you really think I don’t know how painful it will be to spend this winter apart? Away from you? All I want is to take you away from here and protect you from them, from anyone who’s not as good to you as you deserve. Hay un puto perro guardián dentro de mí! Carajo, cómo te amo!”

He shouted the last words, rage flaring up inside him as frustration burned through his body, your eyes wide as he gripped both your arms and almost pushed you away from him, but not letting go. 

“Don’t you understand? If I loved you less, I might be able to speak about it more, but I love you too much and I can’t let you live the way I do!”  

His face suddenly fell, the air seeming to escape him as he deflated, his fingers digging into your flesh loosened their grip and he sighed deeply as the rage that had flared in him died down.

“I…We…have no choice. Stay here this winter, only one winter, and I will come for you next spring and we’ll leave together,” he moved his hand, cupping your cheek gently, his face pleading, begging you to understand. It was ripping his heart in two, the very thought of leaving you here to suffer through another winter of the children’s abuse, your uncle’s neglect and your aunt’s disdain. But the option was to risk everything if he couldn’t find a job for the winter down south, “Please, mi querida, I promise I’ll come back and I’ll have money for us to leave and be together.” 

His face was pained as he looked at you, waiting for your answer, his hand still cupping your cheek as his thumb softly wiped at the tears that still trickled down from your eyes. 

“I…I love you too, Pero…” you stammered, the words sinking in as his tirade of words ebbed out, “I was scared you didn’t.” 

“Mi amorcita,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, “my little love, I tried not to, but it’s impossible not to love you.” 

You closed the last small gap between you, kissing him without hesitation, his warm mouth opening in surprise as you pressed your lips to his. His hand left your arm and wrapped around your back as you moved together, your body pressed against his, his strong arm holding you very close to him just like he had the last time. A whimper escaped you as you felt him deepen the kiss, curling himself around you, caressing your cheek as all the pieces seemed to slot into place. Your hips against his, your arms around his body, the tickle of his moustache against your lips and his fingers tugging on the back of your coat, lifting you to your toes as he pulled you impossibly closer. 

The lack of oxygen at length made you both pull back just a little, Pero mumbling softly under his breath as he caressed your cheeks, cupping your face in both his hands and kissing your lips, the tip of your nose, and then your forehead before he looked down at you. 

“I promise, just one winter, mi vida. Can we survive that if we spend the next four weeks just like this?” 

“You’ll really come back?” you whispered into his neck, the steady thrum of his pulse just under your lips as he gently caressed the back of your neck, you could feel his fingers in the strands of hair that had slipped from your bun. 

“I promise, I promise,” he assured you, his lips pressing against your head between each word, ”I was always going to come back, no matter what you said.” 

“I should’ve taught you how to write too,” you said, “a whole winter with no word from you will be torture, but if I know you’re coming back, I can bear it. But I’ll miss you every minute.” 

“We have four weeks, teach me how to write too, la maestra,” he chuckled, leaning back a little so that he could see your face, still tear streaked and red eyed, his thumbs coming back to stroke your cheeks, “Mi amorcita, don’t cry any more. It won’t be easy, but if you really want this old soldier with no prospects, you can have him.” 

“I really do, Pero,” you said, closing the short distance between you again and finding his warm lips.

There wasn’t much of a lesson that day, Pero pulled you down onto his lap, sitting on the bench, making up for lost weeks. Your lips were swollen and red by the time you had to pull yourself away and return to the house, Pero to the duties he still had left as groundskeeper. Your heart was still heavy with the knowledge that he would soon leave, but you held on to the light that was his love, his promise to return so that you could leave together next spring. 

So wrapped up in your thoughts of Pero were you, that you didn’t notice the smug smile of Mrs Pluck, the housekeeper, as you approached the kitchen door. 

“There you are,” she greeted you, her self satisfied smirk stretching her jowls as she grinned like a cat that had caught a particularly juicy mouse. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs Pluck,” you replied, moving to the side to pass her, but she held up her hand and grabbed your jaw, pinching it painfully as she pulled your face around to peer at your lips. You yelped in surprise at her harsh treatment.

“Enjoyed your time with the groundskeeper did you?” she asked, malice dripping from her question, “I can see he did his best to bruise those rosy lips, making you look like a whore with a lip stain on.” 

Nausea forced its way up through your throat, almost making you choke as you tried to pull away from her sharp grip, panic gripping your heart as you saw her glee. The fear in your eyes was showing and her face pulled into an even wider grin as she let go of your jaw, only to grip your arm, her fingers closing like a vice around you. 

“You think you’re so clever, sneaking around with him every day, thinking no one would notice? Well, you’re a fool, girl. I’ve known for weeks and now I’m going to tell your uncle and have you thrown out. I’ve been waiting for this day, I only hope that swarthy tinkerer got you up the pole while he was at it, would serve you just right.”   

“Please, Mrs Pluck, don’t tell my uncle, we haven’t done anything, we’ve just kissed!” you pleaded, “He’s leaving in four weeks either way.” 

“And have a hussy like you stay on and teach Miss Amelia?” the housekeeper spat out, now dragging you past Mrs Robinson’s kitchen. She poked her head out from the pantry and watched in concern as the two of you passed. “You’re a fool if you think I would allow that while I’m housekeeper here, maybe that’s the kind of behaviour your mother allowed you to get away with, the Lord alone knows what goes on in those London houses.” 

Your heart was beating out of your chest as Mrs Pluck continued to pull you up the stairs towards your uncle's study. You could feel your legs shaking as the panic at what was about to happen to you, and to Pero, when your uncle found out. Pero would lose his job, there was no doubt about it. You might too, or he would lock you up, keep you from ever seeing Pero again. The very thought forced a sob up through your tight throat, the sound making Mrs Pluck snort again and dig her bony fingers deeper into your arm. 

The rap of Mrs Pluck’s knuckles on the study door felt like the bells of doom to your reeling mind. You had no excuse, no explanation, no way to plead for his mercy, and you stumbled as the doors opened and the housekeeper pushed you through them. 

“M’lord, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have discovered something that needs your immediate attention,” Mrs Pluck simpered, her countenance suddenly all meek and apologetic. The change would be laughable to you if not for the panic that’s still coursed through you. 

“What is it?” your uncle asked, looking up from his large dark wood desk. 

“Your niece and the groundskeeper, Mr Tovar. I’ve discovered that they’ve been having an affair. It seems they’ve been meeting in secret all summer. And only just this morning I saw them together, they were very…intimate.” 

Mrs Pluck clasped her hands in front of her and looked the very image of piety as she pursed her lips in disapproval. 

“Is this true?” your uncle directed the question to you, but he didn’t seem to feel the need to meet your eye. Instead his gaze dropped back down to the letter he was composing, continuing to scrape his pen over the paper. 

“Yes, but we only-” you replied, your voice unsteady with nerves and panic, and your uncle cut you off. 

“Mrs Pluck, you saw them being intimate? How?” 

“I saw her sneak away from the house most mornings, so I followed. They met by the bench down by the groundskeeper’s cottage. I couldn’t tell you how many times they met but this morning they were kissing, and I saw her sitting on his lap for quite some time.” 

“This is unacceptable behaviour for anyone living under my roof, I do not care that you are my sister’s daughter. I know she raised you to be a lady but she clearly failed,” your uncle said, looking up at you and placing his pen next to the inkwell, “You are dismissed immediately, I cannot have you tarnish the reputation of this family with this kind of loose behaviour. You will pack your bags and leave first thing in the morning, you will have no reference. You’ll be paid what you’re owed.” 

It felt as if the ground opened up underneath you, your breath caught in your throat, and from the corner of your eye you saw Mrs Pluck smirk while she studied your reaction. Without a reference you would not be able to find a new position as a governess, not even as a house maid, finding any kind of work would be all but impossible. 

“Please, uncle, I accept that I have to leave, but at least give me a reference, we did nothing wrong, I just love him. And I’m not with child!”

Your uncle sneered as he returned to his letter, “Love? Foolish child, what other nonsense has he filled your brain with? No, this harsh lesson will be good for you. I'm sure you can find some occupation once you’re back in London where you can’t corrupt any young ladies, and certainly not my daughter.” 

“And the groundskeeper, sir?” Mrs Pluck asked, clearly keen to make sure he wasn’t forgotten. 

“Send one of the footmen for him, I’ll dismiss him immediately. He’s broken my trust and defiled my family, he cannot stay on another day.” 

He looked up at you and Mrs Pluck and waved his hand. 

“That will be all, and make sure she is confined to her room, Mrs Pluck. We don’t want her running off to that Spaniard.” 

Mrs Pluck had a lot to say as she escorted you to your room, her fingers once again digging into your arm. It seemed to be a steady stream of gleeful insults that buzzed in your ears like wasps, your mind too numb to take in what she was saying. The door of your room snapped shut and you heard the key turn as the lock clicked, leaving you standing frozen just inside. Your insides felt like hot lead, the buzzing in your ears was still deafening and it was starting to cloud your brain. Stumbling to the bed, you sank to your knees, grabbing the bed frame before you toppled over onto the scratchy rug. 

You weren’t sure how long you remained on the floor, your head reeling. It felt like you fainted, but you could still see the lurid Persian pattern on the rug in front of your eyes when you pried them open. The room was dark though, hours must’ve passed and you hadn’t even noticed. The buzzing had subsided, replaced by a tight knot of fear and worry in your stomach, your heart still racing. Pushing yourself up, carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed, you managed to light the candle on the bedside table, casting a faint light around the room. There was a tray just inside the door, and the two carpet bags you’d arrived with. Someone, probably Mrs Pluck, had left dinner on the floor, but clearly not cared enough to make sure your still form on the floor was alright. The sight of the congealed stew made your stomach turn and you scrambled for the chamber pot. 

On shaky legs, moving slowly, you made your way around the room to light the rest of the candles, coming to a stop in front of the small closet that held your clothes. You had no way of contacting Pero until morning, your only hope was that once you’d left the house, you could make your way to the cottage and find him, if he was still there. Your uncle seemed intent on throwing him out immediately, what if he had already left? 

The thought made panic rise in you again, bile forcing its way up, making you bend double with a whimper. A few hours ago the prospect of spending the winter here without Pero seemed like torture, now you wished that was all you had to face. At least he’d promised to come back next spring. Now he’d been forced to leave and you had no way of finding him if he wasn’t at the cottage. And you’d soon be out in the world on your own with no means and no other plan than getting back to London. How you’d survive, you had no idea. 

The next morning, after a night of very little sleep, you waited sitting on the bed with your two packed bags. You refused to be sad about leaving this house, but you were trembling with nerves at the prospect of soon being outed from the only family you’d known and left to your own devices. Pero was right, you knew nothing of the world outside of this house and your mother’s household. When the lock in the door clicked, you forced your head up high, at least you wouldn’t give Mrs Pluck the satisfaction of seeing you broken. 

The smug smile on the housekeeper’s face made you grit your teeth and straighten your back even more, gripping the handles of your two bags tightly. 

“Time to go,” Mrs Pluck smirked, opening the door wide and ushering you out. She didn’t grab your arm this time, but she followed close behind you, making sure to lead you through the crowded servant’s hall downstairs so that all could see you leave in disgrace. Mrs Robinson gave you a sympathetic smile, and you gave her a weak one in return. 

Out in the courtyard one of the stable hands was waiting with the wagon. Not looking back, you climbed onto the seat next to him and put your bags in the back. You had no intention of saying goodbye to Mrs Pluck, so you turned your back on her while she instructed the driver. 

“Drop her at the station, and make sure the groundskeeper isn’t anywhere around. He’s not allowed back here, do you understand?” 

“Yes, Mrs Pluck,” he replied, gathering the reins and preparing to leave. 

“He was sent off yesterday afternoon, he’s halfway to London by now, good riddance,” she huffed. You could hear the contempt in her voice and you were glad you couldn’t see her face, evil, vicious woman. 

With a jerk the wagon began moving, the driver clicking his tongue at the horse. You held on to the side of the seat as the wagon left the big house behind, rolling out onto the long drive down towards the main gate. The young stable hand said nothing as you stared straight ahead, but from the corner of your eye you could see him cast curious glances at you. 

“Whatcha do?” he asked eventually, “Get knocked up?” 

“No,” you said between tight lips, “Not at all.” 

“Steal summit then?” 

“Absolutely not!” you exclaimed and he shook his head. 

“No, you don’t look like the thieving kind, too fancy for that.” 

The wagon rolled down between the trees of the drive in silence for a while before he spoke up again, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

“So what did you do?” 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but you might as well tell the rest of the servants as they’ll be gossiping either way; I fell in love with the groundskeeper, we kissed, and Mrs Pluck saw us and ratted us out to the lord.” 

“You kissed?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “That’s it and you got booted? Mean ol’ bitch,” he shook his head, “Only ‘cause she’s an ugly old bat who no one wanted to marry. She’s always making life miserable for the housemaids, she had one of ‘em dismissed for just looking at the delivery boy from the village. Said she knew they’d been sneaking off together when everyone knew Jenny never would never do anything like that. And believe me, I tried with her and got nuttin’!” 

He suddenly went beet red and cleared his throat, “Sorry, probably shouldn’t have said that.” 

The end of the drive was near and you could see grand pillars on either side of the open gate. 

“Do you think you could drop me just outside the gate? I’ll walk the rest of the way, you can have a bit of free time before you go back to the house,” you said, Pero’s cottage was near the wall of the estate and not far from the gate. 

“You sure? It’s a fair way down to the station, take you an hour to walk with those bags,” the stable hand said, but you could see he was already eager at the prospect of some free time. 

“I’m certain, I’d rather be on my own for a bit too, got a lot of thinking to do,” you said and he pulled on the reins, the horse coming to a halt just outside the gate. 

“Alright, this is your stop then.” 

You thanked him and climbed down, retrieving your bags from the back, and then watched him disappear down the road. There was a pub in the nearby village and odds were he’d head there for a pint before returning to the house. As soon as he was out of sight, you doubled back, finding the small path that followed the wall towards the groundskeeper's cottage. Tucking your bags out of sight behind a shrub, you hurried down the small lane. After a few minutes, you came to the cottage from the back, the small lake on the other side. 

There was no smoke coming from the chimney and the shutters were closed, making your heart sink. The cottage looked closed and empty without any sign of life. As you stepped into the small garden at the front, you knew he was already gone and a sob forced its way up your throat as you saw what he’d left on the doorstep. Weighed down by a rock, was Pero’s handkerchief, the one he’d used to soothe your stinging cheek after Miss Amelia slapped you. Slowly you walked up to the door and picked it up, the soft fabric smelling of soap and faintly of lavender. The sight of the carefully folded kerchief in your hands brought tears to your eyes, welling up and falling down your cheeks as you realised Pero was gone, and with no means to leave you a message except the kerchief on the doorstep. You never had the time to teach him how to write, and now he’d been forced to leave while you were locked up in your room. Where would he have gone? He only ever said he went south, and found whatever work he could over the winter, but where? You had no idea, and even if he went to London, how would you find him there? The city was made to get lost and hide in. But you had to try, somehow you had to try and find him. 

Squaring your shoulders you wiped your cheeks and tucked Pero’s kerchief into your coat pocket. The cottage held nothing for you now, and you didn’t look back as you retraced your steps back to your bags, and then out through the big gate. You’d take the train to London, find a cheap, but respectable place to live, maybe you’d be able to find the housekeeper who had worked in your mother’s household, you knew where she’d moved to and she was always nice. 

With the big house behind you, you set out to walk the long road down to the station. Pero had said you knew nothing of the world, but you’d need to be a quick learner if you were to survive so that you could find him again. 

After what felt like an age, your feet swollen and aching, you reached the small town that was serviced by the train to London. It was a relief to put down the bags on a bench inside the station house and stretch your back. The station clerk regarded you with curiosity but was friendly enough when you brought out your small purse and counted the coins needed to purchase a one way ticket. 

“The next train to London is in forty minutes, miss,” he told you, “and there are no delays on the line.” 

“Thank you, I’ll wait on the platform,” you replied, turning to pick up your bags. 

“I’d wait in here if I were you, miss,” he said, a concerned look on his face, “there’s a vagrant hanging around the station house. He’s been here since yesterday evening and I think he’s sleeping on the benches. I was just about to send my boy for the constable so you best wait here until he’s gone.” 

“A vagrant?” you asked, a small burst of hope going off in your chest, “What does he look like?” 

“Frightful! Nasty scar right across his face,” the station clerk said, “Dark too and - miss!” 

The clerk called after you but you didn’t hear, you were out through the door in a flash, turning on the spot, searching up and down the platform. 

“Pero!” you called, spotting the sleeping man on a bench at one end, “Pero!” 

He jerked awake, on his feet in an instance before he’d even spotted you. You were already running towards him as his eyes widened, and with a few long strides, he was scooping you up, crushing you to him. 

“Mi amorcita,” he mumbled as you threw your arms around his neck, finding his lips, giving no thought to who might see. 

His arms were lifting you up, one hand cupping the back of your head, holding you tight to his warm mouth and you felt tears begin to stream down your cheeks. You sobbed against him and he pulled back, mumbling a stream of soft words in Spanish that you didn’t understand, his hand coming to wipe away the tears, caressing your cheek between kisses. 

“Don’t cry, mi vida, don’t cry,” he mumbled, placing another soft kiss on your mouth, “You found me, you found me.” 

“I-I went to the cottage, I found your handkerchief,” you stuttered, “I was going to look for you in London but I was so scared I wouldn’t find you.” 

“I’ve been waiting, I was hoping they’d put you on the train, I couldn’t leave without being sure,” he said, loosening his grip on your waist so that he could cup your face with both his hands, his brown eyes dark as he stroked your cheeks and pressed another long kiss to your lips. 

“Being sure of what?” you asked as the kiss ended and Pero shook his head. 

“Another plan of Mrs Pluck to ruin things for us,” he scowled, rage flashing across his face, “She told me she was the one that found us out and that she’d taken you to your uncle. She said you were locked up in your room and that you’d been allowed to stay at Yotes because you’d sworn to your uncle that you didn’t love me. That it had only been a foolish crush, that’s what she called it.” 

“Oh, Pero….” you breathed out, fear gripping your heart as you realised how Mrs Pluck had tried to make Pero leave you behind, “You know that was never true!”

“I know, amor, I know, of course. You’d only just left with my heart in your hands, I knew she was a lying witch,” he pressed another kiss to your lips, a soft moan escaping you as you felt his strong body wrap around you. 

“But what do we do now, Pero?” you asked, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking up at him, “We’re both out of work and I guess you got no reference from my uncle either?” 

“No, he didn’t, but I have plenty of references from the work I’ve done over the winters, I’ll find work there. But…” he hesitated as he frowned, lines of worry across his forehead, “I had a plan for next summer, when I came back for you. A plan for how we would start a life away from your uncle and Yotes Castle, but now…I might ask you already even though it is soon.” 

“What did you plan,” you asked as he let his hands slip from your cheeks, down to hold your hands in his. He paused, looking at his fingers as he entwined them with yours, so large and rough compared to your soft, ink stained ones, before he looked up at you, a small, nervous smile, a rare thing from him, on his face.  

“To ask you to marry me, to go to that place in Scotland, and jus-”

“Yes!” you cried, louder than you intended, “Yes, yes, yes, Pero!” 

You pulled your hands from his and wound them around his neck, making him stumble back as you kissed him hard. A surprised grunt came from him as he grabbed your waist to stop you from knocking him to the ground. The grunt soon turned to laughter as he tried to speak between your kisses, you hugged him tight, your body filling with light as you pressed your lips to his. 

“Cálmaté, mi amor,” he chuckled, taking your hands from around his neck and holding them between his own again, “It won’t be easy, we don’t even belong to the same church, but if you’ll have me, that is my plan.” 

“Yes, Pero,” you said, your voice suddenly unsteady as you felt tears starting to run down your cheeks, your emotions overflowing as you looked into the eyes of the man you thought you’d lost until only a few minutes ago, “I want to marry you, everything else, we’ll figure it out.” 

“I don’t even have a ring for you, mi amorcita,” he said, leaning forward to kiss first one tear stained cheek, and then the other, “I want to promise you everything, but I can’t give you anything.” 

“Pero, you’ve given me hope,” you whispered, “and love. That’s all I ever wanted, to marry for love. And then everything else will be easier.” 

“I can give you that at least, and I will keep you safe, no one will ever treat you the way they did again,” he said, his brow furrowing, the scowl creeping back onto his face as he shook his head, “Never again, amor.” 

You let your fingers caress his forehead, smoothing out the frown and tracing the line of the scar across his eye. You touched your lips to it as he closed his eyes, a feather light kiss to the feature so many feared him for. 

“My guard dog,” you smiled, “ ‘mi perro guardián’, wasn’t that what you called yourself yesterday?” 

He nodded, his eyes still closed as you continued to kiss his face, touching your lips to every mark as if to map it with your mouth. 

“Tú perro guardián,” he mumbled, “I will protect you, amor.” 

[theguyinthemathexamples]

Guns and... Aeons?

May Aventurine grant his luck upon everyone's Boothill pulls!!!

— C/W : spoilers?, set at the end of the 2.2 quest, boothill is boothill ft. argenti, i forgot what his lore is so take anything i say with a grain of salt, LOTS of yapping, guns and roses sneak, very self-indulgent :3

Boothill never really had much faith in Aeons, much less worshipped any. He already lost it all when he gained the information, that darned rain of fire that destroyed everything, was deployed by a zealot.

Don't get him wrong, he still knew they existed. But he internally wished that maybe, if any Aeon took pity on him on that day, maybe he could have changed the outcome of it all.

Well, that was all in the past now. He'd be a rusted out piece of metal by now if he let himself wallow in bygone events.

A low sigh didn't fail to make itself known, inadvertently catching the attention of the knight just at the other end of the room. Boothill even forgot he was there due to how quiet he was.

"A rose for your thoughts, friend?" The knight inquired, sitting at the other end of the couch. He nearly jumped at the sudden question but was just as quick to regain his composure.

"Nothin' much, just thinkin' and all," he replied, only tilting his head to look at this eccentric friend of his.

Ironic that Argenti was a man quite devoted to an Aeon, especially to a long deceased one, when Boothill was borderline detesting a good amount of them.

"This dadgum pull I've been feelin'... D'you know somethin' about it, knight?"

It was something he'd been feeling for a while now but it's been getting stronger as of late. And the voices... He'll leave those out till Argenti mentions something about it.

To put it frankly, he was worried. Quite more so if nothing else.

"Does it make you feel like wanting to visit the Astral Express, friend?" Argenti inquired shortly after,

Boothill simply nodded, curious as to how this Knight of Beauty knew of such. Sensing his curiosity, said knight certainly wouldn't mind going into the further details.

In fact, he was more than enthusiastic to do so.

"As Idrila's reason to have ascended into Aeonhood, it is only natural that I give high praises to the Aeon of Creation for such magnificence— that THEIR creations have inspired my Goddess to reach THEIR most pinnacle potential."

If this was how he talked about his Aeon and this... well, other Aeon, the two would be here till his batteries run out. And he was just about done recharging to full a few hours ago.

It wasn't till a good amount of minutes into the topic that Boothill kinda got a little impatient. No offense to Argenti, of course.

"And it wasn't till recently that their wondrous consciousness graced the unive—"

"Alright, alright, I get it, knight. Don't mean to offend ya, but can ya get straight to why I felt the pull earlier?" Boothill interjected, looking straight at his companion,

He swore that the way this man shone brightened up even more.

"My apologies if I overwhelmed you, dear friend," Argenti said, giving the cowboy an apologetic bow while he was sitting.

"Simply put, this pull you feel is but the manifestations of the Aeon of Creation! Perhaps your brilliant self captured THEIR attention when you were conversing with the Trailblazer," he continued, yapping up another storm as Boothill thought to himself.

"Seriously? This ol' hunk of metal? Catchin' an Aeon's attention? Colour me fudgin' surprised."

"Ah, this is certainly a moment worth celebrating, don't you think so, friend?" Argenti's voice spoke out, bringing his attention back to the knight.

Yet, before this interstellar cyborg cowboy could even agree or otherwise, a black envelope materialized in front of him, the edges lined with red and gold designs.

One surprise after another, huh?

The knight was quick to encourage him to open it up, taking out a letter opener from who knows where. Well now he's starting to get excited.

A golden Star Rail Pass was the first to get taken out of it, its colour shining in the midst of the room's lights. Next was a neatly folded paper that was probably penned by the Astral Express' Conductor. (Somehow; I mean, look at their itty bitty hands) It reads as follows:

—————————✧—————————

Hello, future Astral Express member, Boothill! This letter has been written by Pom-pom to formally invite you to join the Trailblaze.

By all means, this doesn't mean that you should abandon your faith for any Aeon(s) you may believe in, so long as it doesn't prohibit the other members of the Astral Express from going about their days.

As you may have guessed, yes, the golden ticket provided inside is a very formal way for Pom-pom to ask you to join us, as well as a sign that the Aeon of Creation has taken a liking to you!

To compensate for any forms of distress or trouble their consciousness has caused you, the Astral Express will be willing to offer a living space, electricity, wifi, food, water(gasoline?), as well as any other necessities and wants you may have.

Though if you truly want to seek trouble with the IPC, as the Aeon commented, please leave the Astral Express out of association for any crime you may commit in the future.

If you're ready to take on this journey with the Nameless, as well as many others, please use the ticket once the thought of doing so so much as suggests the notion.

• P.S. : Unfortunately, you don't have much time to mull it over, much less get another letter in this envelope to choose who to cover for you instead.

• The Aeon of Creation awaits your presence. •

—————————✧—————————

As Argenti finished reading the letter aloud, the expectant lilt on his face that he looks at Boothill with catches his attention the most.

"I nearly forgot to mention, dear friend, as a faithful believer of this Aeon, one can assure you that THEY don't mean any harm," he spoke, a smile gracing his lips as he continued. "The blessings THEY give to ones that they favour are quite abundant, and your captivating self truly made its impact on THEM."

"Even THEY couldn't help but praise you endlessly for your courage and demeanor!" Argenti proclaimed, almost making the cowboy in front of him want to tune him out again. ... That last part was a lie.

With a reluctant sigh, finally agreeing with the knight, the golden Star Rail Pass and the envelope in hand, Boothill stood up from his seat and went over to exit his friend's ship— to which Argenti quickly stopped him, hand outstretched for him.

"Need me to lead you there, friend?" He asks, head tilting to his left as his eyes brightened up with that usual glow.

"... Yeah, sure. Ya won't stop botherin' this ol' piece of metal to give ya updates if I said otherwise," Boothill laughed at the end of his reply, taking the knight's hand and letting him lead the way.

Maybe making a decision with a third party beside him won't be so bad.

Note : ong this took WAY TOO LONGGGGG TO MAKEEEEEEE 😭😭

My most sincere apologies to anyone whose patience ran out while waiting for this fic to come out 💔

BUT IT'S OUT NOW SO REJOICE EVERYONE ‼️‼️

Anyways, have a lovely day to all of you !! (disappears for another month)

And yes dw my interp of sahsr/sahsrau will come out maybe around late june once my recognition finally comes to pass

[trulyumai]

Fall Baking

pairing: eddie munson / gf! reader

synopsis: it was finally fall. more rain, more sweaters. this also meant the return of the infamous, ‘Hawkins Fair.’ eddie could care less about it really, but you were ecstatic.

warnings: none, fluff only!

A/N: im baking like crazy right now so this automatically came to my head. I’m ready to drown in pumpkin bread and warm coffee.

Eddie knew you loved the fall.

When the leafs started to turn, the weather getting colder and sbittier than normal, yeah, that was when that thing happened to your eyes.

They’d get all shiny and well, cute.

He was the opposite. He could do without the hindrance of rain bearing against him anytime he wanted to take out the trash or walk to the corner store.

But seeing you so happy about little sprinkles of condensation made the man weak.

So he detested the cold weather a little less for you.

And you know what the cold weather brought?

Fall excursions.

Aka: The Fair.

“Guys, you’re not gonna believe this!” Slamming your lunch down on the table, your body molded against his in one solid motion.

Eddie grunted out in surprise, but it didn’t stop you from talking about the surprise you had in store.

“The fair is coming back!”

Only stares were given, Gaven looked over at Jeff who was returning the same empty, confused look.

Eddie jumped in with a clearing of his throat, being the best boyfriend ever he had to save the day, right?

“No way, baby!”

“Way!” You giggled, relaxing into Eddies hold as you dug out the celery sticks in your little box.

“And, the school is accepting student stalls, that’s gonna be so much fun!”

“Why is that fun— ow!” With a harsh kick to Gavin’s knee, Eddie changed the subject.

“That’s cool babe, you could do a baking themed one. Your treats are to dieeeee for.”

“Oh yeah! Been a while since I got the iconic Mrs. Munson brownies,” Gavin sighed out. Already imagining the pillowy, chocolaty goodness that was always oozing with warmth.

“That’s not what I named them.” You laughed, “Buuuut if you boys help me out with the stall I promise to bake one thing if your choosing!”

This garnered the attention of the hellfire club fast. Eddie was almost jealous at how entranced you got everyone.

“Anything?”

“Can you do cakes?”

“Ooooh the brownieees!” Almost everyone talked over one another, already fantasizing about the treats they’ll ask for.

“Uhhhh babe?” Eddies rings were cold against your thighs, your dark green skirt rid up against the tops of his legs, showcasing your pretty and soft skin.

“Mhm?” You replied, already turning towards your wild haired boyfriend.

“And what do I get? I mean I love your baking, obviously! but I can get that anytime.”

That was… true.

Damn it you thought you had everyone sinched into the plan. But of course Eddie would try to sneak something else into play.

“Well ummm,” he stumped you this time.

Furrowing your brows, you bit lightly on the inside of your cheek. Thoroughly searching your brain for anything Eddie might approve of.

Clothes? No, Eddie only wore his favorite staples anyway. Maybe you could offer to clean his room? No, you just did that last weekend when he was too busy snoring on the couch.

Think, think!—

“I knooow what I want.”

You knew that tone. That deep drawl that makes his voice come out in a low, teasing hush.

Eddie indicated you closer with just a wag of his index finger.

You felt the weight of his breath hit the side of your face, warm and light.

“I want,” he breathed in this time, dragging his lips closer and closer until they brushed against the side of your jaw.

“You, to spend the night, every nite this week.”

“Eddie!” Rolling your orbs you pushed his face away. “That’s kinda impossible. You know how my parents are—“

“Pretty please, sweetheart? It’s been forever!”

“I just spent the night on saturday!”

“That was literally forever ago.”

“Eddie.” Your fingers brushed with his temple, lightly pushing against them.

“That was two days ago.”

He only shook his head in rebuttal, moving his legs until your frame was once again close to his.

“My point still stands. Forever ago! And you need my help, who will keep these idiots in check?”

“Hey!” A few club mates responded back, but quickly went into their own baking conversations.

“Not all week. Two days,”

“Three!” Eddie challenged. With a mocking squint to your eyes you huffed out a breath.

“Fine! You win. Three days.”

“Yes!” Eddie cheered, smothering a sloppy kiss on your cheek and raised a hand to high five Gavin.

What a dork.

“You won’t regret this baby. I just got new snacks, cleaned my room—“

“You cleaned your room?”

Eddie cleared his throat and his long fingers came up to play with the loose hair around your neck.

“Well.. no, but it’s still clean from when you did it— ouch!”

Grabbing the man’s soft cheek, you began to pull.

“Hey hey, easy easy, I was just joking!—“

“Sooooo funny, Eddie.” Laughing, you watched as his fingers came up to the pinched spot, rubbing it with a soft tenderness like you had plucked the skin right off his face.

Grabbing at your celery you joined into the groups conversation. Trying to remember each and every goodie the gang wanted you to bake.

This is gonna be a long week.

But at least it’s fall, right?

….

Right..?

[shadowdarlings]

Rain and Redemption

Tamlin x Reader

Synopsis : After fleeing your home in the Court of Nightmares you seek refuge in the wild and unattended lands of the Spring Court. You are certain that you will remain unnoticed and can finally begin living a free life. After a year alone in the feral woods of Spring you stumble upon a most surprising beast, one who had been rumored lost forever.

Pairings : TamlinxReader

a/n : this one is for my tamlin girlies! i’m so excited to write this piece and i hope you guys enjoy. don’t get me wrong i love all my other acotar men but he’s been lingering in my mind lately. slight rhys slander but nothing that isn’t true <3 (i still love him pls do not demolish me in the comments)

Warnings : mentions of cruelty and torture, suggestiveness, tamlin being possessive (but in a good way)

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

The forest crawled with many creatures. Some were benevolent while others sought flesh and blood. A year in the Spring woodlands had taught you much; survival chiefly, but it had also shown you strength from within that you had not known was there. The wherewithal to remain largely unscathed in such a dangerous environment was not cheap. Yet the perils of the forest did not compare to the cruelty of your home. You’d fled from the Court of Nightmares just over a year ago and headed straight for the Spring Court. Your plan to escape had been neatly designed. After the war with Hybern you knew that the southern territory was largely abandoned by its High Lord and sneaking into its territories would be your best bet at remaining hidden from your family and from the High Lord that ruled over them.

Over the years you had grown to detest the High Lord of the Night Court. His backwards notions of ruling fairly would have been laughable if they had not cost you so much. His love for the City of Starlight had left you and your people completely disregarded. Mostly left to manage yourselves, cruelty and violence soaked into the hearts of those who resided within the mountain. The reputation of your court was enough for Rhysand to deem all of you little more than the dirt under his finely crafted boots. After 50 years of growing up in such circumstances you’d had enough. Perhaps one day you’d return to uplift your people, to tell the pompous Lord exactly what his arrogance and misplaced judgment had cost you all. For now, you sat upon a moss covered log and removed your leather pack.

It had been a long day of traveling. Recent naga attacks had driven you from your previous shelter and further into the dense woods. The afternoon sun was quickly setting and you���d need to find new lodging before it slipped beneath the horizon. Taking account of your provisions, you deemed it safe enough to take a large swig from the water canteen stored in your pouch. After twisting the cap back on tightly, you shrugged on your pack and set off again to find a place to sleep.

It did not take long until you found a cave hidden amongst the brush and trees. Pulling back a branch you entered and surveyed the dimly lit cavern. Aside from a few discarded animal bones it seemed largely unoccupied. Whomever had been here before was long gone by your observation. Deeming it fit for the night you began preparing to settle and sleep. The latter caught up to you before you knew it, the fatigue of traveling getting the better of you. You slept hard and heavy until a crunch from just outside the cave jolted you awake. Flinging your eyes open you scanned the entrance to find a hulking shadow of a creature peering in. There was not enough light to reveal the nature of this being, as you had not started a fire in an effort to remain unseen. The giant figure took a step forward and you slammed your eyes shut, heart racing. Slowly and silently you reached for the dagger strapped to your hip but did not unsheathe it yet. Taking slow steadying breaths you monitored the creatures movements with only your sense of hearing. It seemed to take two tight circles and flop onto the ground, as if it too were exhausted. Daring to peek one eye open you confirmed your suspicions and saw the shadow of the massive thing taking deep, slumberous breaths as if it had paid you no mind whatsoever. Loosing out a silent sigh you thanked the mother for whatever amnesty she had granted until your lids grew heavy once more and sleep reclaimed you wholly.

Your eyes did not reopen until dawn cracked through the leaves and streamed into the cave. You moved a hand to shade your eyes from the light and slowly blinked them open. It was then you remembered you had not slept alone last night. Your gaze landed onto what seemed to be an oversized wolf curled up on the rock floor not three feet away from you. Your heart began its quickened pace once more as you silently turned away from it to sling your pack across your head and shoulder. Standing as quietly as you could you braced yourself to turn back around and make your escape. Yet when you faced the creature once more it was already on four giant paws, its eyes locked onto you. You sucked in a silent scream and took a step backwards against the wall of the cave, flattening your palms along the cool rock. Your eyes had locked onto a fierce pair of green ones that seemed to bore into your very soul. Quickly remembering what you had learned you averted your eyes and looked down at the ground. Ever so slowly you shrank down the wall until you had come into a full crouch. You had long since figured out that if you could not best something it was better to make yourself small and hope it would deem you unworthy of its time.

Yet the wolf took a step forward, and then another. Out of your peripheral vision you could tell it was lowering its massive head towards you. It took two long inhales then nudged forward once more. You knew it was foolish but you couldn’t help your curiosity as you lifted your head to gaze at the beast once more. Its emerald eyes were locked onto yours, almost as if it were a conscious being. You didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. It shifted once more, this time onto its hind legs to sit and then again to lay its enormous body down in front of you. Then as if trying to convey its docile nature the wolf let out a quiet whine. You weren’t entirely sure this was all real. It must have devoured you whole and you were now in the midst of some delusion brought on by death. Yet your heart continued to beat rapidly and your lungs still drew in panicked breaths. The wolf had not broken its eye contact and now looked up at you from its lying position.

Deeming your situation already lethal you cast your better judgment to the wind and let out a whisper. “Hello,” you said to the beast. It cocked its head slightly as if in greeting and curiosity. “I’m sorry I invaded your cave,” you said trying to tame the shaking in your voice, “I didn’t know it was occupied.” The wolf lifted its head ever so slightly and parted its giant mouth to reveal dagger like canines. “You invaded more than my cave, little nightingale,” it rumbled in a voice so deep it rattled your bones.

You were sure now that you were hallucinating. Your face was the picture of pure shock as you beheld the speaking creature. You sputtered and stammered, reaching for something to say. “You speak?” was all you could squeak out. The wolf remained lying down but lifted its head an inch further. “Yes,” it replied in that thick tenor. You managed the courage to straighten slightly and surveyed its lethal figure. The matted coat, the pronged horns that crowned its head, the striking green eyes that observed you in turn. It clicked just then. “You’re Tamlin,” you said, not exactly a question. The wolf blinked once, twice. “Yes,” he replied once more. You couldn’t believe it. You had heard the tales of a fallen High Lord who had bound himself to his beast form and hidden away in the woods. You’d just never expected to behold him, let alone engage in conversation with him.

You stumbled for your words again but managed to get out, “I- I’m sorry for intruding. On your cave and your lands. I needed…” Your ability to articulate a sentence evaded you entirely as you beheld him. “It is no matter to me,” he spoke, “not anymore.” There was a deep sadness that dripped off his words and you felt a tear in your chest. Without your permission, your body moved your hand up and onto Tamlin’s fur coated head. Your fingers threaded into the soft fleece and rested there for a moment. He stayed completely still. It took a few heartbeats to realize what you had done, what you were still doing. You retracted your hand, choking out an apology. Tamlin did not deign to respond. Instead he lowered his head back down and this time laid it right into your lap.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

He must be out of his mind, he thought. Yet he could not tear himself away from your gentle touch as you once again began your exploration of his fur. How long had it been since he had been touched? How long had it been since he had even seen another conscious life form? He breathed in your scent, that of lilies and hyacinths. It was polluted with the smell of the forest and survival. He had noted your thin figure before closing his eyes and relishing your touch. He noticed the dirty clothes, the grime under your nails, and the tangles in your hair that made you look wild and untamed. He pondered your presence in the Spring Court as you moved your hand to caress the other side of his head. He knew he should kill you. What other reason would a Night Court citizen be doing in his lands other than to spy and destroy him further. The thought had him opening his eyes once more, but he did not move from under your touch. “Why, little nightingale, have you come to my lands?” he grumbled softly. The sigh that escaped your lips was a heavenly sound. “I could not stand another minute in that court,” you responded to him continuing your exploration across his fur. He contemplated your words before prodding again, “But why come here of all places?” He watched you consider his question from his position on your lap until you let out a small laugh and said, “It’s the only place where I felt I would be safe.”

Something that had been long asleep in him awoke at your response. Here? Safe? With him? After everything that had happened in the last 53 years under Amarantha’s reign, the war with Hybern, and destruction of his court he could not fathom that anyone in all of Prythian could possibly feel safe here. “These woodlands are not safe, nightingale,” he said. You snorted in response to his implication. “I don’t know, my Lord, I’ve faired quite well this past year. Still all in one piece, see?” You removed your hand from his fur to gesture to your own figure. He immediately missed the feeling of your touch. It took a great deal of restraint not to nuzzle your hand back to its original place on him.

Instead he rose from your lap and stood to his full height, his head barely grazing the top of the cavern ceiling. You rose with him wringing your hands at his size. “You’re not safe here,” he repeated, “come.”

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

A command. One that reverberated through you to your very core. You did not hesitate to follow him out of the cave and into a clearing beyond the brush. “Climb up,” he instructed. You paused only a moment until you realized he meant for you to ride atop his back. He lowered himself ever so slightly as you hiked yourself into his massive wolf form. “Hold on, little nightingale,” he commanded once more before beginning a slow trot away from your shared cave.

The trek had been mostly contended silence. The two of you only spoke in question and response when the curiosity became too much.

“Why did you leave home?” he asked.

“I grew wary of the cruelty of home and the misjudgments of my High Lord,” you answered.

“Why have you disappeared for so long?” you asked.

“I am not fit to be a ruler at present,” he responded.

The hike had been a few hours long until you broke from the cover of the forest into an expansive clearing with endless rolling hills. The grasses had overgrown and if you hadn’t been astride on his back your figure would surely disappear into the thickets. He continued his pace as he came upon a behemoth of a building. Its size was dazzling but its condition was ruinous. Vines had almost completely overtaken the walls, creeping into shattered windows. The gardens surrounding the manor were in complete disarray, growing this way and that. He stepped over the overgrowth with his giant paws and took you up a grand staircase leading to two massive wooden doors. Gently he nudged them open with his snout and stepped foot in the place he once called home.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

He didn’t know exactly how long it had been since he had been to the manor. Before this morning he’d had no intentions of returning any time soon. He was not worthy to reside here, not worthy to call himself High Lord. The ruin he had left it in had his ego twisting from embarrassment, but he had to get her to safety. He did not know where the urge had come from, did not understand his draw to this intruder. It had been a long time since he’d had a task, a purpose. While the feeling was still foreign it was anything but unwelcome. He lowered himself once more once the two of you were safely inside and relished once more the feeling of your touch before you slid off his back and onto the marble entryway flooring. Tamlin observed as you marveled at the interior. Your eyes ravenous, soaking up every inch of this new environment. “It’s horrendous, I know,” he spoke lowly, “but you will be safe here. Safer than in those woods by yourself.” You turned your too thin figure toward him and spoke, “It’s marvelous.” He pushed down the small hint of excitement at your words and simply said “You can wash up and change clothes in the third room to the left past the dining room. I will find something to eat for the night.” With that, he turned and stepped outside the manor once more with a new task in his mind.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

You followed his instruction, finding a room that was mostly untouched by claw marks and destruction. Although dust had settled upon almost every surface, it was nice to be sheltered by four walls again. The room you entered was clearly meant for visiting courtiers, with a four poster bed, a generous armoire, a tall looking glass, and connected was a spacious bathing room. The stale air in the room was unfamiliar as you had grown accustomed to fresh air and gentle spring breezes. Your first order of business was to pry open the ornate window across the room. Your second order of business was to strip completely nude and fill the giant tub with enough water to wash a bear. The spout shot out a few violent buckets of water before finally clearing the air from its pipes and finding a steady stream. As the tub filled you nosed into the cabinets to find a few bottles of soap and oils. Sure they were a few years old, but it was better than lakes and creek water. You savored the warmth of your bath as it relaxed tense muscles and lulled you into bliss. It was only when the water grew chilled that you pulled yourself out and searched for any clothing to don before the High Lord returned from his hunt. You’d found little in terms of prudence but the silk nightdress would work for the evening. It had been a long time since you’d thought about such courtly things as how much skin was showing. Growing bored in the chamber waiting for Tamlin you walked into the main hall and began exploring.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

He strode into the manor as silently as he could. Tamlin held the dead deer in his lethal jaws and gently set it on the black and white marble before shifting into his fae form. It felt unfamiliar to stand on two legs instead of four. His shrugged off his discomfort and headed straight for his abandoned quarters to find something to dress in. The last thing he needed was you stumbling upon his naked, dirt covered figure. Tamlin made quick work of putting on bland pants and a light tunic. He didn’t even bother buttoning it completely before making his way to the room he’d directed you towards. He knocked once at your door and heard nothing. He started to call out your name then quickly realized you had not yet given it to him. Knocking once more he paused, listening for a sign of you behind the door. More silence. He pushed open the door and saw that you were not there. After looking in the bathing room to find it empty as well his heart began to quicken. It was happening again. How could he have been such a fool? Of course you wouldn’t want to stay here. Who would? His estate was in complete shambles and he himself was no better. His breathing was erratic, his chest pumping up and down as he began his downward spiral. Then he heard a sound. His head snapped toward the door as he heard a melancholy music coming from elsewhere in the manor. He followed the melody to where he found you sitting in front of the grand pianoforte. The keys were out of tune, but the quiet song was still lovely. He could do nothing but stand and stare in utter shock that not only had you stayed, but you were freshly dressed in Spring Court attire and playing music in his home. He watched as your hands traveled gracefully upon the ivories. The sound of your song was like a breath of life into the tomb of the manor. His state of silent admiration was only interrupted by the end of your song. You let out a content sigh and rose from the bench, turning and meeting his eyes.

... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ .. ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ..

The sight of him. You had not yet known the High Lord of Spring in his fae form. He was utterly gorgeous. Your eyes devoured him as if they were starved. His tunic was unbuttoned and revealed a generous portion of his muscled chest. It was then you remembered the thin nightgown you had thoughtlessly wrapped yourself in. You knew he was fae, but his wolf form had almost made you forget that he was also a male. A beautiful, stunning male. You quickly tore your eyes from him and found a spot on the ground to study as you greeted him, “My Lord.” He let out a breath as if he’d been holding it, “My Lady.” Your eyes flicked up to his at that. A faint smile ghosted his lips and his face was the picture of relief. “I’m sorry if I overstepped, I got bored waiting for your return.” He let out a quiet laugh and took a few steps to approach you. “That’s quite alright, little nightingale, I’m just happy to see that you’re still here.” It was your turn to laugh. What a ridiculous comment! Through a snort you said, “Where else would I go?” His smile grew and he offered you his hand. “Good point. I found us something to eat. Care to join me?” You stepped forward to meet him, his towering figure and scent overwhelming your senses. Yet you took his hand and returned the smile, gazing up at him. “I would love nothing more.”

[slowd1ving]

Hey I could request for a Daniel Park who has a crush on Male! Reader ( fluff please )

27,000 WON ゜・DANIEL PARK

Armed with nothing but a headache and the fit of a wayward uncle, it's perhaps not your proudest moment. But it's a moment nonetheless: one the cashier in this stupid convenience store locks away in his pounding heart. aka first meetings with this guy /// anon this is more crack than fluff I'm sorry ..my idea of fluff is getting a free umbrella from a fumbling cashier because it's raining, I swear it sounded better and fluffier planned pairing: daniel park + male student reader warnings: mentions of alcohol, convenience store weirdo #1 + #2, tiny bit of violence, not a warning but shy daniel (in both bodies), more reader-centric than anything, pre training arc wc: 2.2k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Without an umbrella, Seoul was a miserable place tonight. Anyone else might’ve appreciated the dense shimmer of rain streaked neon with this fluorescent city, but your head throbbed miserably with the urban cacophony. Fuck. It was pointless stumbling out onto the grey asphalt when you were in such a shit mood. People swarmed and jostled, and you might’ve stepped on a foot or two as you leaned against the rough, corrugated shutters of a closed shop: barely holding on to both your sanity and your consciousness. 

Ironically, it was the detestable luminescent rods that saved you, beckoning your damp body towards a 24-hour convenience store. Warily, you peered at the cold lights—and they winked back. Winked, for their clinical flickering suggested sentience, or at least, some sort of quest window that was your beacon for safety from the downpour. 

Located on the very corner overlooking an alleyway, it really wasn’t very surprising that it was a magnet for trouble too—if you objectively looked back on the situation. Dark, dingy, smelly—all were generous, polite adjectives you’d use to describe the surroundings. 

You dodged the businessman puking up his guts on the off-white wall with a strained smile and a pained twitch in your eye. An abandoned soju bottle sloshed onto your shoes from his wobbling, and your day (night) became worse. Immediately. Biblically, your irritation surged to such unprecedented levels that he might’ve turned into a pillar of salt had you even an ounce of psychic talent.

Still, you stepped across the threshold smelling faintly of pollution and alcohol, but you were finally in one of Korea’s sanctuaries. Albeit soaked, shivering, and possibly seething with annoyance. The triple S threat of all bad days. 

“Shit,” you cursed as your phone rang in your pocket. Desperately juggling the two bottles of barley tea and a lychee ice cream onto the top of a freshly polished shelf, you scrambled for the device and swiped it multiple times with wet fingers. Stupid, stupid phone, you thought as it creaked in your incensed grasp. Answer the fucking call, damn it. 

The caller ID was as followed: stupid sod. The person on the other end? Well. 

“Where’d you go? The weather was supposed to be rainy all through the night, and you really went for a walk?” The voice on the other end of the line was just as irritating as ever. Nasally, too, like if a short dog suddenly started barking with a French accent. Your head throbbed just trying to imagine it, but you did suppose your younger sister was a migraine and a half. 

“Hungry,” you muttered. The brick-red plastic basket at the entrance clattered against the linoleum floor as you pulled it out single-handedly, but still you tried to keep your voice down during these witching hours. Those two barley teas bounced against crimson when you swiped the goods into your mode of carrying, and you thoughtfully threw two blue, cardboard packets of paracetamol into there too. Now, you were just missing some yellow to complete the haphazard primary colour wheel you cradled. 

“What? Can’t hear you.” Your eye twitched at her admission, and you just knew she was squinting at her phone with an open mouth as if she could simply inhale the frequencies instead. 

“—yeah I don’t have my ID, but you could let it slide, right?”

“Hungry,” you enunciated, clearly, for the dear sister struggling to hear a single word. “You happy? I’ll be back in twenty so just don’t burn the house down. And clean out your ears—I don’t want to give the poor guy working the graveyard shift a headache by talking loudly, especially since you’re a banshee on speaker.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she dismissed. “Get me those chips—those ketchup ones—and those peach candies. The knockoff ones, you know which ones.”

“With whose money? Get them yourself, you lazy bum,” you sighed exasperatedly. You were on, what, your last twenty thousand won? In this economy, too.  

“—what do you mean you can’t just let it slide? Hey! I look over 21, don’t I? C’mon man, don’t make this difficult.” There were snippets of conversation threading along into the spool of your own, and your eyes flicked upwards. One poor cashier in his green vest, hands clasped like God would possibly rescue him from this situation if he was pious enough. The other had an obnoxiously fake leather jacket draped over him—a wannabe thug if you ever saw one. 

“I sent you some, you broke shit. Like, you literally have a job, so there’s no need to be so stingy. Get me some lemon tea too,” she groaned. Her syllables dragged out abrasively, but you were more focused on the conversation unfolding in reality rather than how much you hated her voice. 

“I’m sorry, I really—I legally can’t sell you these products if you don’t produce a valid ID.” The clerk had guts, you had to admit. His voice cracked just twice in his answer, and though he was about half the size of the guy blocking the lottery ticket view, his shaking fists clenched and unclenched. You liked the look in his eyes: determined to stand on principle, even if it was just to some guy high off a power trip. 

“Okay, sure. Uhh, I might be back in forty. I just need to do something.” Words, as fickle as they were, drifted into nothingness while your eyes communicated your intentions. It was a pity you didn’t want to see her irritating face—you would’ve pressed the video call on Kakaotalk just so she could get front row seats to a beatdown. To be clear, the harrasser’s beatdown, not the harrassee’s. 

“Hey. What’s that supposed to mean? Hyung? Fuck, not this— don’t you dare hang up, we’ve literally got our first day tom—”

“Gross.” You made a face as you finally pressed the red button; she should’ve known you’d simply leave the call sooner if she used that term. Cooties. Idiot cooties. Dropping the phone into your pocket and her cavity-inducing requests (plus some cup noodles for your grumbling stomach), you set the basket a safe distance away before eyeing the cashier. 

You were quite the expert in miming and clownish arts, if you said so yourself. His face turned everything from unsettled to confused to hesitant in the span of two and a half seconds: pointing first at yourself emphatically; then to the man’s back as he stood waving his arms about; and finally making a fist and clenching it, all to really emphasise your point. Me. Him. I punch. 

You don’t know if he took it as a joke. You hoped he didn’t, but his eyebrows crinkled and uncrinkled like he was trying to figure you out. 

However, he didn’t exactly have the luxury of piecing together the implications. Not when the man became dangerously more incensed as he was asked to leave, and certainly not when he was about to grab the poor employee’s vest with those nasty hands of his. 

Gross. 

There was no time to hesitate and plead the heavens for forgiveness. 

“Hey man, there’s no need to be a dick to workers,” you gritted out, gripping both his arms in an ironclad grip that miraculously relieved some of your tension headache. Like some damn stress ball, except this was not satisfying at all as you felt the hair on his forearms shift together. Ew. Ewww. 

“Who the fuck are you?” His words sounded garbled, temples throbbing while you glared down at him. Get out. It was enough of a pain to move fast, let alone come up with an answer that didn’t sound corny. In a soaked hoodie, slippers and tracksuit bottoms, there was little you could say that wouldn’t make you stay up at night in embarrassment later on. 

“Shut up,” you instead bade, since you looked like an uncle in this particular outfit. Might as well give out life advice. “Don’t give yourself liver and lung problems, kid.”

The cashier’s lips might’ve twitched in that moment, and your own suppressed the agonising grimace that convulsed through your face. Fuck. Why was a high school student giving life advice to this dropout?

“Who the fuck do you think you are, huh?” He began rocking his body to build momentum and twist free—and twist he did. Through the air and right into shiny, slippery linoleum after he canted his hips sideways for a weak punch. And you threw him, plain and simple: collar grasped tight in your aching fists. 

Success. You did not hit anyone! And neither did you accidentally wreck any of these painstaking displays! You would not get chewed out with a slipper curve-balling straight at your head tomorrow!

“Are you—” the cashier began, but you gestured ‘wait’ with a splayed hand as you stared down at the half-conscious man at your feet sheepishly. Was he… alright? Any more of a brain shake and he could end up more stupid than he was five minutes ago, because how the hell would some random shopkeeper join the National Assembly and change the law? Just so this buffoon could buy drinks without an ID. 

“Hold on,” you muttered with a dented pride and some shame. “Let me just—”

You hoisted the guy’s cheap leather-jacketed arm around your shoulder and dragged his wobbling body out, too repulsed by the stench emanating from him to pay heed to his nonsensical babble. There. Now the businessman holed up outside by the bin would have a buddy for company. For good measure, you tossed a powerful mango body spray into the red basket to douse yourself with promptly. 

Awkwardly, you placed the miscellany onto the little table the thug had bracketed off—only this time the cashier’s opponent was some guy trying desperately to not wilt away on his feet. 

“Um. Sorry about that—” The apology was muffled through your hand dragging across your face—peeking through your middle and index finger at the guy in front of you. Pinned to his vest was a nametag you hadn’t spotted earlier: Daniel Park, noted in size 15 Latin characters and rounded hangul alike. “—Daniel Park.”

Gosh, you even bowed. “Please forget what I said to that guy, for my dignity.”

“Sure.” Once his voice had stopped shaking, it really was quite pleasant to the ears—though it currently shook with barely suppressed laughter. He scanned your items with a tiny, tiny smile. “Thanks for that. I might’ve gotten punched if you hadn’t been there.”

“Real pricks out here,” you grumbled. “No sense of shame or anything.”

“Ah,” he quivered for a brief moment, and you felt your ears heat with just how much you sounded like an ahjussi. 

“Forget I said that too,” you muttered mournfully: five stages of grief beginning and ending within you. “I promise I’m not that old.”

Plastic rustled as he pushed the bag towards you: “Twenty-seven thousand won.” And with it, a cheap polka-dot folding umbrella was also pushed your way with a self-conscious smile. You froze, and he floundered. 

“As a thank—as a thank you,” he waved, panicked. 

“Well, thanks.” You honestly were a little dumbfounded at this sudden good fortune. Maybe you’d get struck by lightning on the way home—you were tall enough that it could probably serve as a conducting rod if you tried hard enough. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

Just like that you were gone. Back into the neon rain of Seoul you walked, though this time it wasn’t as bad with a pattern over your head and acerbic ice wedged between a sheepish pout. 

・゜・

With a barely suppressed yawn, you stood loudly and proudly (silently and exhaustedly) before your new class. They looked like any other crowd of teenagers: gum surreptitiously being chewed, sneakers squeaking right against vinyl flooring, and a barrage of interesting fashion choices as befitted this department. Back to your own name, you introduced yourself while thinking of about a million other things you could’ve been doing. 

Speaking of your new classmates, they may have been looking at you with curiosity, but there was one particular guy who looked like he’d seen a ghost. Another pretty-boy you’d never done business with, but somehow—for some damn reason—he was staring like you’d shot a horse in front of him. Staring like he was the shot horse. Seriously. Paracetamol was limited in how far it could cure a headache. 

Your gaze met his, and he flinched. Who’s this guy?

Fuck. 

Daniel Park was done for. As you looked at him, he could feel his heart threaten to explode and spatter this whole classroom with veins and sanguine matter. Still wearing that same hoodie, still grinning lazily, and still sporting that confident expression like you could handle anything. His pen creaked in his tight grasp. 

By all heavens, this man was flushed red as soon as your unimpressed gaze met his—pink and suppressing the urge to hide his steaming face in his hands. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

・゜・

“Daniel, why the hell is your face so red?”

‘Are you sick?’

“He’s basically the healthiest out of all of us. Can’t be illness.”

“Okay so you agree it’s unusual then?”

“How odd. Maybe he’s come down with a fever.”

[sameschmidtdiffname]

Sweet Delights

Peeta Mellark x AFAB!Reader

Summery: It's a slow work day in District 12. With rain pouring down outside, who can blame you for wanting to indulge a little? Everything's fine so long as no one walks in... right?

Tags: Pre-established relationship, no use of y/n, pet names, reader has AFAB body/female pronouns, switch!Peeta, switch!Reader, edging, female fingering, teasing, count down, orgasm denial, blow job, face fucking, public sex, someone walks in, dirty talk, Peeta's a freak but he's sweet about it, praise kink if you squint, mentions of eating out, cum swallowing, cursing, post-Mockingjay but that's not really relevant, no reader orgasm this time around. Once again, I'm probably forgetting something.

Notes: I have to say, I did not expect Peeta to win the poll! And not to worry for everyone else, I'll get to all those characters eventually. (Derek girlies, I see you and I love you.) Thank you for your support on the last one, I hope you like this one too! Bon ABBA teeth.

•°《▪︎♡▪︎》°•

Peeta loves surprises.

Giving them, receiving them. If it's unexpected, Peeta is practically bouncing off his chair to figure out what to do with it.

It made everyday life sweeter. Slipping a note into his apron pocket when he wasn't looking for him to discover, finding a million more hidden in my apron. Little drawings hidden amongst everyday things, like the wildflowes Peeta likes to draw and place next to my powders and perfumes. But best of all surprises were the little pastries we would make when the days were slow and the other was watching the front of the bakery. Usually using scraps, because Peeta detests wasting food, but always delicious nonetheless.

The best innocent surprise, I should say.

Today was an especially slow day. Rain pounding down in District 12, making the roads thick with mud. It's a blessing for the hot ovens that fight against the cold seeping through the front windows. Although they're helping me more than Peeta, who's up front perched at the counter, insistent as always that someone needs to be watching the shop. "We won't hear the bell over the rain," he'd said.

I knew better than that. There were tells when Peeta wanted a surprise. He'd never just ask for something, always fearing rejection. Of course the minute I opened my mouth he was ready to do whatever I had even intrusively dreamed of so long as it meant love and praise. But to ask for himself? It's a whole different matter. So when he is insistent I work alone in the back, I understand that this is his own silent way of asking for some sort of surprise. And with the way his broad shoulders look in that pale yellow knit sweater, who am I to deny him?

I'm not one to deny him anything, quite frankly.

The best surprises of all are when we sneak up behind the other, always starting so innocently. Maybe while one of us is baking, maybe while one of us is simply dressing. With the quick slip of a hand, it doesn't take long before the other is panting and begging for release. Not that we always give it to each other.

Peeta liked sneaking up on me in private. Usually when I was in the back baking.

"What are you working on?" He'd usually ask.

"Custom order," I may answer with a smile. He liked my smiles, always said so.

"What are the details?" He'd ask. He'd put his hands on my lower back, rubbing soft enough to not disturb me while still working out some knots.

Then I'd prattle off details. This one is for so-and-so down on whatever-street-or-corner, they'd like a cake.

"For the Harvest Festival?" He'd ask. I'd nod, still focused on my task. "How many orders do we have for the Festival?"

"A good bit, it's our busiest time," I'd always say with a bright, soft tone to my voice. He'd chuckle, placing a small kiss on the back of my neck and pressing his hips against mine from behind, usually revealing his hard on.

"So, how many orders this year?" He'd ask. His hands would work at a knot, his breath hot on my neck, and his hips would roll ever so slowly against mine, taking his time to build both of us up.

"Ah, I think- I think 12?" I'd say, trying to focus on both him and whatever I was making. Cake. Right. Stir.

"12?" He'd ask. His cock would be deliciously hard, grinding against my clothed cunt just a bit harder as his hands would return to my hips, steadying me against him. "That's pretty good."

"Double digits," I'd say brightly, my voice breathy as I struggle more to focus. Cake. Stir. Hands, not hips.

But I'd always do hips instead, leaning back and tilting my head ever so slightly so he can see my enjoyment.

"You need to stir," Peeta would gently guide in my ear. My back would press against his front, his chin now resting on my shoulder.

"I know," I'd say softly. I didn't know shit.

He'd chuckle, one hand slipping to my front to cup one of my breasts.

"Need to get those orders out," he'd remind me. "You always seem so stressed about being on time."

"One of us has to be," I'd say. His hand on my hip would find the band of my pants, slipping past them and teasing me, sliding his fingers against my wet folds.

"Pick up the whisk," he'd instruct. My hands would shake as they obeyed, moving from being splayed across the marble counter to resume my task.

"Stir slowly," he'd say. His large fingers would slip over my entrance, coating himself in the thick lube now dripping from me. "You want to make sure the texture's correct."

It took such mental energy to balance the two things. Especially when he would finally sink in his middle finger, always going knuckle deep and twirling it around inside of me, making sure to leave no spot untouched. His other hand would pinch and pull at my breast, giving special care to make his fingers replicate the feeling of his soft lips wrapped around my sensitive nipples.

"What's the next order?" He'd ask. I could feel myself dripping down his hand, and I knew he loved this. Peeta would do whatever he could to make sure I was wet, even when he wouldn't go any further than simple teasing. I think he liked the idea of me always being ready. Not that he would assume. He always started out slow, and if I ever said no it was never a big deal. He'd simply continue talking to me and go on with his day perfectly fine. But if I was willing, he'd always massage or do whatever until he could feel my arousal himself. I think it's why he likes eating out best. Especially when I'd talk him through it, usually promising to cum down his throat while tugging his soft blond hair. His eyes would grow wide and soft at that, his whimpers increasing as he'd fuck me quicker with his tongue, grinding himself against whatever. It was a beautiful mess he'd turn himself into, desperate and begging silently as he clutched my hips.

"The what?" I'd ask breathlessly. I was tight around him, focused on how slow and sweet he was pumping in and out, twirling and wiggling his finger inside of me. His other hand slipping under my shirt, and his lips sucking gently at my neck, careful not to leave bruises.

"The orders, sweetheart," he'd gently remind me. "What's the next one?"

My lips would part, eyes fluttering shut as I tried to remember. His middle finger would pump out and then pump back in with the addition of his pointer finger, tearing a soft moan from my throat.

"Shh," he'd gently whisper. "We're at work."

He liked this little game. Ramping me up, forcing me to behave a certain way so to not tip off customers. If Peeta wouldn't immediately be arrested for it, something tells me he'd simply fuck me in the front room, bent over the register counter during business hours and just act like it's a normal thing. Such a sweet boy.

"I- ah- need to look at the book," I'd say. He'd roll my nipple between his two fingers, his other two fingers pumping slightly faster as his lips suck at the spot just under my ear.

"You have such a good memory though," he'd say. "You can remember. Just think."

That's a lie. I have a horrible memory and we both know it. But if I say I can't, he'll pull away. Sweet and gentle, he'll go get the book and place a million kisses on my cheek before leaving me to my work and dizziness.

Next order. Next order. That's easy. It's a tart with cream on top. Cream. God, I'd like his cock in my mouth right now.

"Next order. Come on, pretty girl. I know you know it," he'd softly encourage.

"I know it," I'd moan, my head tilted back and resting on his shoulder, fucking his fingers instead of working on the cake. He feels so good, so warm and protecting. Simply smelling the traces of dill and cinnamon baked into his skin made my mind shut off, my eyes growing tired from the feeling of safety.

"I know you know it," he'd say so sweetly. "You're smart, pretty. And you've got a delicious cunt I'd love to fuck over and over if I could," he'd say softly, placing warm kisses on my neck between each point. I was panting openly now, squeezing my eyes shut as I tried desperately to remember who ordered what.

His fingers curled inside of me, making rapid 'come hither' motions fast enough to steal a soft, sudden cry fron my lips. Peetas mouth found mine, swallowing my moans and giving me some of his own.

"I may have to count down, sweet girl," he'd warn me. His fingers had found my g spot, hitting and rubbing it at rapid speed. The cuff of his sweater is soaked from me, his hand sticky and coated. I shake my head quickly, moaning and gripping the counter as best I could to keep myself standing.

"I can remember," I whimpered. Peeta laughed softly.

"I know you can, sweet girl. But look at you, you're a total mess." His voice is sweet and kind, his eyes taking in my current state. "I can't have you all dumb back here during work hours."

He's sweet but he's cruel. God, he's cruel!

"I think there's berries in it," I stammered.

"Ten," he's start patiently, his teeth tugging at my earlobe.

"N-no, wait! There's- There's berries and there's..." I'm completely making this up. I have no clue what's next.

"Nine," he continued, knowing this.

"That's not fair, you started low on purpose!" I whined.

"Eight." He wouldn't argue. I was right.

"It's got- got cottage cheese frosting." I'm so close, so awfully close. I can feel myself clenching around him rapidly, my pussy swallowing his fingers quicker and quicker as I climbed closer towards the edge.

"Seven." Oh, God. This motherfucker.

"Six. Come on, good girl. You can do this," he'd encourage sweetly, kissing my cheek and trailing to my collarbone with said kisses.

"They wanted flowers on the top. Violets, I remember that!" That detail is actually true, surprisingly. The candy violets were always easy to remember because I loved them so much.

"Five." His other hand kneeded my breast, admiring the soft flesh and running his thumb over my stiff, aching nipple repeatedly. "Four."

"You're speeding up," I whined. "This isn't fair."

He let out a soft 'aw,' apologizing and speeding his hands to bring me closer to the edge.

"If you can come before one, I'll fuck you right here," he promised. "You can come before one, can't you?"

I nodded stupidly, moaning and panting as I sped up my hips, slamming down on his hand repeatedly. Cake details be damned, this is my mission now.

"Three." I'm so impossibly close.

"Two."

"Wait a minute, slow down-"

"One."

With one final, cruel, hard thrust of his hand he slips away, leaving me to almost crumple to the ground and opening my eyes to blink stupidly, trying to process what just happened.

"You okay?" He asked softly, his dry hand cupping my cheek and looking at me carefully with his sweet, hazel eyes.

A long, soft whine escaped me, batting my lashes as I lean against him and whisper as many 'please's as I can, pressing a dozen kisses all over him. He laughed softly, returning the kisses with whispered 'I love you's.

"Let me go get that book," he'd said. And that was that until that evening when he made up for it like he always did.

Now I was carefully removing a tiny apple pie made from leftovers meant specifically for Peeta. The rain was as bad as ever as I entered the front room, Peeta leaning on the palm of his hand while he struggled not to doze off. His long lashes flutter softly, his lips pressing against each other and his jaw a bit tight.

"Hi sleepyhead," I whisper, sneaking up behind him. He started a little, turning to look at me with the sweetest smile he has.

"Hi," he says cheerily, his voice just a touch gravely. His eyes glance down to the small treat in my hands, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Is that for me?"

"Of course it is," I say, placing it in front of him. "Figured you could use something to warm you up. It's freezing up here."

He chuckles. "It's not that cold," he says as he picks up the fork I'd placed next to the tiny pie and began scooping some up.

"Liar," I teased. "You're shivering."

He shifts in his seat slightly. "Not from that," he says, a small blush growing on his cheeks. He takes the first bite, then another, smiling and leaning his head against my shoulder.

"Thank you, dear," he says softly. He leans in for a kiss to which I happily oblige, cupping his jaw with my left hand. His lips taste sweet, the sticky apple and cinnamon tasting delicious on him. I swipe my tongue across his lips, stealing a soft moan from him as he allows my tongue access to his mouth, melting in my hands. His hand dropped the fork, accidently missing the pan and instead hitting the counter, but neither of us care. His hand comes up to the back of my neck, pulling me closer to silently ask me for more.

My other hand trails down to his lap, finding one of his hands already there, palming his stiff, clothed cock through his pants.

"Is this what you were doing when I came up?" I ask softly, pulling away from the kiss only a bit. He chases me, biting at my bottom lip to drag me back to him. That's a yes, then.

My tongue explores his warm mouth, tasting him while my hand traces the outline of his dick, pressing and flicking against the tip. He whines, bucking softly into my hand, desperate for more.

"Can you stay quiet?" I ask him, pulling away again. This time my hand on the back of his neck grabs his golden locks, holding him still as I look into his eyes. His cheeks are red as well as his lips, kiss swollen and damp. His breathing is heavy, his eyes blown out. Barely touched and already a beautiful mess.

"Huh?" He asks, his voice higher than usual as he tries to focus. His hand grasping my wrist, making sure to keep my hand where he can buck against it.

"If I asked you to, would you stay quiet?" I repeat gently, teasing him with kisses by leaning forward and pulling away. We both liked this.

"Yes," he said quickly. "Anything."

"Anything?" I ask, raising my brows.

"Anything."

Alright.

I press a quick, admittedly sloppy kiss to his lips once more before dropping to my knees and slipping under the counter. His brows furrow in confusion before he realizes what I'm doing.

"You can't!" He whispers frantically. "What if someone walks in?"

"That's why I asked if you could stay quiet," I say patiently. "Can you?"

He bites his lip, obviously unsure. His eyes dart between me and the shop door, thinking.

"We can wait," I offer genuinely. This seems to be the deciding factor.

"I'll be quiet," he promises eagerly. "I've got a pie I can shove in my mouth if I can't, right?" He jokes, his smile crooked and eager as his hands work quickly to begin freeing himself. He's excited alright.

"Right," I say, taking his hands away and undoing the buttons on his pants myself. "Just keep watch of the shop, alright sweet boy?" He nods, placing his arms on the counter and trying to resume his position.

I slip his cock from the confines of his clothes, pressing a soft wet kiss to the underside along a thick vein. A quiet whine escapes him, his hand covering his mouth. I'm not truly worried about him being quiet, no one is going to come in here during such bad weather. It's just an edge to help work him into a frenzy, knowing full well he never stays quiet. I'd thought I was vocal when we started our relationship, but Peeta easily takes the cake.

His cock is warm, half hard against my lips that trail his veins. My tongue slides from his tip to his base, barely any pressure on his skin. Grazing always works best to start out with. When I reach his base I lap at his skin, blowing soft, cold air against the wet spots to make him squirm in his chair. I focus on his base for a while, sucking, licking, blowing. Ever so gently I even bite just the tiniest bit, enough for him to notice the edges of my teeth along his red, pulsing cock. His voice is soft, panting quietly.

My tongue trails slowly up his cock, exploring different ridges and spots that make him whimper quietly, working my way back to his tip which is soaked with thick, warm precum. I wrap my lips around him, swiping the moisture away with my tongue in one round sweep. I relish in the cry it tears from his throat, the dozen little apologies he whimpers immediately after. His hand covers his mouth, and the other trails down to gently cup the back of my head. I smile around him, swirling my spit around his tip as I suck gently, pressing my tongue against the underside of his dick.

His fingers play with my hair, unintentionally tugging it and apologizing as he does. I simply squeeze his thighs and begin lowering myself, taking him until his tip hits the back of my throat, taking deep, even breaths to fight off the gags that threaten to escape me.

It's when my nose buries in his soft, curly hair at his base that the bell of the front door rings.

"Hi!" Peeta says a little too quickly, a little too brightly. "Welcome to Mellarks Bakery. How may we- I help you today?"

I'm frozen, his hand gripping my hair out of anxiety. If I pull away, we'll be done. If I stay here, Peeta may very well have to make good on his promise.

Although, acting has never been a challenge for him, has it?

The customer is describing a custom tart she wants made, then pulling out a long list and prattling about this, that, and the other thing. Her accent clearly shows her as a Capitol transfer, and these orders always take forever given that they still have a hard time releasing the concept of not over indulging. But this time I don't plan on complaining.

My tongue begins to move slowly, rubbing carefully along the bottom of his cock while I watch his face carefully. He's smiling at the woman who's still going down the list, his eyes glancing at me to confirm this is what we're doing. With a small nod from me, his hand casually covers his mouth once more and he resumes focus on the woman, his other hand now guiding my head slowly, carefully.

He pulls me to the tip of his dick, working me back and forth slowly on just that spot. My tongue works quickly, my lips wrapping around him tightly to help create proper suction around him while I suck.

"Do you have pumpkin?" The woman asks.

"W- what?" Peeta asks, clearing his throat. "Oh, pumpkin. I'll admit I'm running a little low, it's been a popular request since we don't grow them locally. I've requested more but I don't know if they'll be in in time, so if you want something that uses it you'll have to get it-" his voice cracks as I deepthroat him again, swallowing around him quickly before returning myself to his tip. He clears his throat. "You'll have to reserve it right now," he finishes. I can see him quickly scoop up some of the pie, shoving it in his mouth and trying to hide his blush. It's lucky for us how oblivious Capitol born citizens are.

His hand guides me faster, focusing on fucking his tip near the back of my throat since we both know full well how hitting the back of my throat isn't an option. We can't risk any noise gagging may cause since it may not be covered up by the soft music playing on the shop speakers, a gift from Beetee for the reopening.

His pace is fast, faster than it should be. He's close, smiling at the woman and acting as though everything is normal. His large vein throbs, precum spilling out of him with each new thrust into my mouth. My hand reaches to press two digits against the soft spot behind his balls, a sensitive spot that makes him cry and squirm.

His jaw tightens as I do this, his eyes darting down daggers quickly. I can hear coins on the counter, Peeta accepting the list and opening the register. With the loud 'clank' springing forth from the older device, he takes the chance to slam my face down fully on his cock, his fingers making the coins loudly shift around as he gives the customer her change. Tears spring to my eyes from the sudden force, swallowing around him as I focus on my breathing to recover. He promises the woman he'll do what he can and wishes her a good day, and she coos sweetly. She reaches across the counter, patting his cheek and calling him a sweet boy before turning and walking out of the bakery, the bell chiming at her exit.

Peeta looks down at me, smiling brightly. "Hi," he says with a newfound excitement.

I moan around his cock. He gets it.

"You okay?" He asks, his hands moving to cup my cheeks. I make an affirming noise, trying to smile. "I wasn't too rough, was I?" He asks, his thumbs swiping away the small tears dangling from my bottom lashes. I shake my head, swallowing around him. He moans softly, his grip tightening.

"Yeah, I kinda forgot you like it when I am, don't you?" He asks, beginning to slowly pump his dick in and out of the back of my throat. I moan happily, taking him as easily as I can.

"You know how hard it was not coming down your throat with that lady in here?" He asks. "I had to edge myself so that it wouldn't become known how much I like fucking your throat."

My cunt throbs at his words, his closeness making him willing to be more rough. He starts fucking my face in earnest, tearing noises from both of our throats as he loses himself.

"Can't do that again," he pants. "Next time I'm just taking you. I don't care who walks in." He's moaning openly now, his cock abusing me. I can feel him throbbing, twitching. There's enough precum it's all I can do to focus on swallowing and breathing.

"Show this whole District how much I love you," he babbles. "I'll eat you out on this fucking counter, I don't give a fuck."

I press my heel against my clit, grinding into it to relieve some friction as my hands steady my body against his thighs. The chair underneath of him creeks horribly. If anyone walked in now, I don't even think we'd have a small second to hide what we're doing.

"I love your fucking pussy," he rambles, his eyes beginning to flutter shut. "Love your fucking mouth. You take me so well. So eagerly."

I moan around him, spit dribbling from my mouth, hair stuck to my face. His balls slam against my chin, his wet curls pressing against my nose as he face fucks me like a rabid animal.

"I'm gonna cum down your throat," he announces. "Then you're gonna cum down mine. Again," thrust. "And again," thrust. "Until we don't even have to make dinner from how full we'll be." Goddamn, he's close.

His hands are rough, gripping my face. "Rub your tongue harder," he commands. I do, putting as much pressure as I can on his throbbing vein. He moans loudly, leaning forward and clutching my head.

"I'm coming," he pants, his voice high and tired. "Fuck, I'm coming-!"

His warm, thick load shoots down my throat, filling my mouth so much I cant breathe if I want to swallow it all.

"Such a sweet girl," he praises. "So sweet and good, eager to make me cum." His face is pressed against the cool counter, his chest heaving as he recovers his breath. His thumbs stroke my cheeks at different paces, small whimpers escaping him as I milk him dry with my mouth, making sure not a drop is left behind. When he's fully softened, I place a small kiss on his tip before tucking him back in, rebuttoning his clothes and patting his thighs one more time.

It takes a moment for me to rise, my joints stiff and my mind scrambled from the abuse it had just suffered. I stumble a little as I stand, Peeta's weak arms collecting my body and bringing me into a warm embrace.

"You're wonderful," he whispers, resting his head against my chest. I chuckle softly, placing a soft kiss on the top of his messy hair.

"So are you," I say.

He looks up at me, flushed and smiling at me with the most wonderful, lazy look on his face.

"Your turn," he says, finding a new wave of surprising strength and placing me on the counter.

"Peeta, we're still open," I giggle, batting his hands away.

"I know," he says. "Did you think I was joking?"

He stares at me, smiling and eager as he begins to part my legs.

This is going to be a long night.

•《♡》•

Whoever gets second place on the poll is who I'm writing next. Feel free to send in requests for characters/scenarios! See you next time, you degenerates <3

Masterlist