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wheeboo · 3 months ago

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

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 TWO). 17k WORD COUNT (FOR FULL FIC). 37k

notes: for some reason even tho this whole part is almost as long as the first part it still feels rushed asf lmao. there are a bit of time skips between most sections, and prob a noticeable decline in quality the more u read HAHA. idk what else to say other than i hope you all enjoy and thank you for joining me on this journey <3 your feedback and reblogs mean the world to me !!

part one | part two

The taste of the salty breeze is sharp on your tongue. Sand raids onto your sandals and crawls playfully up to your ankles as you step foot on the expansive beach.

“Ahh, it’s been a long time since we’ve gone to the beach!” Wheein exclaims proudly while running up to you and locking arms with yours, her hair tied back in two french braids, the carefree grin to her face infectious as ever. “No sad thoughts today. We’re here to have fun, ‘kay?”

She grabs you by the shoulders and eagerly shakes your body before you have the chance to respond. Wheein is right𑁋no sad thoughts today, it is. Seungkwan dashes up from behind as well, carrying with him two plastic bags full of drinks and snacks when the three of you stopped by the convenience store earlier. You carry a large blanket in your grasp as you all make your way to a spot a good distance away from the water. Ah, and you’ve brought your camera along too.

It turns out that Wheein and Seungkwan had planned a surprise trip to the beach solely to celebrate your art being selected for the museum. But even though that didn’t happen, they still wanted to cheer you up and lift your spirits (meaning, they stood by your front door for nearly half an hour and constantly shone their phone flashlights to get your attention inside, practically dragging you out of bed. You still love them either way).

The beach isn’t that busy at this time in the late afternoon during a weekday, so finding a quiet spot is easy. You lay out the blanket on a patch of smooth sand, making sure it's free of any debris. Seungkwan sets down the bags of snacks and drinks, and Wheein helps arrange everything neatly.

The water laps calmly up the coast, stretching for miles under the soft glow of the sun. As you settle yourself on the blanket, you catch sight of a trio of seagulls flying peacefully overhead while feeling the warmth of the sand below you and the cool breeze hitting your skin.

It’s hard not to look at the picturesque scene right before your eyes. A sun, sunrise, or sunset on the beach is something you’ve painted many times before, but you probably wouldn’t tire of it. There’s a variety of colours that the sky contains𑁋from fiery oranges and bright blues to soft pinks and purples𑁋and many people would say it’s the easiest background to capture on a canvas. But you know better.

Taking a hold of the camera around your neck, you adjust the lens and frame the seemingly endless skies right within the small viewfinder. The shutter clicks a few times as you capture the vibrant hues of the sunset slowly but surely beginning to take its course, freezing a moment of beauty in time.

After taking a moment to review the photos, you bring the camera back up to your eye again and whip your head around with the intent of taking some candid shots. However, you certainly don’t expect to capture the face of Joshua mid-laugh. He's not looking at you, or the camera, but at Wheein and Seungkwan who seemed to have quickly dropped their belongings in order to greet him. There’s two other boys behind him too𑁋Jeonghan was one of them, the other one you weren’t able to put a name on, but the wide grin on his face was enough to tell you all that you needed to know. All of them are too far for you to be able to read what they’re talking about.

Happiness looks good on them, You think.

Zooming out just slightly, a singular click is all you need to capture. It’s like everything that you need in a small, rectangular frame𑁋an encapsulation of pure joy. You lower the camera and take a few seconds to admire the candid show, the way the sun casts a golden glow on their faces, and the unguarded expressions of happiness that make the photo more than just perfect.

Bringing your camera back around your neck, you stand up from the blanket and slowly approach the group. Joshua is the first to notice you come up, as he always is, and his face doesn’t shy away from seemingly brightening up. He’s wearing a plaid button down shirt with a few of its buttons undone, a seashell necklace around his neck, and a pair of black shorts. You also notice his guitar case slinging on his shoulder.

You muster up a surprised look towards Wheein and Seungkwan about the guests you weren’t aware that were invited𑁋not that you’re complaining at all.

Wheein waves a hand in front of your face, directing your attention towards her.

“They’re here to sing!” she tells you, signing animatedly to you.

You lift a brow, letting your hands move in the air as if you’re conducting. “Sing?”

“I thought it would be a fun touch!” Wheein exclaims, then she steps closely right in front of you, seemingly lowering her voice and signing briskly so the others wouldn’t see, “I’m doing you a favour here.”

“Y/N! This is Seokmin,” Seungkwan gestures to the boy who finally has a name standing right next to Joshua, spelling out the letters of Seokmin’s name with his hands.

Immediately, Seokmin switches whatever he was holding in his right hand𑁋a microphone stand?𑁋to his other hand before extending it out to you for a handshake in perhaps the most humourously, gentlemanly way possible. The goofy grin on his face is enough to make you giggle as you shake his hand firmly.

“Nice to meet you,” You sign to him, and Seokmin’s eyes light up in awe at the way your hands move. He turns towards the others with a questionable look, and when they tell him what you signed, his grin widens even more.

“It’s nice to meet you too!” Seokmin exclaims, the enthusiasm bouncing off him. Then he briefly glances between you and Joshua, wiggling his brows and adding, “I’ve been told a lot about you.”

Glancing over at Joshua, you notice the way he brings his head down to his feet for a moment, but then he lifts himself back up and meets your gaze with a fond smile.

“Okay, you guys can go set your things up. Seungkwan and I will set up the snacks and drinks,” Wheein says. “I say we go in the water after the performance. Who’s in?”

Right away, the remaining five of you come to a simultaneous agreement. Jeonghan, Seokmin, and Joshua begin to move towards a spot a little further down the beach where they can set up their equipment. Wheein and Seungkwan grab the bags with the food and drinks to set them up near the blanket, leaving you behind to soak in the sight of the beach once more.

“Right here is good.” Joshua motions to a spot on the ground where Jeonghan sets up the speaker for the microphone. “Did you bring the extension cord?”

Jeonghan pleasantly rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he whips out the extension cord and connects it to the speaker with ease. “You really don’t believe in me, don’t you?” Then he glances past Joshua’s shoulders, smirking faintly to himself. “Target incoming. Six o'clock.”

Joshua turns his body around, wiping away the sand from his hands, and his eyes land straight on you approaching up to him. The corners of his mouth turn upward at the sight of you, dazed eyes lingering on the way you carry yourself quietly toward him. The sunlight catches in your hair, and the backdrop of the ocean makes you appear like a painting that had come to life. He quickly clears his throat.

When you come up to him, you hold out your phone towards him.

Didn’t expect to see you here today

Joshua stifles a half-hearted laugh, plucking the phone from your grasp to type right below your line.

Is that a bad thing?

As you read the message, you could only scowl playfully, before taking your phone back.

How did you even know about this anyway?

After scanning your message, Joshua glances around before pointing at something behind you𑁋to Wheein and Seungkwan, who were both dashing away from a wave that was washing onto the shore.

“Your friends are really adamant about cheering you up,” he remarks teasingly. “I couldn’t just say no.”

You could visibly see the utter panic in Wheein’s face from afar when Seungkwan nearly stumbles into the wet sand, her hands coming to grab the younger boy’s arm to pull him up. Then their faces shift into a fit of laughter. You really don’t know what you would do without them, honestly.

“Thank you,” You sign to Joshua when you turn back to him.

Joshua’s eyes roam over your face with a soft, contemplative expression. Then he motions down to your phone that was in your grasp, and you hand it to him, your fingers briefly brushing against each other.

A thoughtful look spreads across his features, before he types a response on your phone, fingers moving swiftly over the screen, and you read his message:

You look beautiful today.

The words on the screen seem to glow brighter than usual, and you feel a rush of affection flood into you like the waves at high tide. Your hand nearly goes limp, almost dropping your phone into the sands below, your heart stuttering in your chest as you regain your composure. For once, even communicating with your hands feels clumsy, inadequate.

But before you can say anything, a damp hand lands at your shoulder, and you whip your head around to see Wheein standing there, hair dripping wet and chest heaving with exhaustion.

“If we don’t start, I’m going to kill Seungkwan,” Wheein says while exaggeratedly signing, face scrunched up in annoyance.

You scratch the back of your neck bashfully before turning off your phone and averting your eyes away from Joshua. You drag Wheein away to help her dry off while the others set up the rest of the equipment.

By the time everything is set up, there’s a small gathering of curious beachgoers nearby who seem to be drawn by the preparation going on. Some were sitting on blankets spread out on the sand, while others stood in small groups at a respectful distance.

You find yourself sitting on a blanket with Wheein and Seungkwan right next to you. The two of them were conversing with each other, and all you could do was watch Joshua. He takes out his guitar from the case before sitting on a folded up plastic chair. He runs a hand through his hair and seems to strum a few notes, probably checking the sound levels𑁋Jeonghan sends him a thumbs-up from the side. Seokmin also sits down in a chair right next to him, adjusting the microphone to his mouth and tapping a few times on its head.

“Hello, everyone!” Joshua announces into the microphone. He’s too far away for you to read his lips properly, but he’s still signing for you, for you to understand even when you’re not directly in front of him. Did he practice all of this beforehand? “Thank you all for stopping by to listen.”

It’s hard to fully catch what he signs next. He might be nervous, you think, but that’s still endearing in itself. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue over the beach, as Joshua begins to strum his guitar. Seokmin fixes himself up to the microphone, fingers tapping beats against his thigh. His face shifts into focus, eyes closing to the music taking over that you can feel reverberate through the fresh air.

Joshua's fingers dance across the strings, then Seokmin's voice joins in. You watch their performance unfold, catching glimpses of their expressions𑁋Joshua's focused yet occasionally glancing your way with a reassuring smile, Seokmin's eyes closed in immersion with the music.

At the corner of your eye, you see Wheein and Seungkwan swaying to the music. When Wheein turns towards you, she reaches down to grab your hand into hers and lifts it up into the air with a grin, swaying your hands together from left to right. She also does the same with Seungkwan, and it’s just the three of you moving your bodies enthusiastically to the music as it swarms throughout the lively atmosphere of the beach. The small gathered audience around seem caught in the moment too.

When the first song ends, you clap along with the others, feeling the exhilaration of the performance blossom within your chest. Joshua lets his eyes roam around, briefly settling in your gaze for a moment, and the sight of your genuine joy only encourages him even more. He nods to Seokmin, who flashes him a thumbs-up, and then they dive into the next song.

It’s an emotional one this time. You could tell from the pensive looks on everyone's faces𑁋Seungkwan seems like he’s even about to cry𑁋and it only makes you think what they’re singing about. But you don’t let it bother you; instead, you still slowly sway your body, closing your eyes and letting yourself immerse in the moment.

Grains of sand slip through the cracks of your fingers. The sun has almost fully set at this point, merely just a golden half-circle sinking into the horizon. Water drips down your hair and skin onto the towel below you, goosebumps crawling its way up your arms from the night breeze that was beginning to settle in. You have no idea what time it is right now𑁋the beach is probably going to close soon, you think.

The others are still wading in the water, except for Jeonghan who might be passed out on another blanket not that far away from you. The events from the past few hours have started to rain down on you, a small yawn leaving you as you use the towel below to dab at your legs.

However, you feel something encase around you suddenly, and you perk up to the warm feeling of a towel being draped over your shoulders. Looking up, you see Joshua standing right above you, a towel of his own in his hands. He places himself down right next to you as if it was the most natural thing to do, and you let him. You like… being close with him like this.

Joshua dries off his hair with the towel, and you have to take your gaze away from the fact that his arms are exposed because of the sleeveless black top he was wearing. His hair comes out in a loose mess, wet strands sticking to his forehead. He glances over at you for a second, sending you a brief smile, and again, you avert your eyes away, moving your neck around to ignore the heat creeping up your body.

You don’t suppress the smile passing over your own face, though.

A light nudge at your side blinks you back to reality, making you turn to see an illuminated phone screen right in front of you.

Tired?

That was all to make another yawn leave you once again. Joshua just chuckles at the way you angle your face away from the phone screen, trying to hide your weariness. He brings the phone back to type something else before showing it to you.

Feeling happy though?

You almost want to scoff at that, but you don’t. It’s hard to not notice the way you feel happy right now. Maybe you’re glowing or something, maybe the pain that you feel in your cheeks is from all the smiles that was plastered on your face throughout the day. Whatever it is, you can’t deny it𑁋yes, you feel happy.

Joshua sees it too. There was probably no use in asking. The answer blooms on your features, perhaps brighter than the first stars beginning to twinkle above.

And so, you simply nod.

When Joshua retrieves his phone back, there’s a subtle shift in his face that was noticeable in the light. His fingers start typing across the screen, but then it stops, starts again, and stops.

He turns to you, expression turning serious. “Is it okay if I ask you something? You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.”

You huddle more into the towel and meet his gaze with a curious tilt of your head. His eyes flicker between you and his phone. After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, he hesitantly shows you the screen.

Have you ever wished that you could hear again?

For some reason, Joshua expects for you to be taken aback by the question, maybe even awkward or offended. But, instead, a relaxed look graces your features, a subtle curve at your lips, and you shake your head. Then you take the phone, typing out:

Not really. When I lost my hearing at 7, I used to cry to sleep knowing I won’t be able to hear my parent’s voices again. But over time, I didn’t let it bother me. It’s a part of who I am. It doesn’t make me any less than anyone else. It doesn’t make the world any less beautiful than it is now. There will always be challenges, like missing out on a joke or an important announcement. But I’ve learned to find beauty in the little things. Like feeling music through vibrations, or how sunlight hits my skin and tells me that the day is beautiful. I could read people’s faces and feel their excitement or their sadness. These are sounds in their own ways. So no, I don’t really wish I could hear again. I’ve found my own way to listen and be heard.

You even feel out of breath after typing all that out, but you feel lighter. Your heart feels completely vulnerable right now, all the thoughts swirling around you seem easy to catch in another’s hands. But Joshua is gentle with those thoughts, as if he’s placing them back down on the ground for you to navigate them together. You notice a flicker of something akin to awe wash over his features as he quietly reads your words to himself, a thoughtful crease forming between his brows. Then, he starts to type.

For me, I’ve been surrounded by sound all my life. Voices, instruments, the noise of the city. It’s kind of hard to imagine going through life without it. I’ve learned to grow up analyzing tones, pitches, chords, and notes. And because of that I get afraid of being the one off-key. But I like being quiet with you. And I like talking to you. And I like getting to know you. There’s a part of me that thinks I wouldn’t get tired of looking at you. I don’t know if it’s the silence that helps me focus, but I just know it helps me focus on you.

You swear you don’t even blink when you read over his words, once, twice, five times over. There’s a tugging at the strings of your heart, a sweet ache spreading through your chest, a sensation much to the pull of the ocean’s tide. When you draw your eyes away from the phone and to Joshua, his gaze meets yours in the middle, a hesitant question lingering painted over his features.

He brings his hands once more. He points to himself first, then faces his hand towards his chest, putting his thumb and index finger close to his chest with the other fingers extended out. Next, he slowly moves his hand forward, bringing his thumb and index finger closer together. And finally, he points to you, like you’re the last piece of the puzzle.

“I like you.”

A lump forms in your throat, and that familiar flutter of butterflies takes flight in your stomach, but it’s demanding this time and impossible to ignore. Letting your eyes drift over his face𑁋from his somewhat damp, tousled hair and down to the curve of his lips𑁋you know exactly how you feel.

Without hesitation; without doubt, you kiss him the next moment. It’s a tentative touch at first, making Joshua’s eyes widen in surprise and you pull away with uncertainty. For a second, he could only gaze at you, but then an adoring smile blooms across his face, an admiring sparkle in his pupils. Then he tilts his head just slightly, almost in a teasing manner, and leans back in to capture your lips against his once more.

Even when your eyes flutter to a close, you still feel his smile against your skin, matching the warmth that spreads through you like strokes of paint on a canvas, like music that fills a silent space. Something comes to cover over your hand on the towel𑁋Joshua’s hand rest over yours, warm and securely, thumb coming to reassuringly rub over the skin there.

When you pull away, you have the urge to bury yourself in the towel wrapped around you or run away in a fit of panic. You end up doing the former, burying your face further in the soft cotton. But Joshua doesn’t let you completely disappear, a shy chuckle of his own leaving his lips as he reaches out to gingerly tug the towel down just enough to reveal your eyes.

“Hi there,” he says softly, before some worry stretches across his face. “Are you okay?”

You loosely release yourself a bit more from the towel’s grasp around you and meet his eyes with a small, reassuring smile.

“I meant what I said,” Joshua continues. His hand still rests on yours while he lifts the other one to sign again, “I like you. I really do.”

Glancing down at your laced hands, you absentmindedly brush away a few grains of sand that stuck to his knuckles. His skin is warm to the touch, and the intimate gesture makes you take a shallow breath. You lift your gaze back to this, and he follows the way you bring your hand up.

You stick out your pinky finger, almost like a promise, and extend out your thumb as well, before moving your hand back and forth to sign,

“Me too.” You continue to run the tips of your fingers over his hand. I like you too.

“Did Seokmin tell you about Jihoon?”

Joshua sprays a bottle of disinfectant on a table before grabbing the rag that was hanging loosely on his shoulder. “Who?”

“The producer guy.”

The smell of the chemicals sends an unpleasant crinkle to Joshua’s nose. He pauses his cleaning for a moment. “Haven’t heard of him.”

“Well, he’s a producer apparently. A fairly new one. I think Seokmin mentioned that he went to high school and university with him𑁋wasn’t entirely close to him, though. Just a name that was sort of tossed around.” Jeonghan stops to take a loud bite out of a bag of chips. “But I’ve heard he’s got a studio opened now somewhere. So maybe…”

Joshua lightly chuckles. “You know I’ve gotten scammed from this type of stuff, right?”

“I’ve done my research.” Jeonghan promptly sits up in the chair (yes, he’s not helping with cleaning at all). “No heinous crimes have been committed. If anything, the only thing I could find on him is𑁋”

“Yo, Jeonghan! Where do you want this box of shit?”

Jeonghan turns somewhat annoyedly towards the source of the voice: this guy named Wonsik that he had hired recently since having Joshua as the only other worker around was proving to be insufficient. Joshua can’t say he’s exactly a fan of him though. His attitude is a bit… brash, to say the least.

“Just leave it in the storage room,” Jeonghan says, pointing in the direction with a chip in his hand.

After wiping off the final corner of the table, Joshua feels his phone vibrate in his back pocket. As he takes it out and catches a glimpse of the notification, he can’t help but smile to himself.

Joshua takes off the apron he’s been wearing, neatly hanging it up on a hook by the door that was designated for staff.

Jeonghan catches him mid-chew. “Curfew time?”

“Yep.”

“Gross,” Jeonghan mumbles sarcastically while crumpling up his bag of chips. “You know, just because you’re in a relationship now doesn’t mean you get to slack off on closing duties.”

Joshua rolls his eyes playfully. “Whatever, I’ll make it up tomorrow.”

Wonsik emerges from the storage room, catching Joshua’s attention with his loud, assertive footsteps and nearly running into him, the scent of cigarette smoke trailing behind him. He mumbles something about finally finishing taking in all the boxes, carrying the last one labeled with supplies, his expression a mix of boredom and disdain as he spots Joshua preparing to leave.

“Finally taking off, huh?" Wonsik sneers, eyeing Joshua up and down. “Off to be the hero for your little deaf partner?”

Whatever politeness Joshua had to his features had faded away in an instant, his jaw clenching tightly to the words. He adjusts the strap of his guitar case on his shoulder and meets Wonsik's arrogant gaze evenly.

“Watch your mouth,” Joshua says sharply, a warning edge to his voice that cuts through the room like a knife.

“What? I’m just saying it must be hard to deal with them, that’s all. Like how do you even communicate? Doing your little hand stuff? Must be an ass to handle all that shit.”

Joshua's nostrils flare at that, sensing his patience wearing thin at Wonsik's blatant insensitivity. His fists clench at his side momentarily, but he keeps in his anger, knowing that losing his cool most definitely won't help the situation at all. Taking a deep breath, he meets Wonsik's eyes with a steely glare.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Joshua replies firmly. “Don’t you have some human decency and respect in you?”

Wonsik just scoffs haughtily. That dumb, conceited smirk on his face widens even more as he leans casually against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. "Hey, I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. It's not like I'm wrong, right? You could do so much better, man. You’re just pitying them because you feel bad.”

Just at that, his words strike a nerve in Joshua. “Y/N is more than capable of handling themself. They don’t need anyone else’s pity, least of all mine. So why don’t you mind your own business? Learn some respect while you’re at it, asshole.”

Wonsik shoots Joshua a final contemptuous glance before turning on his heel, shoving past Joshua, and disappearing back into the storage room, muttering something under his breath that Joshua isn’t bothered to decipher.

Heading back into the main area of the café, Joshua stops right before the door to turn towards Jeonghan. “Do me a favour and𑁋”

“Don’t worry,” Jeonghan interjects, waving him off dismissively. “He won’t come back tomorrow.”

Joshua’s shoulders visibly relax at that. “Thanks,” And when his hand lands on the door handle, he stops again. “I’ll do that thing, by the way.”

“That thing?”

“Mhm.” Joshua just nods. “I’ll ask Seokmin about Jihoon.”

Joshua hums quietly after every pluck of his guitar string, twisting the tuning pegs at the head of the guitar with every note deemed off-key. The sounds leaving his guitar bounce off the walls of your apartment and blend with the smell of leftover ramen that lingers in the room.

You sit across from him with two steaming cups of tea in your hand, carefully placing them on the coffee table in front of him. He glances up from tuning his guitar, eyes softening as they meet yours. Resting the guitar against the arm of the couch, he gratefully takes the mug that was waiting for him on the table, taking a quick sip of the jasmine tea you had prepared.

You peer at him worriedly, forming a claw shape with your hand and moving it downward to sign, “Hot?”

Joshua shakes his head, sipping once more and setting it back on the table.

“It’s perfect,” he tells you reassuringly.

Placing the guitar back on his lap, he positions his arms comfortably over it as if preparing to play something. Yet he catches the way your eyes watch his fingers glide over the strings. Joshua fixes his posture and presses his back against the couch behind.

“Do you want to try?” he asks. His fingers rest lightly on the strings, demonstrating a chord before letting them hover, waiting for your response.

The hesitation within you is shunned aside from the subtle hope of his invitation. Warily, you shift closer to him, settling between his legs as he positions the guitar in your grasp. His hands cover over yours, guiding your fingers over the frets and showing you how to press down on the strings. The wood of the guitar is smooth under your touch, vibrating weakly as you pluck the strings a few times tentatively.

His breath fans over your skin as he leans closer to help adjust your grip on the guitar neck. You have to turn your head in order to see if he’s saying anything to you. His face is so close to yours now that you can see the fine details in his expression. There’s a slight tiredness in there too, but you don’t comment about it.

Joshua's fingers move dexterously as he shows you another chord. This time, you press down with more confidence, and the sound resonates more clearly. He watches your face light up, and you can feel the vibrations of the strings through your fingertips. It’s a bit ticklish and you can’t help but giggle softly at the sensation. His hands still hover over yours for a few moments, but then he pulls back to give you a bit more space.

The chords you're playing aren't perfect𑁋they come out off-pitch and you aren’t able to tell, or the strumming patterns are a bit uneven𑁋but Joshua doesn’t mind. He doesn’t seem to notice or care about the mistakes.

After some time, you cautiously set the guitar on the floor, letting it lean back against the couch. By the time you finish taking another sip of your tea, Joshua is already holding out his phone to you.

If I wanted to get your attention without accidentally scaring you, how could I do that?

A feeling of déjà vu slithers down your body at the question, and you could tell Joshua feels it too. Briefly, you think about the first time the two of you met. It’s quite surreal how far you’ve come already.

You grab his phone to type:

I wouldn’t worry about scaring me like before, since I know that it’s you. I’m familiar with you. A small tap on the shoulder is okay, or you can flash your phone light. Wheein and Seungkwan do that to get my attention if they’re outside the door

Joshua reads your response, then shoots an understanding look, a thoughtful curve to his lips. The next thing that you catch is a yawn leaving him, which he tries to cover up with a sheepish smile.

“Tired?” You sign to him.

“A little bit,” he replies meekly. “Just some things on my mind.”

You tilt your head slightly, curiosity piqued at that.

Joshua practically melts into the couch, the exhaustion in his posture evident as he stretches out his legs and lets out a soft sigh.

“Work has been picking up a bit, people are ridiculous sometimes,” he starts, a twinge of frustration to his features. “I haven’t been able to go busking recently either, but… I think an opportunity came up. For music.”

Your eyes widen with interest, and you lean forward slightly, encouraging him to continue.

But he only hesitates. “I just don’t know if it’s worth pursuing. There are so many people out there who make big promises, but not all of them deliver. I don’t want to get involved in something that could turn out to be another dead end.”

A frown crosses its way across your lips. You can sense his apprehension and understand the reason behind it, but you also recognise the glimmer of hope in his eyes. Slipping out your own phone, you type:

You should go with what your heart is telling you to do. I’ll be there to support you either way :)

Your words drip of care and affection, feeling the uncertainty in his heart soften when he pinpoints the sincerity in your eyes. For a brief second, his gaze flickers down to your mouth before returning back up to your gaze. Without another word, he leans in, letting his lips brush against yours in a fleeting kiss.

Even in the few weeks the two of you have been together, moments like these will take some time to get used to. It’s both intimidating and exhilarating, comforting and thrilling all in one. But it’s undeniable that it feels… right, natural.

As cheesy as it sounds, that is what his heart told him to do at that moment𑁋to kiss you as a way to say thank you. A shy, boyish grin tugs at the corners of Joshua’s mouth when he pulls away. He takes a visible deep breath, as if drawing strength from your closeness, attentive eyes roaming over your face for any discomfort, but he finds none. The tips of your ears feel like they’re on fire, if anything.

“Cute.” He lightly taps the bud of your nose, causing you to scrunch up your face in response. “Thank you. I mean it.”

You only smile and nod under his gaze, signing with a simple, “I know.”

You lose track of time in front of the canvas when a yawn of your own leaves your mouth. Admittedly, it’s been hard motivating yourself to paint lately ever since your rejection at the exhibition, but somehow this time around, the colours on the canvas look more… livelier.

You glance between the unfinished canvas and to the candid picture that you took that day at the beach of your friends’ smiling faces. If this is how you’re going to encourage yourself to get back into painting, then so be it: painting a moment that you could simply define as happiness.

When another yawn leaves you, you swirl your paintbrush in a murky cup of water to clean it off before setting it aside. You stand from the chair and stretch, feeling the stiffness in your muscles from sitting in one position for too long. When you shift your gaze behind you, the sight that appears before you sends a leap of surprise through you.

Your eyes land on a sleeping Joshua, whose head rests against the arm of the couch, relaxed body slumped against the cushions, and one of his arms dangling off the edge. Tiptoeing over to him, you grab a blanket that Wheein had crocheted for your birthday from a nearby armchair and drape it over him. He shifts slightly at the movement but doesn’t wake, instead settling more deeply into the couch with a soft, contented sigh.

You don’t have it in to wake him up, because this feels right𑁋him at your place, falling asleep, and a sense of peace floating through the air.

If Seokmin didn’t come along, Joshua would probably have turned around on his heels by now and declined the offer.

Apparently Jihoon’s studio was located in a somewhat sketchy part of the city, and it took only one tumultuous month later to finally set a date to meet up. Joshua glances around the area, taking in a few worn-down buildings and graffiti-covered walls, wondering if this is really the right place.

“This place better not be a dump,” Seokmin mutters under his breath, scanning around nervously. “I swear, Jihoon has always been a bit of a mystery, but he’s got talent for sure. He was practically the maestro of the entire music program back then.”

“And you reunited with him… how?”

“At the gym,” Seokmin answers, but it’s more under his breath as if he was a bit embarrassed by it. The sly laugh that leaves Joshua makes him jut out his bottom lip. “I wanted to know his workout routine! I didn’t even recognise him after all these years.”

Joshua just rolls his eyes, the lighthearted banter lessening some of his nerves.

It would be his first time to walk into an actual studio. Somehow, Jihoon’s place was a good size to accommodate a variety of sound equipment and a living space at the same time. Compared to the gritty exterior, the inside certainly had more of a calming ambience. Neon lighting illuminated the room, casting a warm glow over the sleek equipment and musical instruments. Records lined the shelves and posters of artists decorated the walls, all bringing more character to the place.

Jihoon himself was the epitome of calm and collected, bringing an aura of meticulous confidence that caressed every inch of the studio. He’s been working independently this entire time, and according to Seokmin, he's been steadily putting a name for himself in the underground music scene right after graduating from university.

“So,” Jihoon starts, spinning around in the chair he was sitting on. Even when he was wearing a simple pair of sweatpants and a black tee, he still appeared effortlessly cool. “you’re a singer?”

Joshua looks down at himself for a moment as if questioning his own presence here, fingertips gliding steadily over the strings of his guitar. “Yeah. Been busking for the past year or so. Played guitar for my entire life. I’ve written some of my own songs, too.”

Surprisingly, this is enough to convince Jihoon. “Alright, then. Show me what you got.”

In its entirety, it was a surreal experience, and there’s just this inkling, this pinch of hope in the space between the tips of Joshua’s fingers whispering to him that he’s finally on the path to accomplishing his dreams. He’s never heard the sound of his voice so clearly before. Unlike the studio, there are no walls surrounding him when he busks𑁋only the open air, the street sounds blending with his music. But in the studio, the environment is different.

It’s as if his music is finally being given the space it deserves to breathe and thrive, just like he had always wanted for it to do.

The excitement is even evident in the way he’s gripping your hand as the two of you are walking back to your place together later that same night. Walking together has always been routine between the two of you, yet now there’s a certain lightness in the air knowing you both share the same love for these moments together.

Joshua feels the way you squeeze his hand, and when he looks at you, you’re holding out your phone for him to read.

So are you planning on seeing him again next week?

A contemplative look crosses his face, but it doesn’t take long for the corners of his lips to curve up.

“I think so,” he answers, eyes lighting up with optimism. “I think I might be getting to where I want to be, you know?”

The excitement that trickles down his body flows through your interlaced hands, and you find yourself smiling alongside him. You love knowing you get to be a witness of this pivotal moment for him. You love seeing him happy just as much as you love being happy around him.

When you reach the entrance of your apartment building, your hand still hasn’t left his. Joshua gazes past your shoulder towards the door, and then back to you.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asks, a teasing tilt to his head. “Even for just an hour?”

You wiggle your eyebrows at him, only giving him a simple shake of your head.

“Hm, am I that much of a distraction?” he muses, stepping just a tad bit more closer to you, and you know you’re digging yourself more into the ground at this point. “I love watching you paint though.”

You attempt to power through the way his words send a jolt through you, stubbornly standing your ground with the most serious expression you could muster. It’s not that you don’t want him to stay with you a little longer𑁋because you might quite possibly set everything aside for him without a doubt𑁋but you’ve made it a goal to get back into painting on your own terms and slowly but surely regain your confidence.

After putting on a small pout, Joshua’s gaze just softens. “Promise me you won’t stay up late?”

You nod, feeling the warmth of his concern and signing, “Promise.”

He still doesn’t let go of your hand, his thumb coming to caress tenderly over your knuckles. Joshua’s eyes flicker to your lips, and he leans in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to. But you don’t. Then he leans in and pauses once more, nose briefly brushing against yours, before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“Goodnight,” he signs when he pulls away, running a hand down your arm before reluctantly stepping back.

You could never get over the satisfying wave of relief that hits you whenever you complete a painting.

The first time you finished a painting was when you were eight years old. It was a simple watercolour painting of your family house, distinctively placed on a large hill instead of being surrounded by your neighbouring homes. Your mother had stuck it on the refrigerator for as long as you could remember alongside other family photos until it got too worn out from being taken down and put back up so many times, even being forgotten at some points when other mementos covered it. The fridge seemed so empty without it.

Seeing that painting every day reminded you of the joy of creating something with your own hands𑁋filling a space with something beautiful and meaningful, just like you had envisioned it in your mind. It’s not just about copying the photograph you used as reference; it’s about translating those fleeting, joyful moments into something real. You want people to look at your painting and feel the same happiness, the same warmth that you felt in that moment. It’s about capturing a moment in time and making it last forever. This is what art means to you.

“This is stunning, Y/N!” Wheein exclaims when you stand right next to her. “You made the sand look so real! And you used such a gorgeous gradient for the sky. You gotta give me some tips later! Have you thought about showing this to your teacher?”

You frown a little at that. You haven’t exactly been putting in the effort to show up at all. The sting of that rejection at the exhibition still lingers, making you hesitate to put yourself out there again. You’d rather put on a show for yourself before determining whether or not it’s worth sharing with others.

“I don’t know,” You answer.

“That’s okay!” Wheein says brightly. “But whenever you’re ready, let me know. We can make a killer portfolio together.”

You let out a laugh at that, mentally taking note of her offer for the future. Wheein just nudges you lightly on the hip with her own.

“You seem so much happier lately,” she acknowledges teasingly, a sly smirk crossing her face. “probably because of a certain someone…”

You feel a light flush creeping up your cheeks, and you glance away with a smile that you can’t quite hide. It hasn’t even been that long since you and Joshua have been together. Yet even though you can call him your boyfriend, he still gives you the space to grow, to dream, and to be yourself, just as you do with him. And in those times you two are together, reveling in the quiet language of your hands, letting your guard down has never felt this easy. You could share a simple smile with each other and the world seems a little brighter, a little more colourful, and a little more hopeful and meaningful.

“Oh my gosh, you’re smitten!” Wheein exclaims amusedly. “If that’s not love in your eyes, I don’t know what is.”

Love. What a silly, little word𑁋so small, yet carries so much in between its letters.

You just chuckle to yourself, savouring the way the word swirls around you.

[07:15 PM | y/n] are you nearing the place? I’m waiting by the front

You turn your phone off and bring it down, searching around for any sight of Joshua. Passerbys fill up your field of vision, all of them rushing past or casually walking by with their own different lives, but you don’t see him among the crowd. You check the time again, noting that he’s already fifteen minutes late, but you remind yourself that he’s been at Jihoon’s studio for the majority of the day and has probably been busy.

As you continue waiting, the slight chill of the evening air runs through your bones. It’s getting noticeably colder outside as winter is approaching closer and closer. You glance at your phone again, but the screen remains dark. Another ten minutes pass, and you could feel the worry creeping up your spine. It’s not like him to be this late without a reason.

The vibrant evening around you slowly begins to lose its charm, the excitement within you boiling down into a pit of disappointment, and the thought of standing alone any longer becomes unbearable. So, with a heavy sigh, you decide to walk away, pushing away the disappointment with every step that you take.

[07:28 PM | y/n] I’ll be heading home. let me know when you’re finished at jihoon’s

You slip your phone into your pocket, feeling a twinge of sadness as you start walking towards the nearest crosswalk. Above you, the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement below and swallow the lively colours of the evening.

Approaching the crosswalk, the signal light shines a deep red, instructing you to stop and wait. A crowd of people all stop behind you as you wait for the light to change, and you become acutely aware of their presence surrounding you.

Your eyes wander across the street, where the traffic light turns red, and cars begin to slow down. Anticipating for the light to signal for you to cross, a sudden flash catches your attention from across the street. It looks like a flashlight, and it was flickering in a deliberate pattern.

The moment the signal light turns green, the flashing stops, unraveling Joshua standing on the other side. People brush past you in order to cross the street, yet you can only find yourself frozen. There’s a flash of urgency you catch to Joshua’s features, and your focus narrows on him as he dashes across the street toward you.

He’s breathless the second he reaches you, and his face is flushed with relief and desperation.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologises, signing frantically to you. “I lost track of time. I tried getting on the bus to get here faster but the traffic was bad. I…” His shoulders sink in dismay. “I’m sorry.”

You just shake your head dismissively, but it’s not hard to miss the subtle hurt in your face and the way you sign back to him. “It’s okay. I know your music is important to you.”

“You’re my top priority,” Joshua says quickly, eyes intense with sincerity. “Let me make it up to you, okay?”

His words send a flutter that makes your heart ache in your chest. Joshua reaches down and takes ahold of your hand in his, squeezing reassuringly. You feel a warmth spread through you as he intertwines your fingers.

“Would you like to have dinner back at my place?” Joshua offers, his lips curling up in a hopeful smile. “Jeonghan is staying at a friend’s place tonight, so it’ll just be us.”

You look up at Joshua, your heart racing at the thought of spending the evening with him.

“Okay,” You sign to him.

It’s been years since the last time you saw a record player. Your parents used to have one in the corner of the living room. It was a vintage piece, and you remember how your father used to meticulously handle the vinyl records, placing them carefully on the turntable before lowering the needle. You didn’t hear the music that came from it𑁋the music that they played before you lost your hearing was vague to memory𑁋but you loved watching the way the needle danced across the grooves of the records.

Joshua has an entire vinyl collection, and you look through each one curiously. You see names like Amy Winehouse, Radiohead, Pink Floyd, Elton John, Frank Sinatra, Nirvana, The Beatles, and even some contemporary artists like Billie Eilish, Boys Like Girls, and Lana Del Rey. The covers of each one are like pieces of art themselves, with their vintage charm and intricate designs.

When Joshua turns away from the stove, he looks at you, where you’re already peering at him.

“Do you want to play something?” You sign to him, thinking that he might want to listen to something while you’re here together.

Joshua’s eyes only soften as he takes in your question. “You don’t have to play anything.”

You smile bashfully. “I want to.”

He feels a tug at his heart at the pleading expression to your face. He briefly checks the food cooking on the stove before walking to where you’re sitting on the floor, his vinyls scattered in front of you.

“Okay,” he tells you. “Pick whichever one you want.”

Joshua watches as you carefully pick a vinyl𑁋you end up picking The Beatles, a classic𑁋and with practiced hands, he helps you place the record on the turntable and lowers the needle. You watch as the record starts to spin and the needle settles within the grooves.

You turn toward Joshua, signing, “Is it playing?”

The sound that comes off the record player is a bit distorted at first, but after some time, it manages to smooth out. Joshua just nods, his face lighting up with a smile at the way you appear so engrossed by the spinning record.

Dinner comes by in a jiffy. The singular kitchen light hangs above the small table that you both are sitting at, the aroma of Joshua’s cooking wafting through the air. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but the simplicity of the meal𑁋steamed vegetables, grilled chicken, and fluffy rice𑁋makes it all the more comforting. You definitely would have preferred this over restaurant food.

You eat slowly, savouring the flavours of each bite. You can feel Joshua's eyes on you, and you can't help but smile.

“Good?” he asks.

You give a few enthusiastic nods, and the sight lights up Joshua’s face even further.

The record player was still faintly playing music in the background, yet the quietness that he gets to share with you is what he cherishes the most. It’s not awkward or forced; it’s a comfortable silence that pleasantly wraps around you both. The occasional pop or crackle from the record player blends in with the sounds of your contented chewing and the soft clinking of utensils.

Afterwards, you find yourself settling on the couch in Joshua’s living room as you wait for him to come back to the bathroom, and you take the time to peer around his space.

You already know that he’s living with Jeonghan too, so you love how you’re able to easily distinguish the small snippets that belong to Joshua. Apart from the collection of vinyl records, you also see a few microphone stands and a keyboard set up in one corner, as well as an empty guitar stand where you know his guitar belongs.

Letting your eyes drift, the coffee table in front of you catches your attention. There’s a couple of coasters, the remote for the TV, a cute succulent in the middle. But then your eyes land on something else.

On it, you spot a book laying flat on the table. Curiosity piqued, you reach over to examine it. The book is a sign language dictionary. You open it to find that it’s filled with detailed illustrations of hand signs, and throughout the pages you see Joshua’s handwriting scattered throughout. Some of the pages are marked with sticky notes, others you spot silly doodles of smiley faces in the corners.

You hardly ever thought about the amount of effort he put into learning how to talk to you, to understand you. A small part of you feels bad that he has to go through all this trouble to learn sign language. But then you remember that he chose to do this, that this was his decision, not yours.

The spot on the couch right next to you dips down slightly as Joshua sits down. He glances at the sign language dictionary in your hands and glances at you with a soft, curious look, and it makes you look away sheepishly.

Dropping the book in your lap, you fumble for your phone, typing out:

You did all of this for me?

When Joshua reads the message, a small chuckle leaves him.

“I wanted to get to know you better,” he tells you, your eyes flickering between his hands and his lips. “I don’t regret it at all.”

As his words wash over you, you feel your fingers struggle to put together how much this is affecting you. You type after a few thoughtful moments.

It must have been hard. I’m sorry

Joshua only shakes his head. “It was worth it. I promise.” He pauses for a moment, gears turning in his head. “Do you want to know the first word I wanted to learn?”

You watch as he picks up his right hand, opening it up so that his fingers pointed up and his thumb toward his cheek. Then he fans his fingers across his face, and closes his hand in a relaxed fist to sign the word beautiful.

“You’re beautiful,” he finishes, his fingers gracefully forming the sign again. “I happened to have thought that the first second you walked into the café.”

You could only stare at him incredulously. Even though it isn’t the first time he’s expressed this kind of affection in your few months of being together, it still takes you by surprise, still sends those surges of flutters shooting down your limbs, still makes your mind go blank and your hands go limp.

Cowering behind a hand of your own, you motion a shy finger at him, before rolling your hand over your face, then forming a Y-shape with your hand, and shaking it slightly.

“You’re beautiful, too.”

Joshua purses his lip together at that, suppressing the giddiness threatening to stretch across his features.

“Well,” he starts, cocking his head to the side endearingly. He won’t ever get over how adorable you are when you’re flustered. “I say we compliment each other quite well then.”

From there, the two of you let out some shared, heartfelt laughter, and it sounds like absolute music to Joshua’s ears. He shows you the pages he’s gone through in the book𑁋from the alphabet and grammar, to basic common phrases, and to more, nuanced, complex sentences𑁋and it looks like he’s more than halfway done with reading and annotating through it. He eagerly points out the words and phrases he's already mastered, and the ones he's still struggling with. It's cute seeing the little doodles and notes he's written in the margins.

When he places the book back on the table and turns to you, a lightbulb goes off in your head.

“I can teach you,” You sign to him, a willing passion in your hands.

Joshua lifts a brow, copying your movement. “Teach me?”

When you nod, his face morphs into a pensive look. After a few moments, he brightens back up.

“How about the seasons?” he suggests. “We can start with those.”

You begin with spring. Your hands move as if they’re opening up to new life, the gesture mimicking the blossoming of flowers. Joshua watches intently, his eyes following your movements carefully, before mimicking the motion a few times.

Next, you move on to summer. You form a fist with your palms down at your forehead, before taking your index finger and drawing it across your brow a few times, almost as if you’re wiping away a drip of sweat.

For autumn, you use your hands to mimic falling leaves from a tree off your non-dominant elbow, making a gentle fluttering motion.

Finally, you teach him winter. You simply make a shivering motion, as if you’re cold, and Joshua chuckles as he imitates the sign. You watch in awe as he successfully goes through the signs a few times without a hitch. Giving him a few rounds of claps, he gives a shy, pleased smile, clearly proud of his progress.

“I hope we…” Joshua starts, some unsureness flowing through his hands, but he signs the seasons so easily (unbeknownst to you, he already knew them). “...we get to see spring, summer, autumn, and winter together.”

Perhaps he could feel the way your heart swells in his hands, because he’s cradling it so preciously as he speaks, and he looks at you with such hopeful eyes.

You want to spend every single season with him.

Later that night, you find yourself standing in front of the sink in Joshua’s kitchen, washing the dishes because you lost him to a game of rock-paper-scissors.

As you’re rinsing off the final dish, a light tap lands on your shoulder, making you wince for a second before quickly relaxing. A pair of arms then sneaks around your waist, pulling you close and causing you to nearly lose your grip on the plate.

Joshua gently rests his chin on your shoulder from behind. His breath hits your neck as he wraps his arms around you. He stays like this for a few moments, simply savouring the closeness of your presence against him. Then, with a mischievous smile that you don't see, he brings a finger up and slowly begins to trace your back lightly with the tip, almost like a whisper against your skin.

I…

Curious and slightly ticklish, you crane your neck slightly to look back at him over your shoulder, scrunching your face up as you try to focus on deciphering what he’s trying to write.

… l… o… v… e…

Joshua pauses momentarily, sneaking a glance at the way you’re standing so still in his hold, before tracing the final letters.

…y… o… u.

Eyes widening, you shift around in order to face him, and Joshua rests his arms on either side of you, hands gripping onto the counter behind and practically enclosing you in.

He leans in, and the world seems to narrow altogether. His half-lidded eyes flicker between your eyes and lips, as if asking for permission, and you could only anticipate what’s coming next as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Chuckling softly, Joshua inches even closer to you, and you feel his nose lightly brush against yours. But instead of pressing his lips against yours, he first kisses your forehead softly, making you shoot your eyes open in a bit of a confused daze.

But before you can fully process everything, he’s leaning in once again, and this time, his lips gently meet against the tip of your nose. You crinkle it back as a pout runs across your mouth, and Joshua’s grin widens even more.

“What’s with the face?” he teases, feigning a hurt look. “Is it because I haven’t kissed you properly yet?”

You answer with him a shy, petty tug at the fabric of his shirt.

“Give me a smile then,” Joshua insists impishly. “Please?”

Just from that alone, a shy curve sprouts at your lips, and Joshua just watches with a satisfied look.

“Hmm,” he hums skeptically, but is leaning in closer anyway. “I’ll take it.”

Then he finally kisses you, mouth moving with an ardent sweetness against yours that renders you breathless. He playfully chases after you as you manage to escape out of his grasp. But he’s quick to catch up to you anyway, the sounds of your giggles mingling with the soft crackling of the record player as you both collapse on top of the couch.

You tentatively trace I love you on his back when you’re both settled on the couch together, legs intertwined and your head perched at the crook of his neck. He’s asleep, you consider𑁋you can tell by the way you feel his chest rising and falling against yours.

Yet after you write those words, a shaky, relieved exhale leaves him that you don’t hear.

“All you have to do,” Jihoon starts, offering a seemingly heavyweight set of headphones in his other hand towards Joshua. “is press play right here, and tell me what you think.”

Joshua takes hold of the headphones as Jihoon scoots a bit of his chair away to give him some room. He places it carefully over his ears, feeling the soft cushions envelop them. Then after taking a deep breath, he reaches over to press the play button on the keyboard, and Joshua can feel his heart racing in anticipation.

Upon playing, he’s greeted with the familiar sounds of his guitar filling his ears, and then his voice comes in. Hearing himself in such a professionally produced track and not just as raw vocals bouncing off the walls of his room is absolutely unbelievable. He could also pinpoint the subtle layers Jihoon has added to the track𑁋a faint drumbeat and soft vocal harmonies.

It was a song that was once simple lyrics in a dusty journal and a few rough guitar chords. It wasn’t meant to be anything grand; it was originally a personal project made on a whim in the middle of the night just to channel his feelings and his dreams into something palpable.

But now, hearing it with such rich yet attenuated production for the first time, it feels as if the song has taken on a life of its own.

“Holy𑁋wow,” Joshua says the moment he takes off the headphones, staring at Jihoon with disbelief. “Are you sure this is my song?”

Jihoon chuckles at that. “Positive, man.”

Joshua’s eyes remain wide. He holds the headphones in his hands, turning them over and inspecting them closely as if trying to decipher the magic hidden within.

“I never imagined it could sound like this,” he admits meekly. “I mean, I’ve always dreamed about this, but... to actually hear it like this? It’s incredible.”

Jihoon nods encouragingly. “You had the foundation; I just built on it. I’m telling you, with the right push, it could really connect with people.”

Joshua leans back in his chair, still holding the headphones in his grasp like it's a sacred bar of gold, and lets out a deep breath. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“The recording will be on this USB drive,” Jihoon shows off a tiny, ruby red drive in his hand. “I’ll work on polishing it up a bit more, but this is essentially it. You could also gain some attention from your busking gigs. What do you say?”

Well, it’s not like he can say no to that.

“I’m in,” Joshua replies with a grin.

The minute that he steps out of the studio later that day, a breeze of cold air suddenly nips at his cheek. Joshua brings his head up to see the sky thick with clouds, and to his amazement, delicate snowflakes begin to fall, gently drifting down and settling on his hair and shoulders. It’s the first snowfall of the season.

There’s something almost magical about the way the snow falls, he thinks. As he continues to walk through the streets, there’s a sense of renewal that washes over him, a fresh start, just like the song he’s worked so hard on and the dreams he's held at the tips of his fingers. He takes a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs, and pulls out his phone to text you.

[05:39PM | joshua hong] Still have time to meet up later?

Your reply comes in almost instantaneously.

[05:41PM | y/n] just left the museum :) it’s snowing outside!!!

[05:42PM | joshua hong] Dress warmly ❤️ I’ll meet you at your place?

[05:42PM | y/n] I will. see you soon ❤️

Chuckling to himself, Joshua pulls the jacket tighter around his body and stuffs his hands inside his pockets, quickening his pace at the thought of seeing you.

When the season of spring rolls over, trees are budding with beautiful, bright green leaves and flowers are blooming in a vibrant array of colours. Spring has always been one of your favourite seasons, and this year is no different𑁋especially if you get to see it with the people close to you.

You’ve been coming back to attend your art class at the museum, and you’ve decided to pick up a small side role as a teacher’s aide to earn some extra money since more people have been enrolling into the art programs. So far, it’s been very rewarding and fulfilling, and meeting new people who share your same passions has been a joy.

Plus, you could proudly say the spark for painting has been getting stronger and stronger each passing day.

Wheein greets you with enthusiasm when you walk out of the classroom, explaining with annoyance about how one of the girls in her classroom was someone she heavily despised back in high school. Seungkwan shows up when you both step out of the museum, and you have to remind them that you can’t sacrifice your plans with Joshua to hang out with them at the arcade that just opened down the street.

“They’re in their honeymoon phase,” Seungkwan rolls his eyes teasingly.

“They’ve been in their honeymoon phase for, like, half the year now,” Wheein grumbles, though her irritation is more playful than serious. “It’s not like they’re going to stop anytime soon.”

“And Y/N is practically dating a celebrity at this point. Have you seen the way people are talking about his music online?”

Your best friends are boasting about your relationship right in front of you, making you roll your eyes. But you can’t help the way your cheeks colour with a tad bit of embarrassment and… a hint of proudness too, because they’re right.

Joshua has had a few more songs released under his name, and performing at the busking centre has become a regular part of his schedule, his days working at the café lessening as he’s been focusing more on his music. His performances have been slowly drawing more attention, both locally and online, and it’s clear that his passion is shining through. You’re incredibly proud of him𑁋you’ve always had been.

Your footsteps are as light as a feather by the time you reach the busking centre. There’s already a good size crowd gathered around, and you can see Joshua sitting in the middle, propped on a stool with his guitar. Seokmin is there too, sitting on a stool of his own with a microphone in front of him, and there’s one more person. Judging by the small details that Joshua alludes to𑁋with the man’s distinctive button nose and laid-back stature𑁋you could only assume it’s Jihoon sitting behind the keyboard with a calm and focused expression.

As you, Seungkwan, and Wheein find a spot at the edge of the crowd, he seems to spot you almost immediately in the midst of singing a song, his eyes lighting up the moment they meet yours. He gives you a small smile, and you can’t help but feel a rush of warmth spread through your chest. Joshua looks completely at ease as he tunes his guitar, his fingers moving cleverly over the strings.

He looks really, really pretty. The sun seemed to be shining down on him in all the right ways, the sleeves of the white collared shirt that he was wearing pulled up to reveal his forearms, and a dainty pair of glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. The subtle spring breeze rumples his hair just enough to make him look effortlessly handsome. You couldn't take your eyes off him.

The entire crowd is captivated, yet it's as if he's singing directly to you, and in a way, he is. The vibrations fly through the air and hit every inch of your skin and into your chest, each note reverberating in your heart. You watch the way his lips move, the way his eyes light up, and the way the crowd responds𑁋it all tells you just how special this moment is.

As the song comes to an end, the crowd erupts in applause once again, and you find yourself brightly clapping along with everyone else. He looks over at you, and for a moment, it feels like time stands still. Then he stands up with Seokmin and Jihoon following, the three of them taking a bow together, before he sets his guitar down and makes his way toward you.

Seungkwan and Wheein give you knowing looks before stepping aside to give you two some space, leaving to approach Seokmin and Jihoon.

“Did you like it?” he asks while signing to you.

You purse your lips together, shooting a musing glance up at the sky, before signing, “You already know what I think of it.”

“In fact, I do not,” Joshua responds playfully, stepping a bit closer to you. “That’s why I’m asking you, love.”

You narrow your eyes at him, feigning mock suspicion, and he seems to already know what you’re trying to point out.

“Of course I’m fishing for compliments,” he adds on with a cheeky grin, endearingly wrinkling his nose that his glasses slide down just a bit. “Your opinion matters the most to me. Winning your approval means that I’ve accomplished the world, you know.”

You can't help but laugh faintly at his words, though his earnestness warms your heart. Tentatively, you reach out to adjust his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose. His gaze follows your movements as you pull away from him slightly, the corners of his lips twitching up even further.

“It was wonderful,” You sign back bashfully. A blush creeps up your cheeks as you realise how cheesy it sounds, but Joshua’s features only soften as he reads your hands and catches a glimpse of a twinkle in your eyes when you look at him.

He reaches down and takes one of your hands into his. “That was all that I needed to know.” Then he glances at the time displayed on his phone and looks back at you. “The aquarium is still open, right?”

Your eyes widen at that𑁋that’s right, you were too caught in the moment that you nearly forgot about your plans𑁋and you give an eager nod.

“Perfect,” Joshua chips eagerly, his hand squeezing yours encouragingly. “The painting you did the other week reminded me of the jellyfish exhibit.”

“This awfully feels like a break-up.”

Joshua furrows his brows at that while folding one of his shirts and placing it inside a box. “What are you even talking about?”

“You’re breaking up with me,” Jeonghan retaliates jokingly, fauxing a sulky pout. “and moving out. I thought we had something special going on here.”

“You were the one who wanted me to move out in the first place.”

Jeonghan sighs dramatically, slumping his body against the doorframe of Joshua's now half-empty room. “That was before I realised how lonely it would be without you here. And now you’re spreading your wings and flying off.”

As sarcastic as that sounds, the corners of Joshua’s lips turn up fondly. If it weren’t for Jeonghan taking him in as his roommate from the very beginning ever since moving away, he wouldn’t lie about feeling a little sentimental.

After packing up the remains of his clothes, Joshua stands up from sitting on his ass on the floor for two hours straight, crossing his arms together and shooting Jeonghan a pointed look. “You know I’m only going to be living like… fifteen minutes away, right? And I’ll still be working at the café.”

“I’m officially putting you as full-time then.” Jeonghan’s lips quirk up in a smirk.

“Screw that,” Joshua huffs with a laugh. “I’ve already got enough on my plate.”

“Right, because you’re so famous,” Jeonghan remarks exaggeratingly. “Heard you signed a napkin for someone the other day.”

Joshua snorts at that in response. Okay, he’s certainly not as famous as Jeonghan depicts him to be, but apparently famous enough for someone to approach him and ask for his autograph on a napkin. Apart from the gigs in the busking centre, he also has a few social media accounts set up where he can post song covers on occasion and drop updates about his music.

All he has is his presence, a guitar, and a dream that’s slowly taking shape right before him. He knows it’s a long road ahead, but even with the small progress that’s been made so far, he’s hopeful, determined.

The new apartment is small but cozy. It’s not much, but it’s a place to call his own𑁋his own little corner of the world. He decides it’s not worth the energy right now to unpack everything and instead settles on top of the lone mattress that’s currently on the middle of the floor, feeling both exhausted and oddly content.

He stretches his body on top of the soft surface and lets out a sigh of relief as he sinks into the mattress, gazing aimlessly at the barren ceiling above him. The remnants of packing are scattered about the place, with boxes sitting in corners and unopened bags lying around. His guitar sits on its stand right next to the window. There are still many things to figure out𑁋how to decorate the place, where to put everything, what this all means for his future.

But for now, he allows himself this moment of stillness; this brief, quiet pause before turning the page to the next chapter.

After nearly nodding off, a few knocks at the door jolt him awake. He blinks in surprise, pushing himself up from the mattress. Stretching out his tired limbs, he makes his way to the door, opening it to find you standing on the other side.

You stand there with a bag clutched at your side, suspended under the singular hallway light that highlights the fondness in your eyes. You shake the bag lightly.

“Food?” You sign to him.

Joshua swears his heart drops down to his knees just from that alone, his exhaustion melting away from your simple offer. Then his stomach rumbles, as if in agreement, reminding him that he hasn’t exactly had a proper meal the majority of the day from how busy he was with moving in. The nod he gives you makes you chuckle.

As you step inside his new place for the first time, you take a moment to gaze around at the barren walls and scattered boxes. Like any new, fresh canvas, the space holds so much potential and possibilities. If it’s home for Joshua, then it’s also… home for you too.

The two of you sit down cross-legged on the mattress while unpacking the bag of its contents. The aroma of takeout food travels through the air. You spread out the food between you, and Joshua seems to light up upon seeing the familiar, comforting dishes.

Sharing a meal together feels a bit different now. You don’t exactly know why, but there’s a subtle shift in the air you haven’t noticed until this very moment. There’s a sense of beginning, of making this place feel like home, and it’s oddly intimate. It's a blank slate waiting to be filled with new memories. New memories that you can’t wait to make with him.

Joshua feels a nudge at his knee while chewing on a sushi roll, seeing that you’re holding out your phone for him to read.

Can I show you something?

He swallows his bite of sushi and looks up at you with curiosity, taking a second to clear his mouth while giving a nod.

Shrugging off the nerves, you set your plate of food down to reach into the bag. You pull out a small canvas, and when you turn it over to show him, it shows a beautifully painted scene of a sunset casting over the horizon. The vibrant hues of yellow and orange blend seamlessly with soft blues and purples. Along with that, the silhouette of a couple sitting together𑁋with one leaning their head on the other’s shoulder𑁋under a tree completes the picture.

Joshua reaches out to touch the canvas, letting a fingertip caress over its coarse surface.

“This is beautiful,” he tells you. “Did you make this for me?”

You nod, and he watches closely as you type on your phone.

I wanted to give you your first piece of decoration for your new place

Joshua’s eyes soften as he reads your message, the warmth in his chest spreading to his entire body.

“It’s perfect, honey,” he says. “I’ll be sure to hang it somewhere special.”

In your eyes, you can already imagine it hung on the empty wall beside the window, where the morning light will cast a gentle glow on it and bring the colours to life. In your eyes, you can imagine your easel sitting right below it, with Joshua’s guitar propped right beside it…

“I should have the stuff to hang it in one of the boxes. I’m not sure which one though.” Joshua’s eyes flicker between the unopened boxes standing intimidatingly in the corner of the room, letting out a small, airy laugh. “But I’ll find it soon, I promise.”

You give him a warm, reassuring smile, as if conveying that there wasn’t any rush in finding it right now.

When you both finish eating and cleaning up, you find yourself sitting on the mattress, body turned so that you are staring out the window of Joshua’s apartment, reveling in the stillness of the summer night and the way moonlight filters on the wall. Your silhouette is quickly joined by another one as Joshua settles closely beside you, your shoulders brushing lightly.

At the corner of your eye, a glowing phone screen catches your attention, on it displayed a message from Joshua.

What are you thinking about?

The question almost seems silly somehow, yet you ponder for a few moments, before taking the phone to type back:

I made a big decision today

Joshua lifts up an intrigued brow, and he tilts his head inquisitively at you, the soft brown tones of his eyes glistening like honey. It makes you lose your train of thought briefly as your fingers drift clumsily across the screen.

I’m going to participate in the upcoming exhibition at the museum. I’ve been thinking of trying again for a while now

“You are?” Joshua’s eyes widen. “When is it going to be?”

“During fall,” You sign in response.

Fall isn’t that far away. The reminder seems to gnaw uneasily at your nerves, and Joshua notices it right away.

“Feeling nervous about it?” he asks.

You nod slowly, the weight of your decision settling heavily in your chest.

“It’s okay to be nervous. I know it didn’t go well last time,” Joshua continues. “But, well𑁋you already know what I’m going to say, right?”

Now, the nod you give is a bit more confident. You bring your hands up to sign, “I believe in you.” You wonder if it’s his favourite phrase, since he’s said it to you so many times before. It holds a special place in your quiet conversations.

“Exactly.” He wiggles a playful finger in front of your face, the moonlight makes his eyes twinkle with reassurance. “I believe in you. I’ve seen the way you pour your heart into your art. No matter what, you’re going to shine, love. And you have to believe in yourself too, okay? That’s the most important step.”

Joshua reaches over to grab your hand into his, squeezing firmly, before bringing it up to his lips to place a kiss right at your knuckles. You melt at that𑁋probably into the mattress at this point𑁋and hang your head down bashfully.

When the silence rolls over again, you lean your head on Joshua’s shoulder, your silhouettes intertwining together on the wall.

Maybe this is where you belong, after all.

There’s a quiet comfort you find in the palette of fall: the colours of leaves changing to warm oranges, reds, and yellows, the subtle crispness of the air that reminds you of the sweet taste of cinnamon rolls, and the way the sunlight feels a little softer on your skin.

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm the racing thoughts in your head. This is it. The moment you’ve been dreading and anticipating for weeks. You toy anxiously with the sleeves of your cardigan as you walk into the museum, the grand hall stretching out before your eyes.

It’s all familiar just like last year𑁋the same setup, some familiar and new faces. More people are probably participating than last time since the art program has grown exponentially, and the thought fills you up with trepidation, if anything. Wheein is also here too engaging in the exhibition, Seungkwan was going to come later, and Joshua had already texted you that he's on his way after ending his performance at the busking centre early (though you insisted he didn’t have to… yet he did anyway) though you’re unsure when he’s going to arrive.

Along with the other artists in the room, you take a seat as you wait for the exhibition to finally begin. Then you feel a tap on your shoulder, and you perk up to see Wheein quickly engulfing you in a hug before pulling away.

“Jeez, there you are! You’re sitting like a wallflower and I couldn’t find you anywhere,” she rambles quickly that you don’t entirely catch what she’s saying, but you could tell she’s nervous too. She takes a visible breath, and brings her hands up. “How are you feeling? Heard there’s more competition this time.”

You offer her a small, reassuring smile. “Nervous, but excited. I feel more prepared.”

Wheein nods, her eyes lighting up at that. “Good. You've got this.” She glances around the room before turning back to you. “See you on the other side?”

“Definitely,” You assure her, feeling a surge of confidence flow through you.

Wheein squeezes your hand with a firm look one last time before moving off to find her own spot. A short while later, the exhibition officially begins with a long speech by the museum director once more. There’s still no sign of Joshua anywhere, but you tell yourself that you got this.

Ignoring your sweaty palms, you spot your artwork hanging on the wall. It feels like a small part of you is now on display. And for the first time, there’s a feeling of pride that wraps around you comfortably. You feel more prepared than last time; with the help of Wheein, you wrote down some written statements you could present to the critics and the visitors who come by if they ever ask about your piece.

A few minutes later, an interpreter approaches you𑁋one who isn't late this time, thankfully𑁋and you greet her with a friendly nod. She offers a kind smile to you, and you feel a bit more at ease, knowing that you’ll be able to communicate effectively with any critics and curators.

As people start to crowd around the extravagant hall, you find yourself observing their reactions from a distance. Some pause to study your piece closely while reading the written statements you prepared. Others seem to take in the scene with thoughtful silence and then move on to the next artist after you. However, before you know it, time seems to slip away fairly quickly, and you’re surrounded by a sea of curious faces willing to engage in discussions about your painting.

It’s a bit overwhelming having to explain and answer to so many people at once where you can feel their eyes practically boring into you, but you’ve rehearsed this part so many times that you feel yourself becoming more comfortable, more natural in the way you’re confiding in your work.

As much as art can be interpreted, reinterpreted, and misinterpreted, you know that in the end, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. Your work is supposed to continue conversations, not end them. And you hope that yours does just that.

After talking to a sweet-looking old couple, you take a moment to catch your breath. You can’t tell if the stars have possibly aligned for you or if it’s just the magic of the night that’s making everything feel so right.

Just as you're starting to relax a bit, a familiar, comforting sight at the corner of your eye captures your attention. And when you bring your head back up to welcome the next visitor, you find Joshua right in front of you, coming up with his arms behind his back and a playful look on his face. He’s dressed in a comfortable navy blue sweater and a pair of beige jeans, appearing effortlessly handsome and soft as always.

“Hello,” he greets warmly before stopping in front of you, letting his eyes trail past you in order to roam over the large painting that sat behind. So this is what you’ve been keeping a surprise all this time. “Your painting is beautiful. Can you tell me more about it?”

You blink in surprise at his sudden performance on being a visitor, biting back a smile creeping up your lips and the affectionate flutters bursting in your stomach.

Gesturing to the painting, you start to explain as your interpreter steps in to translate to Joshua. You start with the basics of your piece: the inspiration, the styles and techniques you used, and what you hoped to convey, and Joshua listens attentively, though he seems to be more focused on you than anything else. For some reason, him being the only one standing here is making you more nervous than the group of people you talked to earlier.

“I could see the passion you put into your piece,” Joshua says softly. “It’s admirable. It was the first thing that caught my eye when I walked in here and I could tell that there’s something truly special about it𑁋that there’s a lot of heart in it. So thank you for sharing this part of you to the world. You have a gift, honestly.”

You find every ounce of wanting to thank him shy away as a blush rises to your cheeks. Instead, you give a small nod, head hanging down as if the floor was the most interesting sight in the world, feeling overwhelmed by his words. If you look at him, you’d feel like you would melt into a puddle on the floor.

Joshua chuckles quietly at your reaction before giving you one last lingering look. You watch as his shoes walk out of your line of sight, his presence leaving behind a comforting feeling to settle in your chest, right by your heart. You feel like you can conquer the world right now.

When you finally bring your head back up, you don't spot him anywhere. For a moment, you scan the large room, looking for the familiar navy blue sweater, but you assume he’s already moved on to another part of the exhibition.

You let out a breath you hardly noticed you were holding until now.

As the evening winds down and time is getting closer to the dreaded announcement of results, the atmosphere in the museum starts to shift from the excitement of the exhibition to a more anticipatory hush as everyone returns back to their seats. The tremble in your hands returns back once more as you peer around anxiously, hoping to see some sight of a familiar face𑁋of Joshua, of your best friends, of anything.

Minutes later, Wheein and Seungkwan run up to you with wide, beaming grins. Joshua isn’t with them, though. Your shoulders deflate slightly.

“They’re about to announce the results!” Wheein exclaims, signing to you with more enthusiasm than you can ever have right now. “How do you feel?”

“I swear I saw so many people gathered at your painting earlier,” Seungkwan adds in. “That’s got to be a good sign, right?”

“Not all the time,” Wheein reassures him with a disappointed tone, but she keeps a light-hearted smile. “Usually it just means people were interested, but hey, it’s definitely a good sign! You should be proud of yourself, no matter what happens, Y/N, okay?”

You force a smile at that, trying to hide the nervousness that’s crawling up your spine. You're not sure if you're ready to hear the results, yet at the same time, there’s a pang of excitement that’s hard to not acknowledge too.

The museum director steps up to the podium once everyone scrambles to return to their seats. You shoot glances around the room, spotting familiar faces, some looking calm and composed, others nervously tapping their feet or fidgeting with their clothes. You can hardly catch up with the way your heart is racing like it's running on overdrive, but you attempt to readjust your focus to the director.

“Now, I would like to formally express congratulations to all who have claimed a place in this year’s annual exhibition. We had an outstanding number of participants and submissions this year. It was a very challenging time for the judges…”

The director’s voice is steady, yet each word that you watch leave his mouth seems to stretch on as your nerves make the second feel like minutes then to hours. Your palms have become clammy, and you grip your hands into tight fists, your nails digging into the skin of your palm.

“…the judges have taken into consideration to select the works that stood out in originality, technique, and emotional impact. And now, for the results…”

Your breath catches as the director begins to announce the winners slowly but surely, one by one, heartbeat thumping stronger with each one. The names come and go, each following with a few moments of applause erupting around the room that you echo along with as the artists hop onto the stage to retrieve their certification from the director. It’s like a momentary pause of time before the next.

The moments that pass feel as if a small weight is being lifted from your shoulders, only to be replaced by a heavier, more pressing sense of anticipation, of dread, of doubt. Déjà vu starts to seep into your thoughts as you bite at your bottom lip and bring your eyes down from the stage, feeling your chest tightening with hopelessness. There’s no point.

And it’s because you’ve become so attuned to your thoughts that you don’t notice the collective murmur of excitement that ripples through the crowd right before you. You pick up to clap your hands for the name was just called, only to be met with quite literally everyone’s faces on you. Nothing but confusion clouds your mind.

Are they… clapping for you?

The realisation hits you hard, and for a few long seconds, you’re caught between disbelief and elation. Your body feels absolutely frozen in place; everyone’s mouth is moving too fast for you to fully process; the world around you feels like it’s spinning. The moment seems to stretch into an endless void, and you can barely believe what’s happening. The crowd’s faces blur into a sea of smiles and congratulations… for you.

Your name𑁋your artwork𑁋had been recognised.

You nearly tumble on the way to the front at the way your legs feel numb underneath you, each step feeling as if you’re floating on air. Perhaps this is really just one, long, tortuous dream, but the way your trembling hands clutch the certificate as you receive it from the director feels startlingly real.

The director offers you a handshake and an acknowledging smile, but you hardly register it all in your mind. In those short moments, you take the opportunity to swiftly scan the room, catching sight of Wheein and Seungkwan clapping happily for you, and Joshua standing right next to them. He’s clapping along too𑁋is that a bouquet of flowers in his hands?𑁋with a warm, proud smile painted across his features. You consider it more important than any of the applause around the room; more important than the award itself, ironically.

You make your way back to your seat, the certificate feeling both heavy and light in your hands. Every congratulatory smile that the other artists send to you is like a burst of warmth against the cool autumn night.

As the last of the names are called, you find yourself drifting among the crowd, eyes in search of your friends. But it isn’t long for your body to be engulfed by the arms of Wheein and Seungkwan who have managed to squeeze their way through the crowd to find you, their faces glowing with uncontainable excitement.

“Y/N, you did it!” Wheein exclaims, her eyes glistening with joy as she shakes you by the shoulders. “I knew you could! I’m so proud of you!”

“I told you it was a good sign!” Seungkwan remarks to Wheein before facing you with a wide grin. “Shit, I’m about to cry again𑁋I’m so happy for you, Y/N!”

As their words sink in, an overwhelming bubble of triumph grows within you. A shaky laugh leaves you as they continue to shower you with their happiness, heat beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes from how much your heart feels so fully right now.

Wheein drags Seungkwan by the wrist to greet the other artists, and you’re left standing at the very side of the museum, gazing wandering around through all the faces within your vicinity. You don’t see any sign of Joshua anywhere. Did he get lost?

With that, you pull your phone out to text him, before your eyes widen in surprise at the way you missed a message from him sent five minutes ago. You were a bit too distracted by everything else that you didn’t feel the notification of his text.

[09:03PM | joshua hong] I’ll meet you outside ❤️

Without any hesitation, you slip your phone back into your pocket and make your way toward the exit of the museum, leaving behind the lively inside and into the peaceful night. The cool autumn air greets you with a refreshing embrace as you step outside, the sky painted with the soft hues of dusk.

Joshua isn’t standing that much farther away from you, spotting him waiting idly by the small gate at the entrance of the museum, a singular spotlight shining down on him from above. As you start to approach him, he seems to notice and turns his body toward you, a smile spreading across his lips.

“What are you doing out here?” You sign to him curiously.

Joshua’s lips form a thin line in thought, signing back expressively while answering, “Too noisy in there, and I thought you deserved some fresh air. Plus, I wanted to give you something.”

After that, he pulls out the bouquet of flowers from behind his back and extends it toward you with a sheepish look.

“I know you probably already saw them, but I couldn’t hide it any longer,” he tells you. “Congratulations, my love.”

The pleasant fragrance of the flowers float to your nostrils as you take them into your grasp. The flowers themselves are a perfect assortment of colours you find dear to your heart, like each one was personally handpicked for you. The thought and everything else has heat prickling at the corners of your eyes. It’s all too much and just enough at the same time.

Joshua grabs ahold of your hand, pulling you close to him so that one of your arms is wrapped around his waist. He places a small kiss on the top of your head before leaning down to look into your eyes.

“Look at you,” he coos softly, perhaps a pinch of tease behind his words you detect. “You’re glowing.”

You nearly laugh at that, coming out as a shaky and probably ugly snort instead that makes you bury your face into Joshua’s shoulder. Maybe you are glowing, maybe it’s just the spotlight hanging over, or maybe you’re just too happy to even care. You feel his chest lifting and receding from the laughs of his own as you cling to him. For a moment, everything else fades away𑁋the museum, the crowd, the nerves.

When you pull away slightly, he’s still looking at you, taking the chance to let a finger slowly caress the skin of your cheek. There’s stars in his eyes that you could pinpoint, ones that seem to shine brighter than even the largest of constellations. You feel like you could get lost in them, in him, and for a moment, you do. Your breath hitches in your throat.

A gentle breeze carries the scent of fallen leaves, the soft rustling of leaves surrounding the two of you. It's as if the world has paused, giving you a moment to simply be with each other.

You bring the arm that was around his waist back to your side. He still holds you by the hips as you bring a hand up to sign.

“I know that I can’t hear,” You start to sign slowly, his gaze flickering down to your hands curiously. “but I can feel your voice when you hold me.”

Joshua nods thoughtfully. He seems to contemplate something for a moment, before bringing his hands from your hips and up to sign.

“How does it make you feel?”

You purse your lips in thought, trying to find the right signs to express what you're feeling. It's hard to put into words, or even signs, the way you feel when you're with him.

“Safe… loved…” You draw your fingers graciously through the air, and Joshua’s eyes soften with affection as he watches. “...heard… understood…”

The words fly off your hands and swirl around like a planet orbiting its sun. As you peer into Joshua's eyes, you know he understands. He's always understood.

“I want…” You begin hesitantly, somewhat feeling silly at what you’re about to ask from him. “...to feel you say something to me.”

Joshua’s eyes widen slightly, and he tilts his head intriguingly, waiting patiently for you to continue.

You start with taking the fingertip of your hand touching your chin, before drawing it away in the form of a small arc. Next, you point to yourself, then you point towards him. Taking both arms, you cross your arms over your chest as if you were hugging yourself. And then finally, you point back at yourself.

“Tell me that you love me.”

A faint hint of a smirk crosses his features, before it softens into a simple look, a simple smile. Joshua just steps back forward and takes you back into his embrace, letting you press yourself against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close enough that you could possibly even feel his heartbeat. You love feeling that as well.

You swear that if there was one place you could stay in forever, it would be in his arms. And right now, it was only the beginning of something beautiful.

“I love you,” he tells you. For the first time, you don't read his lips to know he said it, yet you feel those three words resonate through your entire being and down to the very core of your heart, just where they belong.

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 8 months ago

Text

The Sweetest Thing

Jake Lockley x GN!Reader • Rating: T •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist• ko-fi •

Summary: A heatwave hits London

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: Set in London.

Warnings: Just some fluffy fluff, swearing, reader isn't american so there's a little playful celsius vs fahrenheit moment, jokey mention of foot stuff (which I am blaming @romanarose for, for no other reason that they are the Foot Stuff gender neutral King.), over use of italics, typos, not beta read, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 669

You sigh heavily, shoulders slumped as you just stand in the chilled food section of sainsbury's.

Despite it being a little after 8am London was so hot it was like it was trying to rival the surface of the sun.

And the humidity… disgusting.

Why did you have to live in one of the seemingly dampest countries that still expected people to work and use public transport and just live without most buildings and businesses not having air conditioning. It was inhumane.

Jake appeared at your side, grinning. Despite the oppressive heat (given that it was quite cool in the supermarket) he somehow managed to not melt into a puddle on the floor.

“How are you not sweating?” You grumble and he laughs.

“I sweat.”

“You’re a fucking liar, you know that?” The smile in your voice made him laugh louder.

“Sure, sure. Hmm, maybe it's secret moon god perks?”

“Tell Khonshu I will be his foot of the night or whatever if it means I don’t feel sticky and gross.”

“Foot?” He wheezes.

“Yeah, you’re his fisting of the night and-”

Jake spluttered as you both walked to the self service machines.

“I’ll be the one that does the kicking.”

“So,” he scanned the tub of ice cream, glancing at you. Thankfully there were practically no queues at this time on a Tuesday morning. “I’m doing fisting? But you’re just doing kicking? Shouldn’t you be doing foot stuff at the very least.”

You tried to give him a look and not laugh. You did not succeed. “Can’t he at least make a breeze or something?”

Jake smiled and shook his head.

“What kind of god can’t even do that?” You grumble.

Jake pays and takes his receipt, holding your hand as you walk towards the sliding doors.

“What if we don’t go, what if we stay and live in here? It’s cool?”

“Can’t do that baby.”

“Why?” You grumble, pouting a little. You know what you’re saying makes no sense but the heat has made you grumpy.

Jake snorts. “You’re looking forward to it. You’ve been talking about it all week.”

“Yeah, that was before London decided that 38c was a good temperature.”

Jake opens his mouth, a shit eating grin on his face.

“I do not want to hear about fahrenheit. Or how it was hotter in America when you were there.”

He blows a kiss to you. “You know me too well.”

“Hmm. You’re predictable more like.”

He mock gasps. “I’m insulted.”

“You love it.”

He smiles again, squeezing your hand in his. He does love it. Loves that he’s put down roots. That you can guess what silly comment he’s going to make and tease him for it.

The air outside of the nice cool supermarket hits you like the air of a just opened oven. Two steps out and you’re already sweating.

Jake leads you to the brick wall slightly down the road, the one that is bathed in shade by an old magnolia tree and sits, encouraging you to do the same.

He takes the lid of the ice cream carefully.

“What are you doing?”

“Eating ice cream.” He says matter of factly, “you want some?”

“How you gonna eat that?”

“Ahh,” he grins again and pulls out something from his pocket with a flourish. It takes you a moment to recognise it as a swiss army knife. “Glad I can still surprise you.” He flicks it open and shows you a small metal spoon.

You laugh. “Very impressive.”

“As long as you don’t mind sharing my salvia.”

You pull a pretend thinking face for a moment that amuses Jake no end. “Hmm, well considering some of the things we’ve done… I think I’m okay with it.”

“Good.” He digs the spoon in and then holds it out to you, letting you have the first bite.

You lean forward, but dart to the side at the last second and steal a soft kiss from his lips. He was the sweetest thing around anyway.

____________________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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carb0n-m0n0xid3 · 6 days ago

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The Forest's Safekeeping

Hey yall, I wrote a story :3

dunno if ive posted it here before cuz of my stupid autistic goldfish memory, but here it is

I ALSO DONT LIKE THE NAME PLEASE GIVE IDEAS PLEASE PLEAES

anywho, here ya go! ejniy :3

It was an ordinary day for the centaur, locked up in his cell with thick, cold chains rubbing his skin raw. He had grown used to such troubles though, as he had others far worse to deal with in this harsh facility. He had long forgotten his old life, practically raised by these cruel conditions since being abducted nearly two decades ago.

“Subject 70424!” called Dr. Shridener, a scientist, hitting his cell door with her clipboard to wake him. She had done so successfully, watching his fright with an annoyed expression.

He awoke startled, stretching up from the old dirty mat he had called a bed, dusting off his medical robe. He had wished so dearly to wake with the rising sun rather than by someone inhumane screaming orders at him. But as of now that was just a silly dream, perhaps once a distant, fading memory.

“Yes, ma’am” he anxiously muttered, hesitantly approaching the cell’s door. He held his lanky arms out to her through the bars, guessing she'd want to see the progress of his healing skin grafts.

“Ahh” Dr. Shridener said with some hope, snatching the centaur’s arm in a tightening grip, causing a few light winces to escape him. She hummed whilst observing the old scarring, though her smile faded with disappointment. It was unfortunate for her to see the start of an infection along the site of the grafted skin that his own had rejected.

“Another failure, I see..” she hissed, releasing his arm from her grasp. The centaur retreated back with a flinch, watching her scribble some notes on her clipboard. He sighed, knowing this meant more tests and procedures. Why were they even doing this, seeing what skins are compatible with his own? He had no clue, but surely he would find out in the future.. right?

He was then transported by Dr. Shridener towards the medical bay, though already knew the way by heart from the amount of times he had gone. Down the hall and take a right, down that long hall… then past the dreaded “extermination chambers”. He never dared to think of what was done there, fearing for his life each time he was near that section of the facility. It was occasional to hear the wails of innocent creatures from within, though he tried to ignore such terrorizing sounds of annihilation.

Once in the bay, the centaur was guided to a room, knowing what would happen within. Eventually another scientist came in to conduct the procedures on him, one whose name tag read “Dr. Favela”.

He entered without a greeting, a rather stern, plain look on his face. He adjusted his gloves and brought out a kit, one all too familiar to the centaur. From within the kit, he drew out some appliances, preparing anesthesia to momentarily sedate him. The poor creature had grimaced, still uneasy at the sight of needles despite how often he had seen them.

He inhaled sharply as the needle penetrated him, slowly numbing his frail skin with its liquids within. His eyes began to grow heavy, faltering and shutting once succumbing to the substance.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

A few weeks had passed since the operation, the centaur’s arm currently bandaged with gauze, cleaned daily with painful antibiotics. He could barely sleep with the agony, though whenever he managed to, it never completely satisfied his fatigued state. He dreamt daily of the wilderness, clips and blurs of his past memories blended together. He was tired of these same cold gray walls, the thick bars containing him, and heavy chains that prohibited freedom, or even slight movement.

“Subject 70424!” yelled Dr. Shridener, once again slamming her clipboard on the cell door. The centaur awoke with a shudder, already forgetting the sweet serenity of his fantastical dreams. He approached, the chains clanking along the floor as he trotted a short distance to her, rolling up the grimy sleeves of his robe to reveal his bandaged arm. She unwrapped the gauze with one gloved hand, the other holding his arm tightly.

He watched her with a growing sense of anxiety, as Dr. Shridener was never one to smile, even less one as wide as this. He glanced down to his arm, seeing the patch of grafted skin beginning to heal with his own. It.. worked? After all this time, it finally worked?

“Dr. Favela will be thrilled when he sees this..” she said, releasing his arm and grabbing her clipboard to write down the information, unable to wipe the grin from her face.

The centaur sighed shakily, not really knowing how to feel about this. The graft worked, but now what? What were they going to do with this? With him? As of now he was just led back towards the medical bay, taking the mundane route towards the room. He followed Dr. Shridener down the hall and to the right, watching her strides. He was led forward and past the extermination chambers, feeling that same uneasy feeling in his gut.

She was the first to enter the room, glancing around with the same smile.

“Dr. Favela~ Oh doc-”

“I am busy.” he snapped, turning in his chair from his computer. His expression was the same as always, dull and tiresome. After glancing between the two he sighed and rolled his eyes, turning back to his computer.

“The grafts worked” Dr. Shridener said, pulling the centaur in and revealing his arm to the scientist.

At this Dr. Favela finally perked up, leaving his chair to observe the arm. The centaur couldn't understand what the whole deal was with his skin grafts. Sure, it was different and interesting, but why did they need this information? What would they do to him? Being lost in thought he missed their conversation, but knew he was going to go somewhere different.

This time he was led through the facility by Dr. Favela, following the man closely. The path taken had trailed throughout the building, finally ending at two towering doors. The centaur shuddered at the sight, entering the cold room. There were several machines, ones he did not recognize, and have never seen before.

“Come” said Dr. Favela, motioning for him to approach one of the benumbed machines.

“They are just larger, modified CAT scans and X-rays” he said in a monotone voice, seemingly annoyed at the centaur’s fear.

“But I suppose you know nothing about machines, due to your lack of knowledge.”

The centaur approached with dreadful submission, shaking with fear at what might go wrong. The scientist was right, he didn't know what these machines were, or what they even did. But he listened to the instructions, finding out that getting these “scans” as Dr. Favela says, was a pretty easy, harmless task.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

After nearly two months of scans and blood work, the centaur was finally deemed “ready” for a plan.. one he still wasn't informed of. All he knew was that it was a surgical procedure, but that only terrified him further.

“Oh Subject 70242” Dr. Shridener called, this time waking him without the whacking of her clipboard on the cell door. It was abnormal for the centaur to see her in such a positive state, but he stood and approached still, heart racing in a fretful manner.

She had gathered him and led him to another new area, going straight down the hall from his cell. The walls seemed to fade from a bland gray to a soft blue, bringing a sense of serenity to the centaur, though he was still troubled at this uncertainty.

They had finally approached a pre-op room, about four other staff within the area. Dr. Shridener gave orders to the nurses before leaving, the four now glancing over to the centaur. They began to approach, some holding needles and others disinfectants. He failed to back away, bumping into the wall while nervously clutching his medical robe’s sleeves.

“What's going on?” the centaur finally sputtered, feeling an uneasiness deep within himself.

“SPOS? Surgical Process of Separation? Did they not tell you?” One nurse said, rolling her eyes as she paused. Another had begun to approach the centaur, raising the needle in his hand closer to the shaking creature.

They were going to separate his.. what? He could barely think straight when informed of this operation. How would he be after? They are posing a major risk to his life, just to see what might happen? Just to make him “normal”? He froze in his spot, clutching his chest as the four came closer. This was it. His life could all end here if he did nothing. Was there anything he could even do?

The centaur glanced about the room, searching his surroundings for anything useful. He had seen a medkit on the counter beside him, throwing it at the nurses as a quick distraction before bolting out of the room. His hoofbeats echoed throughout the halls, nearly matching with the speed of his racing heart. He could only try to focus on escaping, fleeing from this inhumane facility as horrid questions flooded his head. Why would anyone propose such an idea? Is that why they needed the scans? The successful grafts? What if he gets captured? Would they return him for the surgery, or worse, extermination?

Alarms began to blare throughout the building, red lights flashing as a voice came upon the speakers:

“SUBJECT 70242 ATTEMPTING AN ESCAPE, HEADING TOWARDS SOUTH-EAST LOBBY.”

The centaur could already hear the sounds of security approaching, their footsteps growing louder as he rounded the corner, seeing the emergency exit just ahead. Closer and closer he got, heart pumping at speeds he never knew were safe, spreading fear and terror throughout his frail body.

“STOP RIGHT THERE” He heard guards yell, running towards with guns aimed at him. But he continued on, disregarding their threats. His breath grew quick as he raced down the hall, finally bursting through the emergency door with gunshots echoing behind him, some just skimming the hems of his robe.

The night's cool air refreshed the centaur for a brief moment, something he hadn't felt in forever. He threw off the robe while darting throughout the lot, seeing a dense forest just ahead. His throat burned and his lungs ached, but he persisted, hearing the shouts of others fade behind him. The thoughts of being captured continued to fill his mind, fueling his terrorizing dread and perseverance to keep on racing through the forest.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

He took a shaking breath, watching the sun slowly rise with its glory. A widening smile began to grow on the centaur’s face, the first genuine smile he had experienced in a very long time.

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kyogre-blue · 8 months ago

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Hey so, I wanted to let your know that I really love your Naruto: Dashing Rescue fic. It's one of my all times fave time travelling fic. I still have the tumblr tag followed lol it's a lil reminder to self to reread whenever I come across it in the 'followed tag' section

I don't ever if you ever confirmed that it's abandoned work or not, I was wondering if you had anything to share about naruto rescue? Maybe your thoughts while writing it or scraps. Maybe not, it's been years also

Anyways, the main purpose was that I wanted to let you know that I really love your writing and a lot of your old works (oh khr too! but esp Dashing Rescue). You were an author that made me smile whenever I see your name as a teen learning about fandoms and searching out fics. I really enjoyed reading a lot of your works!

(Dumb me refresh the page before sending so I had to retype that twice and ahh I realised this got long. My bad)

Wow, that's really nice to hear. I'm glad that you enjoyed those fics! Looking at the dates, it's been almost 10 years since I posted that particular one... hard to believe.

Time travel has always been one of my most favorite fic tropes, and Naruto was really great for those because we had so many time periods, each with their own cast. The possibilities were endless.

For Dashing Rescue, I can see I posted three parts. I dug up my old doc, but there isn't much in it past those. I think I considered part 3 a good stopping point, though it looks like I wrote about a page of part 4 and outlined a few general ideas after that. I'll add that under the cut, in case you're curious.

Aside from that, the only thing I recall is that was using the movies for material and visual inspiration, but that part was probably obvious.

Anyway, thank you again for this really sweet ask. I really appreciate it ^o^

Title: Dashing Rescue

Part IV: Sand and Black Iron

Summary: AU, time travel. Finding himself in the past, Naruto has so far managed to hold back the tide of the Third Shinobi World War. That proves increasingly difficult as the Sandaime Kazekage goes missing.

~.~.~

“Thanks for agreeing to see us, Jiji,” Kushina said, bowing deeply in complete contradiction to her impolite way of addressing the Hokage — she had picked it up from Naruto. Next to her, Minato did the same. Both of them spared a glance at Sakumo, who was also waiting in the Hokage’s office and greeted them with a friendly nod.

“This is about Naruto, isn’t it?” Sarutobi guessed, setting aside his brush to give them both his full attention.

It had been two years since Naruto became an official member of the Uzumaki clan, and thus Konoha. That time had been plenty for the Sandaime to start feeling like he was going grey under his hat.

Especially after Naruto took off for Suna a few months ago and refused to come back, despite the many diplomatically worded but rather displeased messages Sarutobi received from Suna. He just hoped that whatever this was didn’t turn out to be an international incident.

“Yeah,” Kushina said bluntly. “He, uh, sent me a message.”

Or rather, he and Kushina had set about abusing the fact that they held two halves of a single bijuu, which could communicate with each other regardless of distance or circumstances. Kurama had been nothing resembling pleased at being used as an elaborate communication system, but agreed to relay urgent messages in exchange for Kushina changing the form of confinement she used on her half. She still had no idea how Naruto managed to sweet-talk the bijuu into it from his side.

“The Kazekage’s disappeared,” Kushina relayed, “but Naruto thinks he has a lead, and he wants help tracking the person responsible.” He had been increasingly evasive about what exactly he knew or at least suspected, and why, but Kushina didn’t mention that. Naruto got like that sometimes.

Still not used to these sorts of things, especially stated so baldly out of nowhere — the Kazekage, really? — Sakumo choked a little, but quickly swallowed his surprise. The Sandaime simply closed his eyes and sighed. International incident didn’t begin to cover it.

“With the Kazekage has gone missing, it’s naturally a very urgent request,” Minato added. “I might be able to expedite the journey there, if I can be assigned to the team.”

Kushina nodded sharply. “And I can file the mission request for him,” she offered.

“There is no need for that,” Sarutobi said, forcing down the urge to massage the bridge of his nose. “I will offer our services to Suna as a peace gesture.”

“Who will you send?” Sakumo asked, as he finally processed what he had heard.

“Sakumo-sempai, perhaps you could…?” Minato suggested. After all, there was no doubt about who possessed the best tracking skills in the village.

Sakumo shook his head. “That would be a terrible idea. They hate me there,” he summed up. “I was on the Suna front during the Second War, and…”

There was no need to continue. That was where Sakumo gained his fame — and notoriety, upon a path of corpses. He didn’t regret what he had done for Konoha’s sake, but war bred hatred in a vicious cycle. Back then, he had been the same, hating his enemies for what had been done to his comrades and paying back with the same in turn.

“Sending me would be more like a declaration of war than a peace gesture,” Sakumo concluded.

“It would not send the correct message, and would be a complication in itself,” Sarutobi agreed. “Unfortunately, most of the others who would be my second choice are out of the village and won’t be able to return quickly enough. Do you have a recommendation, Sakumo?”

Frowning, the man looked out the window across the village. There was more at stake than first appeared — a situation like this, involving a Kage, no less, could easily deteriorate quickly and violently. So far, they had just barely managed to avoid the outbreak of another war, but the balance was delicate at best. If Suna faltered, it wouldn’t take Iwa long to strike. And then...

On the other hand, this was Konoha’s chance to build a strong alliance with Suna. It would put the Suna council, and possibly even their Kage, in Konoha’s debt. They would be able to present a united front against Iwa, and further strengthen their position with Kumo as well.

A chance to bury the ills of the previous war…

“Kakashi,” Sakumo said, startling the others. “I recommend Kakashi.”

“Sakumo, are you sure?” Sarutobi asked, his brow furrowing as he sat forward and studied his old comrade.

“I’m sure. Kakashi has been a chuunin for four years now. He lacks experience, but his skills are top notch. His nose rivals mine, he’s observant and analytical, and he can call on one of our summons to assist him,” Sakumo explained.

The pride was clear in his voice. Minato, as Kakashi’s jounin teacher, nodded in agreement, though he also still appeared surprised by the choice.

“And… This is our chance to bury the grudges of the past. We have to take the first step. What better way to prove that we trust Suna and are serious about this alliance?” Sakumo smiled. “And I trust Minato and Naruto to keep him safe, should something go wrong.”

“...I won’t let anything happen to him,” Minato promised, recovering first.

Sarutobi took several moments longer to consider the suggestion. Finally, he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Then I will dispatch Minato and Kakashi to Suna in all haste.”

“What? I want to go too! We’ll be a four-man team then!” Kushina protested.

While Sarutobi tried to think of some subtle way to tell her that the Kyuubi jinchuuriki wasn’t going to be allowed off into a foreign village, which could very well turn unstable at any moment, all without letting Sakumo know the situation, Minato quickly spoke up, “I don’t think I could take you that far,” he said apologetically. “Kakashi and myself will already be difficult…”

Kushina eyed him dubiously. Even though she was one of the few who understood the theoretical underpinnings of Hiraishin, she didn’t have the experience to judge how much and how far Minato could teleport.

Theoretically, Hiraishin’s chakra cost depended on the size and weight of what he was teleporting, though there were some specific caveats regarding distance and the placement of the seals — it all depended on how you went about it.

Kushina was right to distrust him. Minato might have still been able to manage another person, but at least this way there was a legitimate reason for her to stay in Konoha.

But she didn’t call him out on it. “He better come home after this,” she said instead. “It’s been months.”

Minato nodded sharply. “I’ll bring him back once we’re done.” Even if it meant a quick ambush.

“I’ll let Naruto know you’re coming,” Kushina said, and both the young jounin took their leave.

Left alone with Sakumo, Sarutobi shot the other man a considering look. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. “I have no doubt Minato and Naruto will protect him to the best of their ability,” and that ability was really quite impressive, “but you don’t have to risk Kakashi on this. We can send someone else.”

aaaaaa

///////The Third World War was put off, but relations are rough, especially when the Kazekage suddenly goes missing. (Minato is eighteen, Kakashi is ten, and Naruto is twenty one.)

Naruto knows that the true cause is Sasori. He talks to Chiyo and takes off, with Minato and Kakashi following. Chiyo suggested that Sasori would have gone to the old Rouran ruins.

Naruto asks Sakumo to make Konoha into a village that never abandons even one of its people.

—————

Timeline

Naruto arrives 21 yrs pre-series, 25 yrs pre-Shippuden, 10 yrs before he was born.

Part I, Kumo's kidnapping attempt Minato, Kushina — 13 Kakashi — 5 Naruto — 16

(Part II — 3 years in between)

Part III, Sakumo's mission Minato, Kushina — 16 Kakashi — 8 Naruto — 19

Part IV, Kazekage abducted Minato, Kushina — 18 Kakashi — 10 Naruto — 21 Sasori — 15

Kannabi Bridge, old timeline Minato, Kushina — 20 Kakashi — 12

Kyuubi attack, old timeline Minato, Kushina — 22 Kakashi — 14

—————

Title: Dashing Rescue

Part IV: Bare Your White Fangs

Summary: AU, time travel.

The Third War almost breaks out when people with bloodlines start to go missing,

Pakura from Suna, Gari from Iwa, Toroi from Kumo, and Mei from Kiri.

Obito gets kidnapped by Hiruko, Orochimaru's childhood friend and assistant.

Orochimaru is disgraced for his support and participation in the research.

—————

Title: Dashing Rescue

Part V: Rose-tinted Dawn

Summary: AU, time travel.

Jiraiya gets word of his old students being in trouble and asks Naruto to look into it. It's Madara confrontation time.

Minato and Kushina get trapped in a genjutsu world where Naruto is their son, and blond. It's really weird for them.

—————

Because the third war never happens, Minato is not nearly as famous. Orochimaru is not a Yondaime candidate either. Instead, Sakumo takes it.

—————

#asks #Naruto Rescue AU

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picnokinesis · 1 year ago

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20 Questions for Fic Writers

Got tagged by the fantastic @wykart ahh thank you for the tag!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

32, most of which are Doctor Who!

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

859,228!! (but it's gonna keep climbing until I finish posting part 6 of campervan sksk)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Pretty much just Doctor Who right now, but I have posted fics for Stargate Universe, Marvel and The Greatest Showman. And then I have written for other fandoms - most notably Venom, which I never posted anything for but I did get 40k into a multichapter one time.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

In this order: Liminality, Tropospheric Disturbance, campervan part 1, watchfires and Renegades in the Ring (my TGS fic that I never finished, rip in pieces)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I always try and respond to comments!! Mostly because I love talking about my fics and also don't know when to shut up hahaha - but I also have some absolutely fantastic commenters who have such interesting things to say! And also like, idk I really appreciate people taking the time to comment, so I reckon it's polite to say thank you at least. The only time I don't reply to comments, mostly, is if it's a REALLY long comment and I just don't have the energy rip (but when that happens I definitely read and cherish the comment dearly haha)

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh. MOST OF THEM RIP. I'm genuinely not sure because I always try and end my fics on a vaguely uplifting note. Maybe Campervan Part 4, simply because of all the uni-era angst? But tbh the ending of Part 6 is definitely a contender, now I think about it. Canon-fic wise, though.......hmm I think it's got to be notches in your spine, since that ends with the Doctor just straight up leaving the Master without warning sksksk

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hm. I think I'm gonna go with In the Wind for this one, which is hilarious since I wrote it THREE YEARS AGO, but it's a multi-chapter mid-series adventure that rounds itself off in a satisfying way, with everything being resolved nicely, so I think that's a decent contender!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Hm, no, other than people complaining about the show in an attempt to compliment my writing, but that's stopped for the most part since I got annoyed about it in my author's notes one time ksksks. I did get a weird comment recently that started out very complimentary but then turned really weird in a pretty upsetting way (and, frankly, it would have been very triggering if that sort of topic had been something that was something that affected me a lot? Luckily it wasn't, but the commenter did NOT know that). So I just deleted the comment because I didn't want that sort of thing in my comment section, especially when I know other readers comment lurk.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

No I'm sex-repulsed lol

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I wrote a crossover that was The Greatest Showman crossed with the X-Men Comics one time SKSKSKSKSK (and it was specifically the comics not the films, I did so much research on historical terminology for mutants HAHA) which was actually SO much fun - I never finished it, but I do think back on it very fondly. But I'd class that as more of an 'x-men au' rather than a crossover tbh, bc it was wholly focused on the TGS characters.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don't believe so

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! We never finished it LOL

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

Currently spydoc, but this will probably change. I have a MASSIVE soft spot for rush/young from sgu, clintasha from the MCU, newt/hermann from PacRim, and symbrock from Venom.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Hmmmm there's a bunch, but probably The Grandfather Paradox? I genuinely love that one so much. But who knows, maybe one day. I feel like it would make a great pitch for a Big Finish audio sksk. Oh, and Deathless will probably never happen. I'm not going to put Trestle on this list because I am SO DETERMINED to finish it some day HAHAH. Oh - and I don't think I'll ever finished Trouble With Entropy, which was my unfinished Venom fic, or Renegades (aforementioned TGS fic) even though I love them a lot, it's just....very unlikely at this point rip.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Going off what other people have said to me, I'm good at creative immersive worlds! Which is mostly because I really want my stories to feel 'lived in', so to speak, and broader than what you actually see in the immediate plot. I think I'm also pretty good at pacing, and also writing narrative prose with a character voice! The latter one I definitely pushed myself with when writing part 6 of campervan, as well as my recent doctormaster oneshot, where I had to weave together both the doctor AND the master's characterisation into one seamless pov

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I definitely worry too much about making sure the reader DEFINITELY gets what I'm trying to say, and so sometimes I'm repetitive and I hammer things home a bit that can be more subtle. I also think that sometimes I can be a bit repetitive in my longer fics where I know a gap needs to be filled but I'm not sure with what sksksks. There are other things too. I definitely struggle writing shorter things and getting to the point and TRUSTING that the reader will come with me. I often feel this urge to make sure all the steps are there for the reader to follow where I want them to go.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Oooh so I actually did this in campervan part 5 with Gabriela and Jamila speaking a bit of Portuguese! And I think there's like, obviously nuance to it, but when I had the pov characters who understood portuguese (namely Jamila in the prologue), I had the dialogue in portuguese, but the translation in the prose, either literally just next to the dialogue or explained in the narration by Jamila. But then in later chapters, when Yaz is trying to talk to Gabriela, because Gabriela is upset she's occasionally saying things in Portuguese....but Yaz doesn't understand them. So they don't get translated. And so I think that works for the story in that context, bc what Gabriela actually SAYS is less important and it's more showing the emotion of it. Another case I can think of was in Force Over Distance by cleanwhiteroom who wrote a LOT of ancient into the fic (which is basically latin) and when it was on ao3 there was this sort of 'hover to translate' thing which worked REALLY WELL, bc the translation was there but it didn't disrupt the flow of the fic.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Okay so I wanna know what counts here - if it's like, the first fic i POSTED, then that's Marvel (specifically the Avengers). If it's the first fic I wrote when I actually understood what 'fandom' was, then...I think that was also Avengers....or maybe BBC Sherlock. If it's the first thing I actually WROTE DOWN properly, then it was Doctor Who (specifically Ten and Rose and my oc companion sksk). If it was the first thing I played with creatively for media that wasn't my own...then that was probably me coming up with elaborate ocs out of two unicorns on the credits for the My Little Pony vhs tape we had SKSKSKSK SO. I don't know. One or all of those.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

Oh this is hard because I'm proud of a lot of what I've written. My gut reaction at the moment is actually Trestle, even though it's unfinished and no one has read it HAHAH but I'm just so proud of some of the writing in that so far. And I'm extremely proud of Campervan AU as a whole entity. However I do really really love see me bare my teeth for you - which I actually forget about a LOT because it's not one of my thoschei fics sksksk. But I'm super proud of how that one turned out. And then also and they did live by watchfires because that one just has such a special place in my heart.

THANKS FOR THE TAG LIV!!! I'm gonna tag hmmmmmmm @sunshinedaysforever @taardisblue @novantinuum @emptyofdust @strikingtwelves @walker-lister aaaaah basically anyone else that wants to do this! :D

#taka gets tagged #taka writes #ahhh this was so lovely!!#thank you liv <3 #long post

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kareofbears · 10 months ago

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so many hours in a day

It's drizzling in Tokyo when Nanami sees him, or rather runs into him, in a way that only Yuji can pull off.

read on ao3 or below the tag :)

Nanami Kento is a busy man.

He would prefer if he wasn't. He would like to be the type of person who wakes up naturally, instead of a shrill alarm. He would like to have slow breakfasts with coffee that he makes himself, instead of rushing to the convenience store around the corner for a pre-made egg salad sandwich and instant coffee from the fridge. He'd love to take a few weeks off in a year and travel for a bit, to enjoy the sights with his own eyes, instead of an advertisement that he'd see plastered on the subway walls.

Nevertheless, preference doesn't dictate reality. It doesn't matter what he'd like. A leisurely life wasn't designated to him in the lottery of birth, and it was something he resented for a long time. Accepting the cards that he's been dealt with, however, is indeed something he can control.

What he had yet to accept, on the other hand, was the consistent presence of Itadori Yuji.

It's drizzling in Tokyo when he sees him, or rather runs into him, in a way that only Yuji can pull off.

Nanami pulls into the curb gently, mindful of the rain and wary of pedestrians. It isn't often he drives around the city, with public transit being fairly reliable if not cramped. Parking is a gamble that Nanami doesn't appreciate, but rain can be difficult to traverse when he's in need of a grocery run.

Pulling on the handbrake, he opens his umbrella as he steps out of the car, and feels something roll onto his foot.

Looking down, he stares as a can of beans slowly gets wet with rain. He stoops down to pick it up, readjusting the umbrella on his shoulder.

A familiar voice sighs, loud and frustrated. "Sorry to bother you, it just got away from me. Again, if you can believe it. Oh, hey!"

"Hello, Itadori-kun," Nanami straightens up and takes in the boy in front of him.

Yuji, arms full of groceries, from vegetables to eggs to a carton of milk, stands in front of him, grin wide, hair flat and wet. "I didn't think I'd see you today, Nanamin. It's really great to see you," he says, open and earnest.

"I'm grocery shopping." For once, Yuji's out of his jujutsu uniform and is sporting a hoodie and pale jeans, neither of which are helping with the current weather. Nanami raises his umbrella to prop it above Yuji. "I assume you are, too."

"Bingo!" Yuji laughs, wordlessly getting closer to Nanami so they can share the umbrella as the rain picks up a bit more. "What gave it away? Haha, just kidding, don't answer that."

That's good because he wasn't going to. "Are you on your way home now?" he asks. "You didn't bring a bag with you?"

"Ah," Yuji shifts from foot to foot, and Nanami eyes the carrot that's threatening to topple over. "I ran out of money for a bag. At least I have my arms, which is kind of like nature's bag."

"It's three yen for a bag," he says, but he digs through his pockets, pulling out his car keys and unlocking the trunk. "Here, put it down. There should be a few reusable bags in there as well, so make sure to separate your groceries into three different sections: produce, refrigerated, and non-perishables."

"Thanks!"

Yuji hums as he works, Nanami opening the bags for him as Yuji drops the groceries in. "What are you making for dinner tonight, Nanamin?"

"Curry omurice." He expected the oohs and ahhs that follow. "It isn't difficult. If you're attentive in the timing of it, anyone can do it."

"You must be a good cook," Yuji remarks, shuffling the eggs around so they don't break under the oranges. "I want to be like that, too."

Nanami considers this, vaguely remembering how Gojo boasted about how his student made meatballs for him. "I recall you being able to cook."

"I can make about five things super well," he says. "Like, really well! Simple dishes are doable. But anything past that--" Yuji makes a so-so gesture. "Hit or miss, so I stick with what I know."

Once everything is packed up, Yuji hauls everything from the trunk with ease. "Thanks for the bags. I'll make sure to wash them before I give them back to you. Geh, imagine if the milk spills and I give it back to you like that." He shudders at the image he conjured himself. "Anyway, next time you stop by school, I can pass these back to you."

Nanami peers above the trunk, displeased. "Where are you going?"

That makes Yuji pause. With his confused eyes and dripping hair, the rain only emphasizes how young he looks. "The train?"

"But that only takes you so far," he says, reaching over to pull Yuji's hood up. "It's another thirty walk after."

It's Yuji's turn to frown. "Yes?"

Repressing a sigh, Nanami glances at his watch. "There's still another 20 minutes before rush hour hits. I suggest we get going now, and we can get to the school in 30 minutes." Opening the driver's side, he gets in and closes the door, cutting off any protest that Yuji has.

Nanami stares into the rearview mirror, seeing Yuji smile as he gently puts the groceries into the back before moving to the passenger side. Turning the ignition, he cranks the heat so it'll be warm by the time the door opens.

He wonders if the store will still be open once he helps Yuji put his groceries away. Not a big deal, Nanami can get takeaway if it comes to it. He also wonders when was the last time that someone offered him a ride that wasn't for a mission. He also wonders how many cans had slipped out of his hand before someone finally offered to pick them up for him.

What Yuji has not accepted, it may seem, was the consistent presence of Nanami Kento.

#the alex special: nothing happens and the weather has a comedically big part of the plot #ah jjk...my arch nemesis #itadori yuji #nanami kento #fic tag #writing #jujutsu kaisen #what can i say i love a good father figure #T_T

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dorothy-webring-resorce · 1 year ago

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[ Let's face it--you were never a clothes horse, and you actually believed it when the other kids on the playground said, "You're ugly and your mother dresses you funny!", especially when you may have been forcibly subjected to wearing knee-highs and frilly dresses. Well if you're here, then you've obviously broken away long ago from that nightmare, but the question is, what do you do now? In this section, no matter what stage you're in, I'll give you some tips on how to dress like a manly man--strike that, a respectable man. No, strike that too--a well-dressed man who need not spend what he should be saving for surgery on a pair of elevator shoes.

Okay, you've bound yourself (or have already had the fortune of having had surgery), you've shaved and slapped on the aftershave & cologne, and you've had your T shot (or even if you haven't, again, this is for guys in all stages). What next? Shopping! Ahh, the smell of commerce and sweatshop-made garments in the morning. Hold on a sec, guy--you say you have a budget the size of the change in MC Hammer's wallet? Not a problem. I can take you to several places where you can get the goods. But first, we've got to decide exactly what you want and need. Let's start from the bottom up (Dale's favorite way to go).

Shoes (plus socks and underwear): If you're a tall transman, your biggest worry is getting shoes that fit your growing feet (your feet have a tendency to grow once you're on testosterone, and it's not unlikely that you could go up a half size. Captain Johnathan did.). For some short guys, transmen and biomen alike, their vertically challenged bodies are a source of frustration and low self-esteem, and they'll do anything short of a Bobby Brady stunt to appear taller (The Artist Formally Known as Net Unfriendly wears huge heels to add to his 5' 4" stature). The way I look at it, you can either do one of two things: get over the dang hangup because you've got bigger (no pun intended) things to worry about, or do something and find a way to soothe yourself by actively modifying your height through your shoes. Either way is work, but for this page's sake, let's try the latter. Onward and upward...

Pants, Jeans, Dress Slacks: Again, if you're tall, no real worry. If you're short, though, you may have trouble finding pants with an inseam that fits (ones that you don't have to cuff or hem up). What's an inseam, you say? Well, unlike women's pants and stuff (measured in a ridiculous system of "Size 5" to "Size 13" and so on), men's pants are measured by your waist size--the first number--and your inseam length (the inches from the bottom of the crotch to about the ankle or so). A very common measurement is 36W/34L. Short men, however, measure anywhere from a 34L to 26 or 28L. This can be a plus in some ways and a boon in others: sometimes the sizes that are produced by some companies (like Levis) are so unpopular that they get shipped to discount department stores (a plus), but other times the sizes are of such little value to the clothing manufacturers that they don't even bother making them (a boon, sort of a slight [sic] against the shorter man). Well, enough of this, let's get to it...

Shirts, Jackets, Coats: Well, picking up the size lingo here is also a lot like learning how to read pants tags, as men's dress shirts aren't as simple as S-M-L-XL anymore. Men's dress shirt sizes, namely the ones embroidered on that little tag just under the brand name go by the size of a guy's neck. Yep, you heard me. A 15 1/2 will fit a guy whose neck measurement is 15 1/2" around. Simple, eh? Of course, be wary of the "LONG" tag (which means if you're a regular guy who buys a 15 1/2 LONG, you'll end up with sleeves dragging along the floor) or anything that says "One Size Fits All" (as many heftier guys will attest that one size does not fit all). Keep your shirt on...

Ties, Accessories: What male wardrobe would be complete without at least one tie (save for Charles Manson's...or Marilyn Manson, for that matter). Even Dale has a crap-load of ties. The matter is picking the right tie to buy or wear, and not something that looks like you could use as a potholder (basically, a throwback to the wild bright psychedelic WIDE ties of the 60's...unless you're striving for the look). Of course, you don't really want to go 80's either, with the thin "Is that a tie or a belt you're wearing around your neck?" look. Okay, tie me up.

Now that you've explored those links, I hope you can keep in mind and put to use what I've suggested here, but this is by no means a definitive rule-book on what you should do. Heck, if you have the cash to go spend at Macy's or Saks Fifth Avenue, go forth and spend...just make sure to remember that Dick sent you, and wouldn't mind seeing some of that trickle-down economy at work...]

#lgbt history #web 1.0 #trans history

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secretmellowblog · 3 months ago

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Ahh this post is wonderful :_;, thank you so much for putting so many of these quotes together but it's also a gut punch. I'm also going to add OP's tags: #these aren't all of them just a random collection but just thinking about how much him not talking is such a strong part of his character#which is. well i think some of it is just that he's naturally quiet but some of it is definitely something that's grown in him over time#like when we first see him in digne he talks a Lot more than when we see him again in montreuil. which is probably bc he then has something#to hide but the way that him having something to hide ends up bleeding this sort of silence over into the rest of his life. hh.#there's more of these particularly there's a lot where it goes like. someone says something to him. he does something in response. they say#another thing. he does something in response. they say something else. he does something in response#<- so it's like a dialogue except actually they're the only ones talking#there's like whole sections of text that are just like this. whole conversations he's in that only really have one vocal participant#anyways. uox faucibus haesit coded of him for real :(#thoughts#les mis#also thinking abt how i think this is a big part of why he comes across differently in the musical. which is not the fault of the musical#bc it's just not possible to do in that medium i think . but it does chance things impression wise#Also this paralleled with all the places cosette is described as quiet/not talking when he first goes to get her

If I were to add on because I'm emotional about this: You mention the Cosette parallels, and I just want to highlight the exact paragraph where Hugo talks about Cosette's slience:

She would not have said anything in any case. As we have just observed, nothing trains children to silence like unhappiness. Cosette had suffered so much, that she feared everything, even to speak or to breathe. A single word had so often brought down an avalanche upon her.

Valjean's need to be constantly silent and respectful at all times feels similar to that: a single word can bring an avalanche on him, so he understands it's safer to remain silent. He's forced to live in a state of constant self-repression. If he's living openly as "Jean Valjean," any open display of strong emotions will be used to condemn him as a violent savage person, it will be used to 'prove' he's dangerous/deserving of punishment. But when he's living in disguise, strong personal emotional reactions to the idea of prison always mark him as suspicious. His emotional reactions to Fantine's arrest are a large part of why Javert believes he's a convict and attempts to denounce him. His emotional reactions to Cosette being threatened with a whip cause Madame Thenardier to suspect him of being some kind of criminal. I think a lot about how Valjean's knee-jerk reaction to Javert telling him about Champmathieu's imprisonment is to stifle all of his emotions and force himself into a state of apparent outward calm:

He was carried away, at first, by the instinct of self-preservation; he rallied all his ideas in haste, stifled his emotions, took into consideration Javert’s presence, that great danger, postponed all decision with the firmness of terror, shook off thought as to what he had to do, and resumed his calmness as a warrior picks up his buckler.

And that parallels scenes later on, like the scene where Valjean has a PTSD-attack on seeing the cart full of galley slaves being transported to prison.....and immediately represses it, going silent in response to Cosette's questions or giving pained laconic answers. It's noteworthy that the scenes you mention where Valjean's usual silence breaks and he goes on long deeply emotional rants...are also often scenes where Jean Valjean attempting to submit to punishment or have himself punished. (Entering Myriel's home, the trial in Arras, the Gorbeau House ambush, his confession to Marius-- not sure how Montparnasse fits in though, haha.) But in Digne for example, he's far more quiet/laconic/restrained around the other townspeople, when he believes there's a chance he'd could find lodging? (There's one moment where he's a bit rude initially, but the moment that people reveal they know his criminal status he immediately is frightened into quiet conciliatory behavior.) To most of the people in the town, Valjean is extremely restrained, trying to stay silent or say nothing but meaningless pleasantries, hoping to avoid questions about his legal status:

“Pardon me, sir,” said the wayfarer, “Could you, in consideration of payment, give me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed yonder in the garden, in which to sleep? Tell me; can you? For money?” “Who are you?” demanded the master of the house. The man replied: “I have just come from Puy-Moisson. I have walked all day long. I have travelled twelve leagues. Can you?—if I pay?”

...but he frantically earnestly traumadumps every single part of his story at Myriel in multiple paragraph-long rants (even talking over Myriel/continuing to speak when Myriel welcomes him in) because he wants to "get it over with," and he wants to preempt the inevitable rejection. Jean Valjean is stunned when Myriel does not reject him after being told about his legal status, and acknowledges that:

"I felt sure that you would expel me, so I told you at once who I am."

^ This line here especially is a obvious parallel to Valjean's confession to Marius at the end of the novel--breaking his silence not because he expects sympathy, but because he expects punishment and expulsion.

I love reading any dicussions about how Valjean's trauma often manifests in this extremely restrained, repressed, overly conciliatory behavior-- (I've written a post or joined in on people to discussing it here, and here, and here, and here). And Valjean's inability to even speak openly about his trauma, the way he's forced to remain silent out of fear of punishment, is such a huge part of that.

something something

#les mis #long essay response #sorry this post trigggered a "need to write an essay' response in me #i have so many emotions about valjean and self-restraint/valjean and silence #I also think a lot about the little moment in Montreuil sur Mer #right before Tempest in a Skull #where he's about to enter the confessional and possibly confess his dilemma to a priest #and gets close to the door.....#and then gets afraid and walks away #because like..he knows Myriel is an outlier and he knows that all t hese institutions arent here to protect him #the isolation! the agony! anyway

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eupheme · 2 years ago

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Penny For Your Thoughts | Part 7 - Revelation

masterlist

Alfred Pennyworth x F!Reader

Rated E - 8.2k

Tags - competency kink(s), references to canon-typical violence, mentions of drugs/alcohol

Summary: the arrival of a long-awaited message, a special invitation, some misunderstandings, & a few familiar faces

A/N - ahh excited for this section of the story! I’ve had notes on it from the beginning and it’s exciting to get here. Huge thank you to @slavicwitchling, who sent me some great ideas and allowed me to borrow them for this part (and the next, coming this Friday! 💕)

You’re trying - and failing - not to listen to the quiet conversations behind you. That had been part of the deal, the term being used loosely.

Because it had been decided that yes, if Alfred was spending time in the Terminal, you were welcome to join him. The futon comfortable enough for what it was - a book tucked on your lap, or an earbud in as you surfed on your phone.

But you weren’t to be involved. For your own sake, and safety.

You had wanted to protest, at first. You knew you were capable, could handle the grisly murders if they could. But then you saw the recaps of the crime scenes, every inch recorded in careful, gory detail… and decided it was sometimes better not to know.

But it was still hard to resist eavesdropping, drawn in to their murmurs. Sneaking peeks at Alfred, watching the way he tapped at the keyboard - pulling up diagrams, answering Bruce’s theories with an acknowledging hum or murmur of agreement.

Casually making jumps and connections together that you’re not sure you could ever make.

It did something to you, making you squirm in your seat. Of course you knew he was talented, accomplished. But seeing him like this…

If you had your way, you’d be bent over the futon right now, instead of just sitting on it.

Bruce leans against the desk, fast-forwarding through footage from the night before. His conversation on the rooftop with Lieutenant Gordon, discussing the latest solved cipher.

From what you’d heard, the Lieutenant was smart - and with some very quick thinking had helped Bruce escape the station the night of the Memorial. He was even the one who worked the signal, something you had always wondered.

Your phone buzzes in your hand, your eyes dropping to your messages. Trying to not think about the one that came in this morning. Not wanting to bring it up just yet, though time was quickly ticking down.

It had been just one line, sent from a burner phone.

PARLIAMENT 2030 - RETURN TO SENDER

Vague enough to mean anything, if the message was seen by someone else. But you had known what it meant - the words twisting and souring in your stomach all morning.

Instead, you turn your attention to the message that just arrived. One from Hazel. responding to a string of flurried back-in-forth exchanges - your very edited recount of how things had gone. Already making loose plans to see each other soon for lunch, where you know she’s going to grill you for every detail.

You’re already thinking of what to say.

Or more importantly, what you absolutely shouldn’t.

The speakers behind you crackles, the recording rewound, played again.

“It means ‘a rat with wings.’ Like a stool pigeon.”

Bruce’s voice, with the deep rasping gravel of The Batman. The change still catches you off guard, even though you’ve heard it before.

There’s a pointed pause, then the Lieutenant’s.

“A penguin’s got wings too.”

The tape pauses, and your eyes flick up to where Bruce leans over the keyboard, Alfred standing beside him, arms crossed as he strokes the edge of his beard in thought. Your interest piqued again, at the wording of that last phrase.

“We need to get him alone.” Bruce makes a rough sigh, his hand raking through his hair, “Need to make him talk.”

“He is most likely to be at the Iceberg Lounge, we know that much.” Alfred muses, eyes staring blankly at the screen as he thinks, “But you were there recently. Could be dangerous to go again so soon.”

“I’m not worried about dangerous. There’s no way I could get him alone there. If he really is the rat…” Bruce trails off.

Silence for a moment, both thinking about the severity of all that has happened. That yes, if he was the rat, if people like Coulson had willingly died rather than give him up - then Bruce would never be able to fight his way out of the Iceberg. Hell, Gordon would never even get in the front door.

Alone was the only way.

“What about your-” Alfred hesitates for a fraction of a second, searching for the word, “Friend? Do you think she could tell you when he leaves?”

Bruce blinks, jaw working. Taking a moment before answering, his voice low, “We’re not working together right now.”

Oh, that’s interesting. You can see the slight shade of pink that flushes his cheeks from your seat, idly wondering what the story was behind his expression - never dreaming you’d see him blush like this.

But this bit of amusement vanishes with a click of Bruce’s mouse - the photo pulled up on the screen, the information collected on the man appearing on the vertical monitor that sits next to it. The picture makes the smile fade from your face, your body going still.

Because you’ve seen this man before. The one they are talking about, the one they need to get alone.

You’ve talked to him, even. Not that long ago.

Not realizing the connection until just now.

"We will just have to do a stakeout. See if we can catch him leaving."

Bruce’s plans interrupt your train of thought and you hesitate - knowing what you have to say might not really help, not that you were supposed to be 'helping' in the first place.

But still desperately hoping the small strings, the bit of connection you’ve made would make a difference.

"He's..." Leaning over the back of the futon, you take a quick breath for courage, "He's not going to be at the Iceburg tonight."

Both pairs of eyes focus instantly on you. Bruce's suspicious and calculating under furrowed brows. Alfred's look is one of heavy disapproval, but there's something like a flicker of curiosity in their depths as well.

"Explain." Bruce answers first, and his tone sets you on edge.

Taking a quick moment to remind yourself that he's just focused, that's how he is. That this is all still new, but you don't have to walk around on eggshells thinking he's going to kick you out.

Because he would have already. Or - you never would have been allowed down here in the first place.

You open the message, passing your phone into Alfred's outstretched hand. Knowing that the words wouldn't make sense by itself, so you begin to explain.

"I spoke to him,” You gesture at the computer screen, “Oz. About a month ago, now. He approached me at that Halloween gala, and asked me to deliver a message. And that they'll be another, a second one - later."

Not bothering to explain every detail at the moment - they knew most of the in-between, "And I got this message today."

They're both glancing down to scan the message, Bruce's face unreadable.

"It's the location and time. And the second line, it means-"

"Means the message is for him." He finishes for you.

Your nod of agreement is slow, surprised at how quickly he had been able to figure that out.

"You didn't tell me it was Oz you met with." Alfred's arms are still crossed, lips downturned with worry.

The fingers resting on the back of the futon twist, your eyes dropping, "I didn't realize it was important, I didn't think anything about it until I saw the photo. And heard what you called him… that was his mask that night.”

They exchange a glance. A crease forming between Alfred's brows as he asks, "Do you have to go tonight?"

"You know I do.” You sigh, wishing the answer could be different. “It's the last time though. I promise."

Bruce hasn't blinked, his stare intense. Then slowly he asks, "Will you be able to take someone with you?"

Alfred is slowly nodding, following the train of thought - something he had already been considering.

"I think so. Maybe inside, at least. I'm not sure about all the rooms, I've never been further than the first." It's really not much, you wish you had more information to offer.

"I'll go with you, then. We can find out when he's leaving, and I'll follow him tonight."

The offer surprises you, your head tilting up to meet his gaze. Part of you was glad - to not have to go alone. Still nervous about what happened last time.

“Thank you.” And you mean it, “I’d feel better, now that I know….”

The words trail off.

Now that I know that he’s dangerous.

"I don't like it.” Alfred sighs, eyes flicking your way, “But I'd feel better, too-”

"You don't have to like it." Bruce counters, voice firm, "It's our best shot right now."

And quickly, a plan is formed. Bruce will accompany you, and that you’ll try to bring him with you to deliver the message, if you can. A backup plan that if you have to go alone, that you’ll try to get what information he offers, and then get out.

“You can wear the contacts,” Bruce rummages through the contents scattered across his desk, “They’ll record audio, visual, everything.”

Pausing, as he remembers why he can’t find them - where they are. Who has them. His gaze flicks quickly to Alfred, before he bends to grab an old, battered box under his desk.

Dusting off the lid as he opens it, but Alfred is already protesting, “Bruce, she can’t use those. They were barely prototypes at best.”

Bruce frowns, glancing down at the thick lenses, “Okay, we’ll figure something else out. I’ll wear these for now.”

There’s silence as you think, each of you trying to come up with a solution. You wonder if you could just try to remember, if your memory could be that good.

But under pressure - you doubt it.

Alfred suggests something first, the idea of a microphone. Something small and subtle, that could pick up conversation - certainly less complex than trying to engineer a tool similar to the replacement contacts in such a short time frame.

Bruce is nodding, already moving to another workstation, sifting through a small pile of devices. Pulling out something that looks like a tiny, round disk.

“I can work with this.” He nods, glancing your way as he holds it up, “How do you want to wear it?”

You study it, stepping closer to examine the size. Maybe it could be stuck to your skin, sewn into the neckline of a dress. But then you have another idea - the shape is familiar. Perhaps just the right size.

“What about a necklace?” You offer, “It has a gap behind the stone, I think it would fit.”

They glance at each other, and then, slowly nod.

It might just work.

Bruce starts on the device, adjusting it to work with a small transmitter, something he can take with him. Alfred moving to gather your things, folding the blanket he had brought down for you - shooing you away when you try to help.

So instead, you move closer to Bruce. A question had been burning in your mind, something you just thought of. He glances up at you, tearing his eyes away from the workstation.

“Uh, hey. The contacts you mentioned. Were you uh, wearing them in the, uh…” you trail off, your voice low. Feeling nervous to ask, not sure how to word the cause of your sudden anxiety.

His eyes shift, flicking over to Alfred, whose back was still turned to you. There’s the slightest hesitation before he replies, his expression going carefully blank, “No. I don’t wear them every night.”

You exhale a breath. It was in the past, but the last thing you wanted was for him to blame himself again, to get sucked back in. Replaying the recording in the same fashion as the one they had just listened to. Hearing the sound of your pleading again and again - moments you already play back in your own mind at times, sending a cold chill down your spine.

No. Even with his best intentions, it could only wound him. You know it would.

You wouldn’t let that happen.

The nod you give him is small, turning around to make your way over to Alfred, letting him escort you out to his car in the private parking garage.

Taking you home so that you can give him the necklace, and so that you have time to change and get ready. You nudge the door open with your foot as he follows you inside - already dashing off to your room, heading for the small jewelry box on your vanity.

Opening the worn, painted lid, searching through it. The things you wear most often are carefully sorted on small hooks, tucked in the bits of cut foam. It’s in the small drawer underneath that you find what you’re looking for - a halo cut garnet on a thin gold chain.

The necklace had been a gift to yourself, a small splurge. Something to look nice after you had gotten your first job - the gem lab-grown, and you were certain the tiny white gems were not diamonds. Not that it mattered to you. All that did matter is that you had saved up - bought it with your own money.

It was precious to you, and hopefully - hopefully it would help.

The chain twists in your fingers as you head out to the living room - pausing when you see Alfred sitting on your couch, idly checking emails on his phone.

You lean against the doorframe, wondering just when it was that the sight of him in your space, among your things, became so normal. Comfortable.

Preferable, even.

He glances up, smiling when he sees you gazing at him. Posture straightening as you come over, shifting on the couch to make room for you.

Not anticipating when your knees shift to either side of his thighs, carefully straddling him - a hand resting on his shoulder, dangling the necklace off a finger on the other.

“Hi.” Alfred murmurs - his hands resting on your hips, gently squeezing. Head tilting up to yours as you peck a kiss against his lips.

“Hi.” You smile back, carefully lowering the necklace into the palm that flips upward.

The soft look on his face growing more serious as he looks down, carefully rolling the chain between his fingertips, “I really don’t like it. At all. You weren’t supposed to get involved.”

“It will be fine.” Your fingers touch under his chin, tipping his face up, “Bruce is going with me.”

“He’s going because it’s related to the case.” His eyes take their time meeting yours, as he sighs, “You still need to be careful.”

Your hand moves to his cheek, “I’ll be fine. Pinky promise. You don’t have to worry.”

“You know I will, anyway.” There’s the hint of a resigned smile - his thumb brushing over the garnet as he glances down at it, “This was a clever idea, dove.”

His praise brings warmth to your cheeks, your neck. It’s impossible not to shift, to press yourself just a little bit closer to him. You peek at him from under your eyelashes, your head tilting. Leaning into the change of the subject - because the plans were already in place.

It’s too late now to back out now.

“Yeah? I liked watching you work, too.”

Alfred’s gaze lifting from the necklace to you, seeing the look in your eyes as your fingers creep across his chest, towards the careful knot of his tie.

His hand curls around your wrist - catching it, his lips curving up at the edges, “Mm. Keep that thought safe for me, dove. We don’t want you to be late.”

The little huff of annoyance as you slide from his lap, following him to the front door. His kiss goodbye, the slip of his tongue against yours - the way his hand fists in the fabric at the small of your back telling you that he wasn’t as unaffected by your words as he had been pretending to be.

Waiting until he gets to the car to shut the door. Heading to your bedroom afterwards to get ready - already mentally running through a couple items you’ve been meaning to cut the tags off of.

After all, tonight was as good of a night as any to wear them.

———

You’re waiting on the doorstep as the car pulls up to the curb - an inky-black corvette, the vintage hubcaps glinting with the light of the streetlamps that line the sidewalk. The headlights dimming as he cuts the engine, though you don’t wait for him to get out before you’re reaching for the door, sliding in the passenger seat.

Smoothing out the fabric in your lap, fluffing out the pretty, ankle-length skirt. You’d combed through your closet twice, trying on just about everything you owned.

You had kept returning to an old favorite - wanting the confidence boost, feeling fortunate that the neckline dipped enough that the pendant wouldn’t rub against fabric the whole night.

It’s already waiting in his hand as you buckle your seatbelt, and you take it - clasping the chain around your neck. He gives you a quick run-down - showing you the small switch on the side. The small disk fits almost perfectly, a thin line of epoxy glue anchoring it in place.

Gesturing to the small, puck-like receiver that sits on the dashboard. How he set it up - the disk and the device flickering with a red light when they’re close, the recorded sound transferred, where it could there be sent to his workstation in the Terminal.

When he’s satisfied, the car starts up again. You give Bruce another quick glance, the way he shifts uneasily in the narrow space as he pulls onto the street, heading for the lounge - the swoop of hair that just covers the blossom of purple on his cheekbone, the bruise still healing.

“Are your ribs feeling okay? I can drive if you want.” There’s concern in your voice, thinking again about his injuries, the wraps and padding that you know must be layered underneath his suit.

“It’s fine.” The look he shoots at you is almost amused, “I’ve had worse.”

His fingers fiddling with the stereo, tuning it to one of the channels. The small smile that spreads across your face when it’s one you recognize - something you had studied to often in college. The beat heavy, at odds with the antique luxury of the car. You had expected something like classical music, not the screaming, punk rock vocals.

You can’t help but smile, glancing his way, “God, I haven’t heard this song in forever.”

Bruce doesn't answer, but you think you just might see him smile.

The drive isn’t long - the Parliament is already just starting to come into view on the horizon, the high stone pillars, the ornate, flat roof above rows of heavy, rust-red brick.

The building had always looked a bit out-of-place - stuck in time amongst all the glass high-rises. Almost like an old courthouse, plucked from another town, placed among the city.

In some ways, it reminds you of the Tower.

The car begins to slow, traffic starting to congest as you get further downtown, and there’s still things you have been thinking about. Things you have been wanting to say, but haven’t gotten the chance.

You hesitate, before plucking up the courage, "Bruce?"

His eyes flick towards you, before returning to the road, his knuckles gripping the wheel, "What?"

He's back to the Bruce you're familiar with - solemn, so different from the other night. You wonder if he felt more like himself then. In a different kind of suit.

Or if it had just been the painkillers that had tugged back some of the thick layers that protect him.

Or - oh.

He’s anxious. You realize this as you recognize his expression, the pull of his eyebrows. It almost makes you want to smile - you'd take a party like this over the stress of the alley any day.

How different you both were.

The realization makes you hesitate, necklace seems to hang heavy against your chest. It's not the right moment, so you push your train of thought aside.

"Thanks for coming with me." You manage with a smile.

"Of course.”

A long beat of silence again. You’re filled with the urge to fill it, feeling awkward about starting and abandoning your thoughts so quickly, "Is your friend going to be here tonight? It seems like it’s going to be a pretty big party.”

The look he gives you this time is longer, his tone dismissive and finite, “I said we’re not using her.”

“Oh god, I didn’t mean it like that.” You’re quick to explain, embarrassment licking up your spine, "I just thought I could help you keep an eye out, if you wanted. These things are always better when there's someone you know."

Even if you were here on a mission, you doubted you'd be in-and-out. There was bound to be some down time, some mingling.

Having someone to stick to might be nice.

"It doesn't matter," He eventually answers, "I don't know her like this."

Like Bruce Wayne, you take it. You don't know what to say in response, so you just nod.

Subtly, the music nudges up, and you get the message. Enough small talk.

———

You don’t linger when you get inside, heading straight for the bar. The bartender recognizes you, and it’s only a few minutes before a drink is passed your way - a thick, folded square in place of a coaster. The burgundy envelope is slipped into your clutch, as you nod towards the back.

Knowing from the color that you’d have to go further in this time.

Bruce follows, silent as a ghost - keeping up with your strides. Trying to look confident as you approach the high, arched doorway that matches the deep red shade. A man stands off to the side, casually moving in your path as you approach - the suit straining across his muscles as his arms cross.

Your smile is sweet, as you reach in your bag - presenting the envelope to him. His glance is cursory, sliding over to Bruce a moment later. A long pause, as you hold your breath.

"You can go in." The envelope is handed back to you, "Head straight back."

Then, he’s stepping aside, moving back to his post. Letting you past, into the hall- taking you further in than you’ve ever been before.

The deep, red-purple corridor leads to another open room, a more luxurious version of the previous foyer. The decorations and furniture more fine - hand-carved marble and careful wood detailing. The occupants dressed with more purpose, gathering in groups near the circular, vintage bar that takes up the middle of the room.

You take in the rest of the room - the three walls in front of you that are marked with more doorways, glancing at Bruce after you you eye them.

His eyes are already scanning the crowd, lingering on those he recognizes. The furrow between his brow increasing as he follows a step behind you, as you make your way to the set of double-doors across the room from you.

Another doorman, another man in a pressed, dark suit. The envelope is extended again, but this time he doesn't take it.

"You're early." He says, pointedly. Eyes flicking down to his watch, and then they focus on Bruce.

You try to bring his attention back to you, "Can I go in anyways?"

Reluctantly, his eyes pull away. Voice terse as he answers, "You could."

Throwing another glance Bruce's way, "He can't though."

"Oh? Why not?" The smile you give him is sweet, and he shifts - an arm reaching out, fingers nudging the envelope back your way.

"Run along, little sparrow." He dismisses you, "Come back later. Alone."

Leaving you to wander back into the longue, throwing Bruce an apologetic look. Finding a nook to discuss, to rehash the plan as you set an alarm on your phone, to make sure you come back at the right time.

"I don't think we should push." Your nose wrinkles. Not liking the idea of having to continue on alone.

"We shouldn't. But you'll be okay." His eyes are scanning again, "It's too public for a scene.”

It should be soothing, but it's not - your mind a twist of thoughts, "We don't know that. I don't know what's behind that door."

"We have time." Bruce's head tilts towards the left-most door, a group of couples disappearing through the open doorway, "We can find out."

The doorway opens into another hallway, more doors. Twisting deeper into the building, reminding you of a labyrinth - you're hoping you'll be able to find your way back.

A few of the doors are manned, the doormen opening them for specific people, denying them for others. The open ones you peek in - catching glimpses of rooms filled with low tables, chaise lounges.

Some have private dining, a cart wheeled into one, the dishes covered with shining silver domes. There's auctions - rows of chairs lined up, your eyes sliding over oil painting hung in heavy, gilded frames. Others are more modern in design - music spilling out of them as the doorways open, everything from classical to club music.

Bruce picks the first one without a guard, the door heavy as it creaks open. The room you follow him into is loud, the music pulsing with the flashing strobe lighting.

You're expecting him to turn around, to head back out the door.

Instead, he moves further inside - observing, so you look too. But other than the mass of bodies on the level below you - a curved staircase off to the side that leads down to a dance floor - you're not sure what else he’s focusing on.

There's a small alcove that he walks towards, a flat gray door that must lead to a closet, supplies. It lessens the music a little, muting some of the heavy bass.

"What are you looking for?" You still have to raise your voice to be heard, but when you glance up, Bruce is no longer looking at the crowd.

His focus is on you.

"Why did you ask about the contacts?" He cuts to the chase, eyes unblinking.

"Excuse me?" Your brows lift with your confusion, his gaze narrowing at your question.

"Why did you ask if I was wearing them when I found you?" He snaps, as if unsure why you need clarification.

You hesitate, eyes dropping as your chin tucks, glancing at the necklace. Wondering if the music drowns your answer out. Realizing it would - that this was why Bruce had led you over here.

He mistakes your hesitancy as stalling, his arms crossing over his chest, "Are you worried it picked up something you don't want him to see?"

There's an undertone to his words that grates at you. Like you had done something wrong, like he suspected something. You spit the words out, your own arms mirroring his, "Like what?"

"You tell me."

"I-" The words feel stuck in your throat, "I was worried."

His lips flatten, but you explain the rest in a rush, "You didn't see him that night. He was so angry. I thought..."

"I thought if he saw the recording, he might... get stuck on it. Even go after them, or something.” The memory makes your chest ache, recalling his expression, the low timbre of his voice, “I don't know what I would do if he got hurt because of me. Not when I just got him back."

When you look up, Bruce’s expression has changed, the suspicion easing away. A hint of chagrin in the way he holds his mouth, the slump of his shoulders, "He won't. I'll make sure of it."

A moment of pause, before he adds, "You don't have to worry about him. He’s told you he taught me how to fight, right?"

Despite your annoyance, you can't help it - it makes you smile, "I didn't. I'd love to hear about that sometime."

There's the ghost of a smile, before he turns solemn, "I should have… it's just - I know how he feels about you. And then when you asked, I thought-"

The words make your stomach flip. You want to grill him, ask exactly just what he knows, what he was told. But the urge to convince him outweighs your curiosity.

"You thought you made a mistake?" Your shrug is small, understanding.

His answering nod is small. You can't blame him - all the coincidences. The web that seems to keep on spreading. You know how it looks, had often wondered how you'd gotten ensnared, yourself.

"I, uh-" The words are there, pressing on your tongue.

It would be easy for them to spill over, to confess. But you can't say it here.

He deserves to hear them first.

The words die on your tongue, and you finish lamely, "- I… care about him a lot. I would never do anything to hurt him."

Your smile is small, eyes tearing away as you add, “Or you. I promise.”

He blinks, as if caught off guard by your words. It makes you think about earlier, what you had wanted to say.

Maybe now, this quiet moment of vulnerability, would be right time.

"I wanted to tell you thank you, by the way. Earlier, in the car.”

Bruce blinks at you, unsure why you're thanking him, after his accusations.

“I know that you talked to Alfred." Your eyes search his, looking for the truth to be confirmed, "I know that's why he came to see me. And... I know that he wouldn't have, if you hadn't."

Even though you've moved on, even though it doesn’t matter anymore - it still hurts to admit. But you're still grateful. You want him to know that.

"So, thank you, for whatever you said. He thinks the world of you."

His expression is solemn, and you're not sure why. You wonder if he regrets it, if your thanks offended him. But his words surprise you, instead.

"Maybe. I'm not so sure. I’ve-”

His eyes drop. Thinking. Remembering.

"-said some cruel things."

It’s a confession.

You know things between them had been strained, but the words feel like a blow, even if they’re not directed at you. Making your chest ache; your fingers curling to prevent yourself from pressing them against your sternum.

But he doesn’t need a lecture. You’ll only push him away.

“It’s okay.” You try to soothe, “I’m sure he forgives you. He might not show it, but from the way he talks about you… I know he couldn’t be more proud of you than he already is.”

You’re not sure if that was the right thing to say, and part of you regrets the admission as soon as you say it. It’s not your place to put words in his mouth, even if you felt sure.

Bruce hasn’t said anything, his face unreadable.

You scrunch your nose, gesturing back towards the door, “Let’s get back out there. We’re running out time.”

Leading the way back into the maze of hallways, not noticing the way Bruce follows slowly behind you - his expression just a little softer at the edges now that no one is looking.

———

Gradually, you weave your way back to the main lounge - not enough time left to check out the rest of the rooms, the other hallway.

Finding an empty corner of the room with a view of the double doors, a good enough spot to wait out the remaining minutes. Both of you people-watching, and you even wind up spotting a few patrons you’ve worked for before.

"Mr. Wayne!"

The name suddenly rings out, Bruce visibly stiffening beside you. A man parts the crowd as he makes his way towards the two of you - black suit rumpled under the strap of a camera, the bright splash of his red bow-tie above.

"Do you know him?" Your words are low, glancing Bruce's way.

His face wearied, shoulders almost hunching as his head shakes, the swoop of hair brushing against his cheek, "Media."

You can see it now, the button on his lapel. It's another reminder of the gala - you remember how even in a hidden hallway, he was tracked down, peppered with questions.

He couldn’t go anywhere in a suit without garnering attention. And yet here he still was - helping you. Even if there were ulterior motives, you were still struck by it.

If he could be brave - then you could, too.

"I'll handle it." You pat his arm, flashing him a smile before you square your shoulders. Stepping out to meet the man half-way, your hand extended.

Giving him your name as he takes it, your smile bright despite his puzzled expression, "Uh, hello. Alexander Knox, with the Globe. I was hoping to speak with Bruce Wayne."

It's not hard to guess why. It's only been a few days but it's still all over the news. Footage of the memorial - it was no secret that he had attended. Had been in the room when the car rammed through the doors - had been the one to grab the boy, hauling him to safety.

"About the memorial?"

He nods, "We'd love to get his side of the story.”

It sits with you wrong - spinning a story out of the tragedy. Realizing with a start that this has been Bruce's whole life, never being able to escape the tribulation.

Never being able to talk about the good things he's done.

Your smile cools, before turning into one of reluctant disappointment, "That sounds so great, but unfortunately Mr. Wayne is not accepting interviews tonight. But I'd be happy to take your card and pass it along!"

He blinks at you.

"Or you can call Wayne Enterprises and set up an interview there." There's a finality in your voice that has a frown crossing his features.

"My apologies," He replies flatly. "And, you are?"

"His publicist." You lie smoothly, your own arms crossing.

Alexander's face grows more confused, "I wasn't aware Mr. Wayne had a publicist."

Your nose wrinkles, and you give him a look. One that says 'but isn't it your job to know'? A brief moment as he returns your look with a calculated look of his own - but then he fishes a card out of his wallet, passing it your way.

"Thank you." The smile returns, "I'll make sure he gets it."

"Appreciate it." He gives you one last look, before he turns - disappearing into the crowd again.

Bruce shifts uneasily as you walk back to him, his arms crossed, "What did you say to him?"

"I lied and said that I was your publicist, and that you weren't taking interviews right now." You sigh, a shiver of anxiety prickling at you, now that the confrontation was over.

A moment as he thinks about it, before replying, "I didn't know I could do that. Refuse, I mean."

You shoot him a bemused look, "You're Bruce Wayne. I am pretty sure you can do anything."

The conversation lulls into silence as he thinks that over, but it's cut short - his name like an echo in the room again.

"Bruce Wayne."

You turn quickly, hands on your hips, "I thought I made it clear-"

But it's not the reporter.

He’s taller, broader. The flash of his teeth lighting up the room - the careful styling of his hair. A suit that was perfectly cut and tailored. Expensive, probably Armani, or Tom Ford.

You’re not really guessing. You know this because you’ve seen the tags, back when you used to pick up the yearly dry cleaning for him.

Everything about him wrapping up into a perfect, handsome package.

But it was a face you selfishly had hoped to never see again.

“Oh, hey there gorgeous.” His smile dimples on recognition, halting mid-step in front of you.

A polite smile stretches your lips as his hand finds yours, bringing it to his own in greeting. The moment seeming to stretch out into minutes - the warm of his breath sending the hairs prickling uncomfortably up your arm.

Finally dropping your hand, the smile returning, “This is a reunion now, isn’t it?”

An thick arm slings around you, stays curled against your shoulder as he turns, bringing you face to face with Bruce - his hand extended.

“Harvey.”

They shake, Bruce’s eyes drifting questionably to yours, but you can’t meet them.

This was a moment you’d thought about a lot. What you’d say to him. How you wanted to look. You were put together well enough, but you were far from the right headspace - too nervous about the rest of the night.

You wished Alfred was here.

Wished he could swoop you away, his own arm wrapping around you.

Their handshake ends, breaking your wistful daydream.

"It certainly is. Do you two know each other?" Bruce asks with a gesture of his hand, tone light.

"Sure we do. We go way back." Harvey smiles, his hand squeezing your shoulder, "Don't we, doll?"

Doll. The nickname makes your stomach flip, and not in the way you're used to. It settles low, churning.

"Yeah. It's been a long time." You manage, through clenched teeth.

Bruce's eyebrows rise.

"How do you know Bruce, kiddo? You two together?" Harvey asks, and god - this is quickly becoming your own personal level of hell.

"Nothing like that." Bruce interjects, "She's my publicist. Well, hopefully. She’s doing me a favor, seeing if I’m worth the effort.”

Swooping in to save you, a hero even outside the suit. Borrowing your lie from earlier, the words sliding easily from between his teeth. Bolstering you, even - his self-deprecation makes you seem accomplished, hiding the fact you’ve been treading water for years.

"Yeah, you always were hopeless at these things." Harvey laughs at that, before glancing your way, "You certainly have your work cut out for you."

Your mouth is opening to defend him, but Bruce cuts you off with a question of his own, “So, what are you doing here?”

Harvey’s face lights up, finally dropping his grip - giving you a chance to step away, “Oh, I’ve moved back. Didn’t you hear?”

He glances between the two of you, both of you sharing a look before you shake your head.

“The position for Gotham’s DA is open.”

The way he says it, like it’s a prize, makes you uncomfortable. You can only hope the sharp edge stays out of your voice as you ask, “That was, uh - so recent. I didn’t know they were talking about elections already.”

“Oh yeah, it’s too bad about Coluson. But crime doesn’t sleep, sweetheart. And neither does justice.” He almost recites his response - and the pit in your stomach grows.

Bruce shifts beside you, his own posture stiff. You wonder if he’s upset, too, but instead he seems interested - calculating.

“You think you’ve got a shot?”

“I think I’ve got more than that. That’s why I’m here, to meet with a couple big players, bring them over to my side.” The smile on Harvey’s face widens, a conspiratorial wink shot your way at the end.

"That’s great. Sure sounds like things have been working out for you!" Your smile feels plastered on.

"Yeah, it has. Couldn't have done it without my Gilda, though.” He agrees, hands shoving in his trouser pockets, “She’s been so supportive. We’re getting married, you know. After I get settled in. We figure it would be great for the campaign.”

Gilda.

Oh, you remember Gilda.

This new development hurts. He never talked about you like that when you were together. You had encouraged him for so long, but his smile had never been that bright. He had left you behind, and now here he was - getting married to the girl that came right after you.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were engaged.” The words sound hollow to your ears, Bruce’s gaze flickering your way.

Harvey shrugs, “Yeah, it’s been a real whirlwind. Sometimes you just know, you know?”

In spite of your surprise and resentment, his words seem to knock something loose.

Because you realize - you do know.

You know what it's really like. Your feelings back then all you had known at the time - nothing like how you feel now.

The sharp ache in your chest becomes dull at the edges. His announcement doesn’t really matter. You wouldn't want him back even if he begged.

You can be angry about this, and you probably will be later - processing your feelings with a bottle of wine in the bath.

But there's a relief in it as well.

The plaster cracks, a bit of sun peeking through.

"Congratulations." You offer, and a piece of you that's been hidden deep, a raw nerve, soothes. Just a bit.

“Thanks, doll.” The smile he gives you is genuine, and for a brief moment, you’re almost glad you ran into him.

Until he turns to Bruce, asking, “What about you, Bruce? How’s the business? Is that old butler of yours still around?”

You scowl at his question, but Harvey’s salvation comes in the form of a rhythmic chime - the phone in your clutch, the buzzing of the alarm you had set earlier in the night.

Bruce's eyes meet yours, his head nodding almost imperceptibly as you fish it out of your bag. Faking a phone call, leaving them both with a cheery, "Need to grab this, back soon!"

Tossing the phone back in as soon as you're out of sight, finding the doorway with the bouncer again. This time - alone - he lets you in, opening the heavy wooden door.

Another long hallway, lined with arched openings into small, cozy rooms. People grouped in threes and fours, velvet couches and low, ornate tables - the tops covered with elaborate drinks.

The one at the very end of the hall is tall - a carved wooden door frame that shines even in the dim light. You don't give the other rooms more than a glance. You know which one you need to head to.

It's almost funny how many times in the past couple weeks that you've felt like this - at the mouth of a cavern, each step an effort. Not knowing what was at the end.

But this time, you had a clear purpose. This time, you knew someone was waiting at home for you. Was counting on you.

It bolsters you, gives you courage to take one step, and then another. The carpet plush beneath your feet, the crimson fabric dampening each step. Pockets of conversation that prickle at you as each door is passed, until you're at the end - your fist raised to knock.

It opens into a small lounge. A doorman who must have been watching greets you, your own smile small and polite as you step inside.

The room is dim, like the others. Longer than it is wide, small sections of seating collected in small groups. Twin chandeliers split the room, sending sparkles of soft golden light across the tufted chairs, the ornate carpet.

You can see him, or where he is, anyways. The high-backed sofa along the back wall, twin armchairs on either side. A long, low table in front. The wallpaper framing the space - featuring it

There's nowhere else he'd be.

Fingers curl against your bag, the paper inside, as you walk forward with a confidence you don’t feel. Wanting to be brave, for Alfred. For Bruce - you had told them both you could do this.

The man you’re looking for, Oz, lounges in the middle seat, his men in the flanking chairs. His suit is fine, contrasting with the soft cream of the sofa - a dark pattern on the black jacket, the shirt underneath a muted purple.

He smiles when he sees you approach, a glint of white and gold as a hand comes to pat the seat beside him. The velvet tickling your calves as you slide in next to him, offering your own smile.

“Hey sweetheart,” Oz’s arm drapes casually along the back, just shy of your shoulders. “Just in time. You got somethin’ for me?”

“Yes I do, sir.” You fish the envelope out of your clutch, placing it into his waiting palm.

“None of that, honey. Just Oz.” He tells you as he takes it, but you don’t miss the way his chest puffs out at your words.

You shoot another smile at him, letting your eyes drift over the men in the other chairs, keeping your lips curved as you shift in your seat. Thinking that maybe if you stay seated, they will talk.

Or… maybe not.

Because you recognize the one sitting next to him. He'd been at the coffee shop on the last pickup - it was hard to forget the cold stare. He looks different though, the half-moons under his eyes are darkened with bruises, a piece of plaster across the bridge of his nose.

His glare makes your eyes drop, your leg crossing nervously over the other.

“Don’t mind them. They’re just upset about being away from home so long. Aren’t you, boys?” Oz gives them an amused look, his fingers sliding beneath the seal, slowly peeling it open.

Unfolding the neat envelope into a flat piece of paper, his eyes scanning over the words.

“We movin’ tonight, boss?” One of them asks, and Oz shoots him a glare - annoyed at both the question, and being rushed like this in front of an audience.

His eyes move back to the paper, squinting as he holds it further back, "Jesus, why do they keep it so dark in here, sweetheart?"

You laugh, shifting a hair closer. Trying to subtly see the paper yourself, under the guise of casual simpering. But it’s too far away, the letters too small.

Oz’s fingers flick towards the small bronze side table that sits next to the sofa. Your eyes follow it, seeing the scarlet and gold stained glass lamp perched on top. One of the men moves towards it, but he shakes his head.

The man halts, and then after a moment, you reach for it yourself. Thinking quickly, trying to gather everything you know about this man, about others that you’ve met like him. Leaning so you can reach beneath the curved shade, finding the thin chain.

You think you have an idea.

The tug of your fist is quick and sharp, but you let the chain slide loosely through your fingers. A golden glow flickers briefly behind the glass, and then goes out again. You shoot Oz an apologetic look from over your shoulder, before you slowly lean back up - your hand resting on his arm.

“Sorry, Oz.” The look you shoot him is apologetic, a little wrinkle to your nose. Another moment, as you pretend to think, while in actuality you steel your nerves. A finger rising to your lips, tapping against the bottom one, “Do you want me to read it to you?”

There’s a moment of silence, the lips curl on the man with the broken nose, his mouth opening in protest. But Oz chuckles, cutting him off, “Why not? Be my guest sweetheart.”

Keeping it held in front of him, so you have to scoot closer, almost in his lap, to see it. The surprise that he was so nonchalant about it tamping down once you start to make out the message - no more than a string of numbers and letters.

Disappointment floods through you, though you’re acutely aware he’s waiting. You shoot him another smile, fingers toying with the necklace - lifting it a little closer to your lips as you rattle off the numbers. A short sequence, and then two longer ones.

Hoping the recording picked it all up - hoping even more that Bruce could make sense of it.

Leaning back when you were done, Oz’s eyes dropping to gem between your fingers. Giving it a long look before his eyes raise, his head tilting. You let it drop, trying not to look too suspicious.

“You’re not bad. You know that, kid?” He offers, before his voice raises - looking at the others, “Looks like we’re in for the night. It’s coming tomorrow.”

His gaze coming back to yours, “Have you thought about my offer, honey?”

You blink, caught off guard. He takes your uncertainty in stride, leaning back against the couch.

“You know what kind of men work here?” An edge creeps into his voice, the sound making you go still. Making you aware again of your reason for being here. Who exactly you’re talking to.

People have died, protecting this man. Too afraid to give up the secret. You wonder if he knows what kind of trouble he’s already caused for you.

Your head gives a little shake, and he takes it as an answer - instead of you trying to clear your head, “They wouldn’t look out for you like we could. You could even buy a real one of those.”

Oz’s head dips towards your necklace, and you smile weakly.

“I’m uh- still thinking about it.”

He takes a drink from his martini, smiling from over the rim, “You do that. I’ll make it worth your while.”

You force a smile - waiting a few minutes longer. Making small talk until his glass is finally drained. Carefully inching out of the booth, under the guise of having more drinks sent in.

"You're not going to stick around, sweetheart?" He calls after you, voice coaxing.

Sorry. You think to yourself, as you wiggle your fingers in goodbye.

I have someone waiting for me.

Making yourself to walk slowly - to actually stop by the bar to send drinks back. To keep them appeased, to hopefully drink enough that they forget all about you.

When you finally find Bruce he's by himself, having shaken Harvey off at some point. He's eager for news - having already retrieved your coats from the cloakroom, already mapped out the closest exit.

Escorting you quickly back to the car, the door almost closing on your ankle as he shuts it - in the driver's seat before you can blink.

You don’t wait for him to ask, before you’re launching into an explanation. Telling him what they said, trying to describe the string of numbers, “And they said that whatever they were waiting for, it’s tomorrow.”

“Let me hear the message.”

The necklace is lifted from your head, and he taps against the receiver. Transferring the recording, Bruce’s fingers adjusting the radio controls until the audio comes through. Fast-forwarding until it gets to the message, your voice sounding faint as he bumps up the volume.

“110521, 1945, 403114362N, 7416188544W”

He listens to it once, twice - trying to find meaning, a pattern in your cadence. You busy yourself, accepting the pen and paper he offers you, writing down the numbers in the grouping you remember seeing them - handing it back to him.

A rough hum, pieces fitting into place as he looks at your note, “Coordinates.”

You lean over to see, his fingers tracing the lines. Your own touching the top two, “Date and time?”

Those had been similar to what you’d seen before, at least.

He nods, his eyes flicking to yours, “Did they say this is where they’d be tomorrow?”

You reach for the knob in answer, fast-forwarding the audio another minute. Listening to their answer, his fingers already typing the numbers into his phone. Pulling up a map of Gotham.

“Waterfont Street.” He zooms in on the map, “That’s close to where I found you.”

Your eyes meet his, and he blinks - realizing that you’re quickly getting sucked in. That you weren’t someone like Gordon, or Alfred.

Or Selina.

That he promised he was going to keep an eye on you, and instead - had let you walk into the belly of the beast, alone.

His expression hardens, phone shutting off.

“Let’s get you home.” Bruce hands you the necklace, starting the engine, “I need to let Gordon know about tomorrow.”

The change in his demeanor has you confused as he pulls into the traffic - leaving the night and the lounge far behind as he makes for the Tower.

But not enough to really mind, because like Bruce said -

You were going home.

(taglist - @rescuethewretched, @stalinsthirsttrap, @slavicwitchling, @zinzinina, @bacarasbabe, @kakashibabe02, @princessxkenobi, @maskhoper, @thelastemzy, @stargirlfics, @squidlywiddly87, @queensgirl718)

#alfred pennyworth x f!reader #alfred pennyworth x you #alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth smut #alfred pennyworth

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asweetprologue · 3 years ago

Text

me lámh le do lámh - Part I

Ahh I can’t believe it’s finally done! After a year of working on this beast, it’s finally ready for me to share. This is something I started way back last summer, and I decided to finish it as my project for this year’s @geraskierbigbang. It will be ten parts in total, and I will post one part per day until it is complete! There are several art pieces that were created by the wonderful @herostag and Miranda.draws for this story, which I will link when the appropriate section is posted. For a summary and further links, please see the masterpost.

Next | Ao3 | Masterpost

“Alright,” Geralt said. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Yennefer looked up at him with bright eyes, curious and already mirthful. She was sitting across from him in his quarters, reading through a tome she’d found in Kaer Morhen’s disheveled library. Geralt had just come from a bath after hours spent training Ciri in the yard, and the room was filled with the warm evening light, supplemented by the fire crackling in the hearth. Yennefer had insisted on carting dozens of tapestries and drapes to hang around the drafty keep, and the room was nearly stuffy with their bulk keeping the heat in.

Yennefer gave him an amused smirk. “I will make no such promises before I even know what you’re going to say.” The gentle teasing brought a fond smile to Geralt’s face. After the events of the mountain all those years ago, things had been understandably tense. Yennefer had been reluctant to join them when she had finally met up with Geralt after Sodden, but had eventually agreed to seek refuge in the witchers’ keep and teach Ciri to control her magic. Once she’d met the girl it had all been a wash; it was clear as soon as their eyes met across the room that Yennefer was as much a part of Ciri’s destiny as Geralt was.

Geralt had expected that to either mend the rift between them enough for things to go back to the way things were, or make things even more awkward. Instead, they found themselves in a sort of in-between. Over the years his affection for Yennefer had only grown, but he found himself looking to her more and more as a friend—maybe his best friend. After Jaskier, of course.

Speaking of. “I was thinking about Jaskier.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes obviously. “As you are so frequently wont to do. The thaw will come soon enough, dear, and you can run off in search of your bard.”

Geralt felt his ears grow warm. Witchers couldn’t blush, not truly, but he still felt the tingle of it as he fidgeted with embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, absently tracing a finger against the grain of the wooden table. There were two goblets of wine sitting between them, but so far neither of them had begun to drink. “Do you know how many winters it’s been since I found Ciri?”

If she was confused by the odd turn in subject matter, Yennefer didn’t show it. Instead she looked thoughtful. “Two, perhaps three? You know I don’t follow the seasons with diligence.”

“Neither do I,” Geralt agreed. “I was thinking the same though, two or three years since the fall of Cintra. Which means Jaskier is…” He paused, trying to do the math. “He was a few years past forty, during the dragon hunt, I think. He must be closer to fifty now than not.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him. “I recall mentioning something about his crows feet. What of it? Humans age. Are you only just discovering this?”

Geralt forced himself not to grumble. In a way, he was only discovering it. He’d known humans across the years, of course, and knew that many that he’d once been acquainted with were no longer alive or were in their twilight years. For decades Geralt had wandered through the world, changing no more than a ghost would, touching the lives of regular mortals for a brief instance, maybe a few times if they were particularly unlucky. No one had stayed by his side, dedicated themselves to a relationship with him, the way that the bard had. The amount of devotion that Jaskier showed to him had made Geralt antsy, in earlier years, and then confused and angry by turn. He had hated the idea of someone needing him, had hated needing someone in return. The way his chest felt heavy when he and Jaskier parted ways had left him furious with himself and the bard.

And then Ciri came into his life, and everything had changed so quickly.

With Ciri, it didn’t matter whether Geralt felt like he should care for her, or if he wanted to. He needed to. Without him, the girl would die, or be kidnapped by Nilfgaard for who knows what purpose. He had to feed her, and clothe her, and teach her, and he had to love her for her to thrive.

She made it very easy. It was only afterwards that he realized how much of an idiot he’d been to Jaskier, and the thought of how he’d treated the bard over the years had plagued him. It had been months before he could find him to apologize, but Jaskier forgave him almost immediately—which Geralt found both relieving and infuriating at the same time. This was the first winter they’d spent apart since. Geralt left the keep more rarely now, heading out on the Path only when the months grew truly warm and returning at the first hint of falling leaves. Ciri was safe on her own, he knew, but he missed her when he was away. And he could admit now that one of the forces driving him back into the world over the last few years had been the itching desire to find Jaskier again and settle the yearning in his chest for another year. He was less inclined to venture forth when his bard, his daughter, Yennefer and his brothers were all in one place.

This winter Jaskier had begged off, saying that he had “work in the south,” which could mean anything from spending a decadent winter in the court of some noble or sludging through the front lines as a Redanian spy. Geralt had learned not to pry too deeply into Jaskier’s business when he wasn’t around. It was often either too explicit for him to stomach or too confidential for Jaskier to share freely.

It worried him, being away from the bard for so long. He could get hurt, or captured by Nilfgaard, or worse. But what really terrified Geralt was the idea that he would find Jaskier in a tavern along the Path and realize that the bard had grown old, to find silver in his hair and wrinkles beside his eyes. “He’s getting too old,” Geralt said to Yennefer, who looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

“You must have known when you started travelling with him that he would eventually leave you,” Yennefer said, not unkindly. “Humans are so short lived.”

“I didn’t exactly get a choice about becoming his muse,” Geralt said with a huff. Despite his improved relationship with Jaskier over the past few years, he still found it difficult to admit that he had always been more than willing to let the bard tag along. If he’d wanted to travel alone, he would have. But he never had. “I just didn’t realize…”

“It always comes sooner than you think it will,” Yennefer sighed. She set her book aside and picked up her goblet of wine, turning to look out the large window their table sat in front of. It faced west out of the keep wall, towards the mountains and the forest beyond. The sun had set below the craggy peaks, throwing the snow covered valley below into darkness. Geralt could just make out the ruins of the old tower, its stones dark against the white landscape. “You can’t cure his mortality, Geralt.”

“We did.”

The look that Yennefer gave him was sharp, almost angry. The firelight in the room turned her violet eyes darker, like mulberry wine. “At great cost,” she snapped. “I can’t imagine you would put him through the Trials.”

A stab of panic shot through his gut at the thought. “No. Of course not. He wouldn’t survive it anyways. Only children stand a chance at all.”

Yennefer nodded, apparently satisfied that Geralt hadn’t completely lost his mind. “The boy hasn’t got an ounce of Chaos in him, in spite of his rather chaotic nature, so I highly doubt they’ll accept him as a late trainee at Ban Ard.”

“There must be other ways,” Geralt said, feeling petulant. “Less conventional.”

“I cannot believe we are actually discussing this,” Yennefer said, rising to her feet. She picked up her book from the table as well as her glass. “There is no way to achieve immortality, especially not without sacrifice. You know that, Geralt. Drop this foolish line of thought.”

Geralt rose after her, reaching out to catch her retreating wrist. A grasp loose enough that she could break it, if she wanted, but Yennefer paused. “Please, Yen. Just… look into it for me? I can’t—the thought of—” He cut himself off, dropping his hand away from her arm. The look she gave him was more pitying than he would have liked.

“I’ll do some research, but nothing more. Don’t get your hopes up, Geralt. There’s a reason there are so few of us,” she said. Her face softened slightly, as much as it ever did. Despite Ciri, Yennefer was still made of more glass and fire than anything else. “I know you love him, even if you can’t admit it to yourself. I promise, I will do my best.”

Geralt nodded wordlessly as she left and wondered if Jaskier's eyes would be as bright next time he saw him.

For weeks Yennefer said nothing about his request, and Geralt refocused on spending time with Ciri and preparing to depart for the spring. Lambert and Eskel had already left a month before, as soon as the road down the mountain began to thaw, but Geralt had hung back. The roof needed repairs, a difficult job to do in the midst of winter, and it was a hard task to leave for Vesemir alone. It was always like this, now—him looking for odd jobs to keep him at Kaer Morhen, with Ciri, making excuses until Jaskier’s jitteriness or Vesemir’s raised eyebrows forced them on the road again. Some of that was mitigated this season by the silence he heard when he found himself listening for the sounds of lute strings strumming gently in the background, and Geralt’s increasing anxiety about Jaskier’s wellbeing. Even so, it was hard to leave Ciri behind.

The girl was progressing rapidly as she entered her teen years, the chubbiness of her youth morphing into lean if awkward muscle as she continued to work on her swordsmanship. When Geralt and his brothers weren’t pushing her through drills, she was studying monsters and alchemy with Vesemir, or practicing her magic with Yen. She never seemed to tire, eagerly absorbing any lessons passed on to her and desperate to prove her worth. The only person she seemed to let her guard down around was Geralt, who found himself often goading her into mock wrestling matches (which he refused to throw on principle) and humoring her when she became restless and wanted to explore beyond the keep. Kaer Morhen was dangerous in the winter, but as spring approached and the deep snows on the surrounding mountains began to thaw, the duo spent more and more time trekking through old ruins and sleeping beneath the stars.

He could put off his journey south no longer.

“I’m going to be fine, Geralt,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. He wondered if he’d been this petulant as a teenager. Certainly Lambert had. “I can take care of myself, and Yen will be with me.”

Geralt tapped her wooden training sword with his own, indicating that she should prepare to go again. When he was a boy he’d trained against the other foundlings, stumbling around like pups through drills and sparring matches. Ciri trained against full witchers, and only Eskel ever faked a misstep here or there to allow her to get in a good hit. When she won a fight for the first time, it would be on her own merit.

The girl raised her sword into a decent fighting stance, and Geralt moved to correct her footwork. Her sword work was exceptional above the belt, but she consistently forgot her stances, throwing herself off balance. They’d begun putting her on the pendulums to force her to focus, dancing between posts to attack the dummies. Geralt had spent many a night rubbing salve into her bruised shoulders, gained from taking fall after fall from the low poles. No one forced her, but if there was one thing Ciri hated, it was admitting to weakness in herself. “Sword up,” Geralt said, and launched into his attack.

He stayed on the offense, forcing her to practice the defensive drills they’d started going over recently. “I know you’ll be fine,” he said, continuing their conversation. His breathing was relaxed, almost meditative through the slow exchange of blows. “Just seems cruel to leave you with only the old man and Yennefer for company.”

Ciri giggled despite herself, and Geralt found himself grinning back before he smacked her lightly in the ribs with the training sword. She swore—Lambert, Geralt thought with chagrin—and danced back a few paces. “Gotta focus,” he said, still smirking at her.

She poked her tongue out at him childishly and reposted off of one of his blocked attacks. He easily swayed out of the way, but the movement was fluid and smooth, which meant someday it would be fast, faster than he could dodge. He gave an encouraging nod.

They continued to spar for another half an hour or so before breaking, heading to the well to fill their water pouches. Geralt sat on the short ring of stones and Ciri slumped on the ground beside him, leaning against his leg. The simple trust and familiarity she exhibited around him still took him by surprise, sometimes. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, rubbing a hand over the top of her head. Her hair was almost as white as his.

She sighed, wiping dripping water from her chin as she tossed her water pouch down. “I figured,” she said. “Say hello to Jaskier for me, when you find him? I missed his songs this time.”

Geralt’s caress turned into a playful ruffle. “I will. Any requests for books?”

“Ones about Elves,” she said immediately, “and Skelligan alchemy. It’s different from ours, did you know? The Druids—”

Geralt chuckled. “I know. You’ve said half a dozen times. No fairytales this time?”

The girl hummed, reminding him for a brief and touching moment of himself. “Just bring Jaskier back. He tells about your adventures so much better than you do.”

“He’s certainly made a career out of it,” Geralt grumbled, feigning annoyance. “I’ll do my best. You know how he is.”

“You missed him too,” she said, hitting his knee with one closed fist. “I know you did. You get all…Well, more grumbly and mopey than usual, when he’s not around.” She wrinkled her nose up at him in exaggerated disgust. “It’s gross. But I do want you to be happy.”

Geralt knocked back against her gently with his knee, swallowing around the feelings that rose in his throat. “You just think I’m a boring old man who won’t help you put toads in Eskel’s bed. But you never even ask. I’m the expert, not Jaskier.”

Ciri laughed, bright and crisp in the morning air, and Geralt felt warm despite the fading winter chill. Tomorrow he would leave, and he would find Jaskier, and next winter he would tell Jaskier that he had to stay at Kaer Morhen. For Ciri, if nothing else. And if it was more for Geralt’s sake than anything, well, no one had to know.

Yennefer found him before he left, saddling Roach in the stables.

“Go to Triss,” she said by way of a greeting. Geralt knew what she meant by the gravity in her tone and the tension sitting in the corners of her mouth. “Ask after Ida. I don’t know where she is or if she’ll speak with you, but a Sage is the only one that might be able to give you anything.”

Geralt reached out to grasp her hand firmly in his own. “Thank you, Yen,” he said honestly.

The sorceress sniffed. “Well, you owe me one, I suppose. I hope you find what you're looking for. But be careful.”

“I won’t do anything that might put him in harm’s way,” he promised. “I swear it.”

“Good.” She gave him a slight smile before leaning in to brush a kiss over his rough cheek. The simple touch warmed him from inside out. “Say hello to the bard for me. Tell him I heard about that disastrous competition in Vizima. Ought to have him stewing for a good long while.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I’ll give him your love as always.”

“Goodbye, Geralt,” she said, patting his arm lightly. “Be safe. You know how to reach me, if you have need.”

“I do,” he said. “I will. Take care of Ciri.”

“It’s more the other way around, I’m afraid,” she said with a soft smile, and Geralt understood exactly what she meant. Ciri had saved them both, in more ways than one. Every time he left her was more painful than the last. Someday, he knew, they might travel the Path together, a witcher, a sorceress and their daughter. Maybe even a bard, if he was extremely lucky.

Geralt hoped he would be.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #big bang #geraskier big bang 2021 #multichapter #fic #fanfic #the witcher #witcher #writing #my work #geraskierbigbang #me lamh

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carb0n-m0n0xid3 · 15 days ago

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Dear God, this took forever to write

Ok so, I made a short story to submit into a writing contest (maybe). I am still deciding whether to put in that story or poems (as that is the choice). But Here it is, I hope you guys enjoy it :3

It was an ordinary day for the centaur, locked up in his cell with thick, cold chains rubbing his skin raw. He had grown used to such troubles though, as he had others far worse to deal with in this harsh facility. He had long forgotten his old life, practically raised in these cruel conditions since being abducted nearly two decades ago.

“Subject 70424!” called Dr. Shridener, a scientist, hitting his cell door with her clipboard to wake him. She had done so successfully, watching his fright with an annoyed expression..

“Ahh” Dr. Shridener said with some hope, snatching the centaur’s arm in a tightening grip, causing slight winces to escape him. She hummed whilst observing the old scarring, though her smile faded in disappointment. It was unfortunate for her to see the start of an infection along the site of the grafted skin that his own had rejected.

“Another failure, I see..” she hissed, releasing his arm from her grasp. The centaur retreated back with a flinch, watching her scribble some notes on her clipboard. He sighed, knowing this meant more tests. Why were they even doing this, seeing what skins are compatible with his own? He had no clue, but surely he would find out in the future.. right?

He was then transported by Dr. Shridener towards the medical bay, though already knew the way from the amount of times he had gone. Down the hall and take a right, down that long hall… then past the dreaded “extermination chambers”. He never dared to think of what was done there, fearing for his life each time he was near that section of the facility. It was occasional to hear the wails of innocent creatures from within, though he tried to ignore such terrorizing sounds of annihilation.

Once in the bay, the centaur was guided to a room, knowing what would happen within. Eventually came in another scientist to conduct the procedures on him, one whose name tag read “Dr. Favela”.

He entered without a greeting, a rather stern, plain look on his face. He adjusted his gloves and brought out a kit, one all too familiar to the centaur. From within the kit, he drew out some appliances, preparing anesthesia to momentarily sedate the centaur. The poor creature had grimaced, still uneasy at the sight of needles despite how often he had seen them.

He inhaled sharply as the needle penetrated him, slowly numbing his frail skin with its liquids within. His eyes began to grow heavy, faltering and shutting once succumbing to the substance.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

A few weeks had passed since the operation, the centaur’s arm currently bandaged with gauze, cleaned daily with painful antibiotics. He could barely sleep with the agony, though whenever he could, it never completely satisfied his fatigued state. He dreamt daily of the wilderness, clips and blurs of his past memories blended together. He was tired of these same cold gray walls, the thick bars containing him, and heavy chains that prohibited freedom, or even slight movement.

“Dr. Favela will be thrilled when he sees this..” she said, releasing his arm and grabbing her clipboard, unable to wipe the grin from her face.

She was the first to enter the room, glancing around with the same smile.

“Dr. Favela~ Oh doc-”

“The grafts worked” Dr. Shridener said, pulling the centaur in and revealing his arm to the scientist.

At this Dr. Favela finally perked up, leaving his chair to observe the arm. The centaur couldn't understand what the whole deal was with his skin grafts. Sure, it was different and interesting, but why did they need this information? Being lost in thought he missed their conversation, but knew he was going to go somewhere different.

This time he was led through the facility by Dr. Favela, following the man closely. The hall trailed throughout the building, finally ending at two towering doors. The centaur shuddered at the sight, entering the cold room. There were several machines, ones he did not recognize, and have never seen before.

“Come” said Dr. Favela, motioning for him to approach one of the benumbed machines.

“They are just larger, modified CAT scans and X-rays” he said in a monotone voice, seemingly annoyed at the centaur’s fear.

“But I suppose you know nothing about machines, due to your lack of knowledge.”

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

After nearly two months of scans and blood work, the centaur was deemed “ready” for a plan.. one he still wasn't informed of. All he knew was that it was a surgical procedure, but that only terrified him further.

“Oh Subject 70242” Dr. Shridener called, this time waking him without the whacking of her clipboard on the cell door. It was abnormal for the centaur to see her in such a positive state. But he stood and approached still, heart racing in a fretful manner.

They had finally approached a pre-op room, about four other staff within the room. Dr. Shridener gave orders to the nurses before leaving, the four now glancing over to the centaur. They began to approach, some holding needles and others disinfectants. He failed to back away, bumping into the wall while nervously clutching the medical robe’s sleeves.

“What's going on?” the centaur finally sputtered, feeling an uneasiness deep within himself, as if passing the extermination chambers.

The centaur snatched the medkit on the counter beside him, throwing it at the nurses as a quick distraction before bolting out of the room. His hoofbeats echoed throughout the halls, nearly matching with the speed of his racing heart. He could only try to focus on escaping, fleeing from this inhumane facility as horrid questions flooded his head. Why would anyone propose such an idea? Is that why they needed the scans? The successful grafts? What if I get captured? Would they return me for the surgery, or worse, extermination?

Alarms began to blare throughout the building, red lights flashing as a voice came upon the speakers:

“SUBJECT 70242 ATTEMPTING AN ESCAPE, HEADING TOWARDS SOUTH-EAST LOBBY.”

The night's cool air refreshed the centaur for a moment, something he hadn't felt in forever. He threw off the robe while darting throughout the lot, seeing a dense forest just ahead. His throat burned and his lungs ached, but he persisted, hearing the shouts of others fade behind him. The thoughts of being captured continued to fill his mind, fueling his terrorizing dread and perseverance to keep on racing through the forest.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

After hours and hours of treading, the centaur finally slowed, his body giving out from fleeing such a great distance. He grew exhausted and lied to the forest floor, joyfully weeping at his deliverance. Grasping the wet grass with tight fists he laughed, feeling as if in one of those dreams he had whilst in captivity. It all felt so unreal, the newness of the woods overwhelming him with glee and tranquility. He took a shaking breath, watching the sun slowly rise with its glory. A widening smile began to grow on the centaur’s face, the first genuine smile he had experienced in a very long time.

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whumpworld · 2 years ago

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Upside Down Dove

Inspired by my discovery of the medical problems caused by being upside down for too long—though, some of the symptoms are exaggerated/assumed as there are few descriptions of what it actually feels like when it’s that bad—I present to you this monstrosity of a story. Based around OCs but I decided to just use Whumper/Whumpee for names. This is a looong piece, but I didn’t want to break it into parts. TW: Restraints, non-con touching, slightly suggestive touching, nausea, cutting, asphyxiation, sorry I’m bad at tagging, creepy whumper, suicidal ideation

“Don’t you think this is a little overkill?” Whumpee eyes the ceiling as they speak, following the trail of heavy-duty, metal pulleys that have recently been bolted into the support beams. One is in the center of the ceiling, one on the adjacent wall about four or five feet up, and a thick ring has been placed a few feet below that.

A sharp tug at their ankles pulls their gaze back to Whumper, who is calmly tightening another slip of rope there, and they suppress a hiss of pain. Whumpee is certain Whumper has chosen this rope on purpose—it’s the thickest, ugliest, coarsest rope they’ve ever seen.

Everywhere that it touches their skin it burns and itches like thousands of fiberglass splinters and it’s masterfully restraining any comfortable movement. Strands and knots that cross over their chest and stomach feed around to their arms, which are folded and tied tightly at the small of their back. More loopings of the rope cut into their thighs, more just above their knees, and finally their ankles, which grind together brutally, bone to bone, as Whumper finishes the final knot.

It was not a pleasant thing to awaken to, being tied and tied and tied, especially after the pitiful amount of sleep they were allowed last night. Or day. Or whenever it was.

“Hey, are you even listening to me? I said—ahh!—hey!” Whumper grabbed a section of rope around their arm, flipping them to lie face down on the floor, and it tears against their skin like fire. It’s far too tight, although they guess that’s the whole point. Still, it seems unnecessary; they both know Whumper is stronger and, as much as Whumpee wants to believe they do a good job of hiding it with their quips, they suspect Whumper is also aware of just how exhausted they are, far too easy to overpower.

“I said, isn’t this overkill? This seems like a lot of fucking ropes to just string me up. You can’t hang me by my hands like this, you moron.”

Whumper continues to ignore them as he begins fiddling with more knots along their back side and as hard as Whumpee tries, they can’t twist their head in a way that would let them see fully what Whumper is doing. They can only feel their captors hands running up and down his handiwork, perhaps checking to make sure Whumpee is secured tightly.

In an attempt to fake boredom, they sigh dramatically and press their forehead to the cool, dirty floor. “Are you done y—” Whumpee involuntarily cut themselves off with a sharp exhale as their head is yanked back by the hair. They growl and Whumper leans down behind them when they try pulling free, pressing a knee into their back so their spine arches painfully the farther their head is lifted from the floor, neck craned and lungs stretched flat. Hot breath and lips brush their ear and despite choking down a flinch, goosebumps still rush over their skin.

“Are you that anxious to begin?”

The heat of his voice lingers by their face and they closed their eyes, scrambling for words before settling on an exasperated, “Screw you, just get it over with already.” They can feel Whumper smile, his lips curling at the tip of their ear, and their face burns with the frustration of their position, at the putridly small amount of space between them, and they make short, disgusted noises as they continue trying to shake their head away from the man.

There’s no reply for a second and then Whumpee’s head is unceremoniously dropped, cheek smacking back to the floor as Whumper removes himself from atop them. Before they have a chance to roll themselves onto their side to see what’s going on, they are flipped to their back, hands crushed under their own body weight, and they realize what Whumper has been working on behind them.

A separate, double braided rope had been pulled down the length of the bindings, knotted at each major section, and now extended out from their ankles a good twenty feet. And as Whumper yanks the loose end, dragging them feet first under the pulley on the ceiling, they understand what’s to happen next. They can’t suppress a laugh—at first a bit hesitant and then an actual, genuine laugh, though whether due to finally snapping or just humored disbelief, they themselves are unsure.

“Ohhhh, I see what’s going on. What, are we in elementary school? Want to see how long I can hang upside down? Hah, you could’ve just installed some monkey bars you know, then we could hang upside down together, see who could last the longest.” Whumpee can’t help their ramblings, amusement pitching their voice and a smile cracking the skin of their dry lips.

Was this really it for today? They hadn’t noticed any weapons or other torture devices when they were brought into the room, only a chair against the far wall, and Whumper usually likes to brag about the things he plans to do, to let the fear build until the moment of splitting skin or burning flesh or whatever fresh hell he’s schemed. But, shit, even with the uncomfortable restraints, if this is all Whumper has planned, they would practically be getting a break.

Whumper chortles in return—no, really, he chortles, the fucking creep—as he stretches up his arms and pulls the end of the support rope through the ceiling pulley—stupidly tall bastard…or is the ceiling just low?—and Whumpee can’t help but feel a bit uneasy at their captor’s lack of frustration with their talking.

Whumper normally did anything to shut them up, which was why they talked so much here, even though they weren’t a talkative person in their regular life. Whumpee knew it was their one way to retaliate, and Whumper hated it, so the calmness he presents now leaves an uneasy question at the back of their mind.

But then Whumper grunts as he heaves the rope, and Whumpee’s weight, over his shoulder and begins pulling it through the pulley towards the wall, and Whumpee laughs again at the other’s struggle.

“Oh man, am I too heavy for you? It’s not like I’ve been starved and lost, like, half my body weight. Hah, maybe you should feed me less. Would that make this easier for you? We can always reschedule for next week, that should be enough time to lose more of this stubborn belly fat, that is, if you cut it down to only one meal every four days, yeah?” In reality, they don’t actually know how often they're fed—no clocks, and all—but they know it isn’t often, and it’s still a good joke.

Whumper pauses briefly, and Whumpee waits for some sort of retaliation to their rant, some sort of ragining outburst to prove Whumper is still his usual self and that there isn’t some hidden plan or torture coming as is indicated by his silent smugness.

Instead, as if to prove his strength, he suddenly pulls much harder, effectively whipping Whumpee’s legs entirely into the air so that they were flat on their back, legs suspended beneath the pulley. They grunt as the ropes scrape the skin on their legs, biting into them as their weight begin to pull downward. Whumper continues towards the second pulley at the edge of the wall, and Whumpee’s butt starts to lift off the floor.

“You know, I’ve always wondered what you do for a living. Like, your real job, if you even have one, but clearly you’re not an engineer. There has to be a better way to do this.” Now only their shoulder blades and head are resting on the floor. Whumper slots the end through the second metal wheel and in an instant Whumpee is jerked straight off the floor and into the air, swaying and yelping in surprise at the feeling of dangling freely above the ground.

They’re upside down. Lifting their head they can see the ropes carving indentions anywhere that there’s contact, and although they know it will leave marks, they’re mostly just glad that Whumper had added the support rope down their back and not just let their ankles take all of their weight. Still, they’d have some painfully itchy sores the next day.

“Seems to have worked just fine,” Whumper says, satisfaction clear in his voice as he secures the extra rope to the u-hook in the wall, knotting it over and over. When he seems finally content it will hold, he strides over to Whumpee, watching them swing back and forth slightly, eyes like a cat’s watching the rhythmic pendulum of a grandfather clock.

“And how are you feeling, dove?” His lips and head cock to the side in levity. Whumpee cringes at the nickname and lets themselves run a mental assessment of their situation. The ropes continue to burn and bruise, but certainly they had taken worse—really, it’s Whumper’s own fault for raising their pain tolerance—and though they can feel a little extra blood running to their head, it really isn’t bad at all. It’s just like they remembered it feeling, from when they would hang upside down on a tree branch in the backyard of their childhood home…except this time, instead of their own knees hooked over the bark to hold themselves up, they are kept in place by a sadist with some rope and pulleys.

“I could do this all day,” they spit, wriggling in the restraints to test their ability to move, or to try and stop the swinging motion. It only ends up rocking them back and forth more.

“Oh, is that right? All day…” Whumper takes a step forward slowly, the heels of his shoes clicking on the floor. Many times now Whumper has loomed over them—they know it’s an act of possession, ownership, and intimidation their torturer never tires of—but for reasons they don’t want to ponder, this particular position makes Whumpee feel especially small and cornered as Whumper’s crotch comes level with their face once he’s standing only a foot away.

They immediately whip their head to the side, trying to turn their shoulders and perhaps twist the rope so their body will begin turning away, but a hand grips their hip to stop the swinging and they come to a dizzying halt.

Their breathing is picking up. Maybe Whumper does have something else planned. The way his nails are digging into their bony pelvis make them freeze in anticipation, their resolve faltering. But just as Whumpee feels they’re going to go mad from waiting, waiting for him to enact a new pain, or pull some power move, do something, anything, their hip is released and Whumper steps back saying, “Very well. All day it is.”

Whumper spins on his heel, and they breathe a sigh of relief, for a moment even letting their hopes climb, expecting Whumper to walk out the door, but they deflate as they see the other is only retrieving the chair by the wall. But, still…nothing more than hanging upside down?

Whumper drags the chair five feet in front of Whumpee and sits down gracefully, ankle pulled up to rest on his knee, elbow on his thigh, and head tilted and resting in his palm, his gaze locked onto his prisoner.

So, the asshole wants to watch? Fine, Whumpee can handle being watched—uncomfortable, yes, but it really isn’t anything new. And the slight, pulsing ache from the bit of extra blood in their head? That’s easily manageable, they have had far worse migraines than this just from pulling all-nighters for school.

What had their record been as a kid, again? They think it was six minutes upside down, and even then the feeling had been more of a rushing kind of high than anything painful.

“I’m afraid the show isn’t going to be very entertaining. You should’ve at least brought some snacks, or a book, or something to help stay awake. I, for one, am already getting bored. Maybe I’ll just take a nap. You can catch me up on anything I miss, yeah?” If they can't move, they can at least bug the shit out of the man staring at them.

But Whumper only smiles that frustratingly calm smile and says, “I am confident ‘the show’ will not disappoint. Let’s just give it some time.”

Fine. This will be fine, Whumpee thinks, and with nothing else to do or focus on, they fix Whumper with a steady and confident glare.

- - - - - - -

It’s manageable for the first ten or so minutes. A few minutes past that, Whumpee classifies the feeling as officially uncomfortable, but with proper focus is still able to direct a glower at Whumper. After twenty minutes, their brow is furrowed less out of anger and more so due to the concentration it takes to desperately try to ignore the pounding in their temples.

It isn’t until perhaps about thirty minutes have passed that they begin to seriously regret taunting Whumper. After an hour, things aren’t looking, or feeling, too well for Whumpee.

Their skin screams at the burning of the coarse ropes, their joints yearning to stretch as their limbs begin to prickle. Sweat rolls down their bare chest and neck, sliding up their forehead and soaking into their hair, which is quickly becoming damp. The pressure in their head is nearly indescribable and only getting worse.

It feels as though someone is continually forcing more and more boiling water into the cool glass jar that is their skull, waiting for it to crack into a million pieces. And their eyes, they ache like never before, as if they’ve swollen two times too large to fit their sockets.

They had managed to keep their breathing under control and steady for what they guessed was the first three quarters of the hour, but now their lungs are becoming tired and before they realize it, their breath is coming in fast and heavy pants. With each expansion of their chest, the restraints seem to tighten and pull their ribs back, never allowing a proper lungful, and Whumpee is becoming less and less concerned with looking stoic in front of Whumper.

They squirm and twist as much as possible—which, granted, isn't much—in hopes of sliding any section of rope loose, even if just a centimeter, if it might allow a deeper breath. But nothing works and they surely only succeed in looking like a worm on a hook.

Hours pass; they can’t breathe.

No, maybe it’s only been minutes.

They can’t breathe.

It feels like hours.

Fuck, Whumpee just can’t tell. They need to focus on breathing, in and out, but their symptoms are only becoming exponentially worse.

Their stomach feels taught and empty but still racks them with waves of nausea that have them imagining what would happen if they threw up upside down. Surely the little stomach contents they have, but mostly bile, would be forced up their nose until they choked on it and died.

As for their heart, well, Whumpee swears they can feel it flagging. When they first feel a palpitation, they lurch in shock at the sensation.

“Ngh!” They can feel it quivering, searing like an overheated computer inside their chest, each individual muscle fiber of it shaking upon constriction.

At some point, when they can’t stand the pressure in their head any longer, they cry out angrily and try using their abs to curl themselves upward, to pull their head above the level of their waist just for a moment of relief.

But they forgot their body isn’t what it was before Whumper, and are only able to lift their head and shoulders half way to their navel before dropping back down, exhausted, choking on frustrated sobs, and now swinging back and forth again with the force of their upper torso falling back.

During all of this, Whumper had remained completely motionless, intently devouring Whumpee with his eyes, and his fixated gaze feels like an extra twenty pounds added on their straining muscles. Whumpee wants so very badly to keep from giving Whumper the satisfaction of seeing their pained expression, their struggling, and panting, but they are realizing more and more that it’s something they can’t fight.

Their breathing sounds horrible, short wheezing gasps, and they can’t help the slight panic that plasters over their face the longer they hang from the ceiling. They don’t want to beg Whumper to be let down, know the bastard is waiting for them to humiliate themselves with pleading, but they honestly don’t know if they would be able to speak anyway.

They just know they can’t give in—won’t give in. They aren't going to give him that pleasure. They can stand it longer…right?

And what’s going on, anyway? Their body feels like it’s shutting down. The blood rushing furiously in their ears distorts their hearing so that their groans and pants echo through their head like the vibrating tolls of bells.

They can’t think straight. It’s as if all of the blood in their head has pushed all their thoughts, their very soul, out their ears and eyes and nose. If they could see properly, they think maybe they would be able to see their mind puddling beneath their hanging body.

But they can’t see right. At some point their vision had started shifting to grayscale, all staticy and smeared, and they can feel the blood vessels of their eyes pulsing, the pressure horrifically intense.

When they first noticed their sight was becoming fuzzy they had thought it was the telltale sign of blissful unconsciousness rounding the corner, but to their dismay they never passed out and their sight continued to worsen. Certainly that wasn’t normal, right? Being upside down wouldn’t cause…blindness? They don’t try to stop the strained groan that escapes their lips at the thought.

How much time has passed?

They clamp their eyes shut in a desperate attempt to keep them from popping under the pressure and rolling onto the floor, but it almost seems like that added to the weight behind them. When they blink them open again, they’ve completely lost all solid outlines of the objects in the room, including Whumper. Now, five feet in front of Whumpee is just a mass of shadows in the shape of a man.

The only indication of what Whumper is doing is the tapping sounds that echo around the room. It’s his foot, restlessly bouncing up and down on the floor, releasing an anxious and pent up energy that’s nearly tangible as it wafts over to them, and Whumpee knows it means the psychopath is becoming excited by the scene and is on the brink of losing his patience to not toy with them. Distantly, Whumpee’s already surprised by how long he’d sat so quietly when taking into account his history of impatience.

It isn’t long after that thought that Whumper gives in, but it still startles Whumpee when he moves, his voice causing them to jolt and gasp as they flick their eyes around, trying to follow the now pacing, man-shaped shadow.

“Isn’t this so much better…?” The voice hitting Whumpee’s ears is drenched in an enlivened and blood lusting tone. Whumper moves to walk around behind Whumpee and their panic mounts, their brain desperately sending signals to their already trembling and exhausted lungs to take in more air to combat the fear.

“ ...You, and your lack of voice.”

“Gah!” Whumpee is jerked suddenly as Whumper grip the support rope and shakes, shaking their body violently back and forth. The movement empties their lungs of the little remaining air, and they gulp to draw it back in.

“Not so much to say now, huh?”

Just as quickly as the shaking started, Whumper stops it, ceasing Whumpee’s movement with another bruising hand to the hip. His grip loosens, then strokes over the hand shaped bruises forming there, skipping over strips of rope, swooping upwards to the curve of Whumpee’s pelvis until fingertips reach the joint of leg and hip. He keeps his hand there, tracing over what feels to Whumpee like far too thin a fabric under the stroking on their inner, upper thigh, until they’re wheezing and trying to squirm away, before he lets go.

Shoes click across the floor, again circling, keeping Whumpee within reach. Whumpee wonders if Whumper only wears shoes that click like that for a reason.

“It’s just so interesting how the human body can’t seem to function quite right when it’s upside down. I’ve only read about it, the effects of someone in this position for too long….Don’t you agree it’s always more fun to see things with your own eyes?”

Whumper’s voice is coming from everywhere. Where are they? Whumpee scrunches their eyes shut again, their deteriorating vision doing nothing to help pinpoint the man’s location.

When a hand knots in their hair from behind and pulls back at an angle that makes Whumpee feel like their head will snap and fall off right then and there, they cry out, again losing the limited breath they had managed to regain. Fingers wind into their hair, pulling the their scalp painfully taught. Then Whumper’s voice is in their ear.

“It starts with all the blood rushing to your head. You felt that early on. Maybe not so bad at first, but it just keeps pooling, and pooling.” The breath worms into Whumpee’s ear, a viscous hissing, and they don’t have enough strength to pull away or to try and rip their head forward.

“I bet your skull feels like it will crack any minute now, doesn’t it?”

Yes. It does. The pressure is building every second, maybe more unbearable than any pain Whumper has ever inflicted before—their own body working against them and gravity tugging, begging them to return to the floor.

“Nngh…hnn.” Whumpee doesn’t know if they’re trying to form words or if the whimpers are just involuntary noises, but when their head is finally released, they let out a soft huff at the reprieve. But the relief is microscopic and short lived as Whumper comes around to the front of them.

He crouches, places his fingers around the sides of Whumpee’s head, resting his thumbs on the peak of their cheekbones just below their eyes; Whumpee flinches but still doesn’t pull away.

“All that blood in your head, well, you’ll feel it in your eyes too. You feel it, don’t you, dove?” Whumper’s voice is a whisper as he slowly begins pressing his thumbs down on the bones just under Whumpee’s eyes.

They gasp, only now trying to shake their head away from the added pressure as the fingers press harder and all of the blood they were holding back with their thin, thin eyelids, feels as though it will give way with one more ounce of force applied to their cheekbones. They sob a humiliatingly breathless cry when Whumper digs in his nails, commanding, “Open your eyes.”

Whumpee can feel wetness dripping from their pressed eyelids down over their brows, and think for sure that it must be blood finally leaking from their overfull skull. When a drop rolls over the small abrasion on their forehead from Whumper’s manhandling a day ago and it stings, they know it’s only salty tears, adding to the saturation of their hairline.

Shuddering, heaving for breath and choking on their own saliva which feels like it’s beginning to pool in their nose, they open their eyes. And there is only static and the shadowy outline that is Whumper, who immediately withdraws the pressing thumbs at the edge of their sockets when he sees Whumpee’s eyelids lift.

Thumbs shift to stroking away tears, and Whumpee hears Whumper coo in admiration at their bloodshot eyes and the way their pupils flick back and forth, completely unfocused and dazed.

“Poor thing, you can’t see, can you? Too much pesky blood in that head of yours.”

Whumpee’s lip quivers despite their teeth digging in to trying and keep it still. They’re ready for this to be over. They need it to stop. The physical pain is one thing, but the constant taunting is starting to wear them thin, not just today, but the built up taunting and toying, over weeks and weeks.

What is a game to Whumper is costing Whumpee their sanity. And why? Why them? Why is this asshole such a fucking asshole? Did they really have to lower themselves beneath this man—no, monster—just to live, just to breathe, and eat, and sleep? Is their life worth complete prostration to some maniac? They think not…but this is unbearable.

If they could just be let down they could think. They need to be able to think.

They want so badly to yell, to scream out all their frustration and anger, but even that’s being taken from them. All they can do is snivel and sob, and they’re so tired of it. And more and more they’re beginning to think it will never stop, not if they don’t give in, at least a little. Just so they can get a break. That’s right, they wouldn’t be giving in to their captor’s wishes, they would be doing it for themselves, to maybe earn a moment's peace. They need it to stop, if just for a bit. They took as deep a breath as they could.

“Pl—huh—ple—hahhh—pl-ss—ghh.” Trying to speak only aggravates their lungs further and they’re barely able to get out a full syllable with the gasping. It’s pitiful, they can instantly feel their face burn—even though there’s too much blood there already—but Whumpee is just about ready to give Whumper anything he wants to make it stop. They know that’s exactly what Whumper is trying for—they can’t care right now though.

But Whumper is already standing, as if he couldn’t hear Whumpee’s pleas, his shadow moving up and away, and tears flood down Whumpee’s face. After everything, and going against every fiber of their being, they had finally given him the one little word he wanted, and he doesn’t even care. Walked away like it was nothing.

Please, no more.

Whumper trails a hand along their bound arm, stopping at their twitching fingers.

“Awe, and if only you could see the lovely shade of blue your arms and fingers are turning. Your legs and toes too. It must sting. I imagine it feels like fire crawling through your empty veins.”

Whumper is right, they did burn, all over, every inch of them, and it’s the kind of burning that’s so hot it’s like frostbite, a painful, bone-deep numbness that leaves the skin and muscles prickling numbly.

The biting of the rope had been long forgotten to the various other pains trumping it, but Whumper’s tracing hand and teasing narration of the current state of their body drags the itch of the rope burn back to the surface.

“All because your little heart just can’t push the blood back up. It must be so tired, your heart,” Whumper says, humming thoughtfully as he slides his hand back to Whumpee’s front to rest over their shivering chest. They can feel their heart beginning to falter, as if at Whumper’s command, too overwhelmed with the task of pumping the extra blood out of Whumpee’s upper body, even with the adrenaline continuing to flood their system.

Whumper is right, their heart is tired. Maybe it will take pity on them and just stop beating.

Whumpee waits.

It keeps fluttering weakly and rapidly against their rib cage, like a trapped and dying bird. A frightened dove, perhaps.

Whumper brushes his middle and forefinger against their bulging jugular vein, making them twitch and jerk with the proximity of his hand to their neck, holding it there to feel it pulsing thickly before pulling away.

Something clicks and Whumpee just barely hears it over their ringing ears and huffing lungs. It’s not Whumper’s shoes on the floor, but his silhouette has moved out of sight.

They know they should swivel their head, try and find the predator who has slunk back into the darkness, but their eyelids are starting to get heavy, their breathing shallower, weaker. The static dancing across their vision wavers, beginning to fade to a more solid blackness.

Something cold presses at the shaking muscles between their shoulder blades and Whumpee distantly feels it dragging down before—

“Aagghckhhuhh!”

Was that them screaming? It’s not even really a scream as the air drains from them within seconds, and they’re left choking on nothing.

The pain took a moment to register, but Whumpee knows it to be Whumper’s pocket knife, the one he liked made of smooth steel with a jagged edge. The sweet exhaustion that was so close to taking them is effectively staved off by the new gash down the center of the back.

Their heart skips another beat with the stress and they can nearly feel the extra blood rush down to their head. The tip of the cool metal blade is pulled from their skin and continues its teasingly slow path around their side and over to their stomach, and Whumpee is uncontrollably shaking, gasping quietly as they wait for another laceration.

“Oh, dove,” Whumper says, almost sounding genuinely apologetic before a slight puff of laughter breaks his sentence. “I really am so sorry, I didn’t plan on doing anything more than letting you hang here, but, well, I can’t have you falling asleep yet.” He moves around Whumpee’s side again and sighs affectionately. “Let me enjoy this a bit longer, hmm? You’re just so perfect like this.”

Whumpee is silent save their staggered breathing. This time when a scorching trail of pain is carved next to the first, they only flinch and whimper.

“Sorry, sorry.” Another sardonic laugh. “I admit, that one was just for fun.”

They can’t see. Their body is breaking, blind, numb to the very core yet still sensing every little sting and ache, head throbbing, skin burning, and—

“The real problem is your lungs, isn’t it?” Whumper prompts, sliding the knife from where it had wandered to Whumpee’s heaving navel towards the end of their sternum.

Whumpee knows he’s doing it on purpose, asking them questions, waiting for an answer he knows they can’t provide, asking them to speak when any other day he’d want them to be quiet, simply because he knows they can’t reply. Can’t retaliate in the only way that they’ve been able to.

In the far back of their mind, in the little piece of their oriented self that’s remaining, they know this should piss them off, make them want to hock the fattest, nastiest glob of spit right at Whumper’s face. But their spit is choking them instead and they’re finding it hard to focus on anything but the pain and disorienting pressure in their head.

“What kills nearly all of the people who die this way—upside down, I mean—is asphyxiation. Fascinating, isn’t it? And you can feel it can’t you, your lungs giving out under the weight of your abdominal organs, literally being crushed? Your diaphragm…” Whumper glides the knife along the division of abdomen and chest, not yet pushing deep enough to cut. “...It’s struggling so desperately to lift that weight upward enough to allow your lungs to expand. But it’s so tired, isn’t it?”

Yes…so tired.

Whumpee’s stomach did feel tight and sunken, as though the organs there had indeed slipped downward—or, upward?—to compress their fragile lungs. Is that even possible? Or is Whumper just trying to scare them, make them panic to worsen things? Either way, their breathing is becoming shallower, every inhale a fight against their own body and a battle against the ropes constricting the rising of their chest.

“You can’t breathe, can you.” This isn’t a question and it echoes through Whumpee’s mind, somehow amplifying their need for air.

He’s right, I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

Whumper must’ve knelt in front of Whumpee’s face because they can hear him taking a deep and taunting breath into free and open lungs as he pulls the knife down to dance across their collarbones. Whumpee scrunches their face, unseeing eyes closed tight.

“Whumpee, you’re so tired, aren’t you?”

Yes, I’m so tired. It hurts. Please, make it stop.

A moment of silence passes, the room filled by Whumper’s deep, steady breathing, before Whumpee remembers that he can’t actually read their mind and so they try pulling their shoulders in and tensing their stomach to speak.

“Huhhh…d-down…pl-huh-leassse…” They manage a string of two whining words broken by gasps before they run out of air, and fresh tears roll down the sides of their face.

Something wet rolls over their shoulder and Whumpee hears it drip on the floor. It takes them a second to realize it’s blood from the gashes on their back, the pain of which has almost completely faded.

Whumper is quiet for a moment, a dreadfully long moment, as Whumpee shakes and cringes at the blade tracing their collarbones and up their neck, before he whispers something that barely reaches their ears.

“Hmm, what was it you said ealier? That you could ‘do this all day,’ I believe it was?”

Whumpee can’t see his face but they can hear the smugness there. A beat of silence. Whumpee searches for anything other than satisfaction in his tone but finds none, no joking or teasing manner to indicate he’s only bluffing. He wouldn’t leave them here all day, would he? How long has it been anyway?

Asphyxiation, that’s what Whumper said they’d die of. Would they die? They certainly feel like they’re dying, and after all, their body can only survive on such little oxygen for so long. Just the train of thought has Whumpee’s weary heart racing faster, their throat sinching tighter. I’m going to die, they thought, followed by sobbing an awful, wrenching, breathless cry.

The bastard is finally going to get what he wants, Whumpee shut up for good. And maybe it’s for the best, maybe they should let it end now, let Whumper walk out the door and fall asleep to the stalling thump of their heart and thrumming blood in their head, never to wake up again.

But when they hear Whumper take a deep, languid breath of air, then feel the cool stream of his exhale being blown across their lips, their mouth, of its own accord, parts slightly to try and suck it in and the betrayal of their biography—the inherent yearning for breath—is somehow humiliating. Let me die, dammit.

Whumper’s laugh hits their face, hot and smothering. “Sweet dove, don’t you know the body will always want to live, even if that obdurate mind of yours doesn’t?”

This time, when Whumper’s hand touches their face, gently cupping the trembling and tear-wet skin, they don’t flinch.

“But you don’t really want to die, right, dove? You want to stay with me longer, don’t you?”

Whumpee doesn’t feel themselves nod so much as the rush of shame that follows it, but another side of them—a side that wasn’t fully there before Whumper enacted this scheme today—quickly burns the shame away before it can settle, and complacently agrees with their torturer.

No, they don’t want to die. They’ll do anything to get down. And so this new part of them, immune to degradation and embarrassment, simply on the basis that it’s only goal is to survive, pushes Whumpee to lift their impossibly heavy chin, and give Whumper exactly what he wants, what he’d been digging for this entire time. Not the word please. Whumpee realizes now that Whumper knew “please” meant nothing, could be said hollowly just like the word “love.”

No, what he wants is Whumpee begging for him. To be with him.

“W-w-huuh-umper….pl-huh-ease…huh…I…want...huhhh…huh…to…s-stay…with...huh…y-you….” They’re crying freely, gulping for spent air, shuddering head to toe from exhaustion, the sentence barely intelligible, but Whumper hushes them softly in contentment.

“Shh, I know, dove. Thank you for finally being honest. You can sleep now, I’ll get you down.” His voice is silky, just like the thumb he’s stroking over their trembling chin and bottom lip.

Whumpee knows they should hate the touch, hate being given permission to rest, but they accept gratefully, and let their mind slip down, down, and far away from the pounding in their skull and the aching of their entire physical being.

~ ~ ~

For perhaps a moment too long, Whumper lets himself enjoy Whumpee’s unconscious pliability. Just tracing the bruises on their skin—ones he himself put there—stroking their cheek, studying the thin scar along their nose, the short one on the side of their stomach, and the thick one along their outer thigh—the only ones he didn’t do himself—and taking in the state Whumpee is so rarely in. Quiet. Calm.

Well, not exactly calm, even in unconsciousness. They are still struggling to breathe in their sleep, shuddering to pull in air, and it’s a gurling, choking cough that snaps Whumper out of his trance and has him finally striding to the pulley on the wall to untie the numerous knots.

When the rope is loose he wraps it three times about his hand and slowly lowers Whumpee to the ground; there’s the hissing of the rope through the wheel, then their head touching down, gently, followed by their shoulder blades, back, and rear, until they are flat on the floor.

By the time Whumper has walked back over to them, their color is already slowly shifting from an awful blue in their extremities and a reddish-purple in their face, to a paler pink as they spasm lightly with the change of positioning, their body systems desperately trying to reset themselves.

Their breathing half corrects itself, still restricted by the ropes but lungs no longer burdened by the weight of their stomach, and Whumpee groans, coughs weakly, but takes a breath. Their face visibly relaxes some, the tension in their muscles dispersing with the relief of oxygen. Whumper kneels, pulling their head and shoulders up into his lap, and begins working at the ropes around their torso first with his pocket knife, the tip of which is still stained in their blood.

With each snapping of a section of rope, Whumpee’s chest rises a little further, and soon their upper half is completely unrestrained, their arms hanging loose by their sides, shoulders slumped into Whumper’s thighs. The sound of their first full breath is ragged and sputtering, before falling into a semi-normal rhythm.

Their face melts and their brows unknitt as their fingers begin to twitch with the likely painful, prickling return of feeling. Whumper runs his fingers through their messy, dampened hair, and takes another moment to enjoy the view before sliding out from under them and finishing removing the bindings.

A whimper makes Whumper’s head snap up in surprise, thinking they’re awakening, but their eyes remain closed and face lax as they whine quietly in their sleep. No, Whumpee will be out of it for a while after today.

When he lifts Whumpee up into his arms, their head lolls to the side until he shifts so it tucks against his chest, and then he makes his way out the door and across the hall to Whumpee’s room. Instead of its usual barren state, there is a thick, memory foam mat in the corner, a thin pillow and blanket. Privileges Whumpee has never earned before.

Whumper knows they won’t last long, he will likely have to take them back shortly after Whumpee wakes up, but tonight, they’ve earned them. Although their time together started as it usually did, with Whumpee running their mouth, fighting every step of the way, it ended with them quiet, compliant, agreeable, and begging, which is a difficult state to push them into.

He laughs to himself as he lays the groaning Whumpee on the mat and places the pillow under their head and shoulders to elevate them slightly. Whumpee had remained conscious upside down far longer than expected—a little under five hours.

It still baffles Whumper how they’re able to withstand so much. Perhaps it’s due to their physical body, an athlete's lungs, a strong heart and healthy blood vessels, even despite their malnutrition and insomnia recently? Or is it just their stupidly stubborn will? No matter really, since neither a strong body nor mind can hold out eternally.

Whumpee isn’t the kind of person to break down from just one session, it will take many bouts of blended humiliation and pain to get them where Whumper wants them; they would never be so easy as to break and stay broken after this one time. Granted, he hadn’t totally expected something as simple as hanging them upside down to be what made such headway. He supposes the article he read really wasn’t kidding about the severity of the effects of being in the position too long.

He knows the malleability he witnessed tonight isn’t indefinite, that as soon as Whumpee is awake and thinking straight that they’d be back to their normal self. But it’s still a step in the right direction. He still managed to chip away a significant obstacle with them, which was getting them to admit that they would do anything to stay alive, even if that meant they had to be here, with Whumper. Now that’s something Whumper can work with, something he can begin to knead at and eventually mold as he pleases.

For now, though, what he needs is to be patient, and to slowly, steadily, begin shaping the clay. His first mistake with this kid was his impatience, but after seeing the pay off, well, he could wait. He can learn to take things slowly if that’s what it took to make a sweet pet.

His hand finds its way back to their hair as he thinks, his fingers running through knots and tangles. Whumpee is dirty, grime from the floor scuffing their legs and shoulders, blood drying in an odd looking trail over their left shoulder, hair sticky from sweat and tears, a beautiful, bright red lattice of rope burn running all over their body.

The marks at Whumpee’s wrists seem especially irritated, probably from the layers of half healed skin there that have peeled free upon Whumpee’s struggling today, and Whumper inspects them with a churning admiration, noting that it'd be the one thing he will miss about Whumpee, once they’re broken in—the excuse to leave them with injuries like these. Although, he supposes he can always simply make those excuses.

He doesn’t bother wiping them down, cleaning them, changing their undergarments, or dressing the laceration on their back, not wanting to disturb this precious moment. It will be fine until tomorrow.

They are breathing regularly now, tossing their head slightly with their moaning, but look otherwise at peace. Almost as if they truly are comfortable here with Whumper as he tucks the blanket around them.

“Such a good little dove you’re being…” He hums, sweeping their hair off their forehead and going to stand. Maybe tomorrow he’d give them a much needed bath. As he thinks this, his mind jumps to imagine how it will go, part of him hoping for a silent and uncaring Whumpee who will curl their knees to their chest in the tub and let Whumper wash them, another part of him hoping Whumpee will kick and fight and bite and blab their mouth so he can hold their head under.

He leaves the room, countless scenarios flooding his mind.

Yes, a bath tomorrow sounds delightful.

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