#on the outside i was greeting and counting the no. of visitors but on the inside i was ‘senpaiiiiiii sayonaraaaaaaa’

[deus-ex-mona]

oh!!!!! sana’s finally singing a hw song again!!!!!

[amiableness]

Only Me

Pairing: Theo Nott x Reader

Summary: Desperate to get a persistent girl off his back, Enzo and reader kiss. But when the kiss unexpectedly turns heated, Theo loses it.

Word Count: 4184

Warnings: Jealousy, a bit of possessiveness, reader kisses both Enzo and Theo (separately), and language. Let me know if there’s anything else!

A/N 💌 This idea has been bouncing around in my head for awhile! Thank you to @moonpascal for reading and giving me pointers as always <3

The common room buzzes with the familiar hum of conversation, groups of students either buried in classwork or indulging in gossip. Outside, snow is falling, making it all the more comforting to be curled up by the fire in your favorite armchair. Your knees are tucked tightly to your chest, and your book is balanced on top, though you haven’t turned a page in what feels like forever.

Your mind keeps wandering to Theo, who sits across from you on the couch, his attention seemingly on Enzo’s animated storytelling. But despite the lively chatter around you, your focus is entirely on him. For the past hour, you’ve found yourself sneaking glances in his direction, unable to tear your thoughts away.

His laugh rings out, warm and infectious, pulling your gaze to him as if by instinct. The sound is so captivating that it seems to fill the entire room, making it impossible not to look. As his laughter fades into soft, lingering chuckles, his eyes suddenly meet yours, and your stomach flips at the unexpected eye contact, the intensity of his gaze holding you in place.

He raises his eyebrow at you, his expression a hint of curiosity mixed with amusement. He finally breaks the silence, his voice low. “You know, you don’t have to sit all the way over there.”

“And where would I sit instead?” You ask, your voice lightly tinged with amusement. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Blaise arch an amused brow at your tone, clearly picking up on the flirty undertone. 

The other boys don’t seem to notice, too absorbed in their conversation. Whatever they’re discussing has them completely engrossed, their voices animated and intense. Normally, you’d eavesdrop, but today, you’re too distracted by how undeniably good Theo looks to focus on anything else.

Theo’s lips curve into a small, almost gentle smile, one that’s reserved just for you. He pats the empty space beside him on the couch, “With me, dolcezza.”

You sigh, feigning annoyance at the thought of moving, but in reality, you’re trying to suppress the flutter in your stomach as you stand and make your way over to Theo. He greets you with a grin, and you roll your eyes in response, though you can’t quite hide the smile tugging at your bottom lip, which you quickly bite down on.

You aim to sit a reasonable distance away from him, but before you can settle in, Theo surprises you by reaching out and pulling you closer, so close that you’re practically sitting on his lap. The sudden contact sends a jolt through you, catching you completely off guard.

His name slips past your lips in a breathless gasp, drawing Blaise’s attention from across the room. He looks over, his grin widening with amusement as he takes in the scene. You’re nestled closely against Theo, your body practically molded to his, with one leg draped over his lap. His arm is securely wrapped around your waist, holding you close, while his fingers lazily toy with the hem of your skirt, tracing light patterns that send shivers up your spine.

You’re so focused on steadying the nerves fluttering in your stomach that you don’t even notice the girl approaching your group. She lingers just a few feet away from Enzo, but he’s too engrossed in his conversation to see her. It isn’t until Mattheo nods in her direction with a smirk and makes a remark about the “pretty little visitor” that Enzo finally catches on.

He swivels around in his armchair, and you notice his smile falter ever so slightly before he quickly recovers, masking his reaction, “Oh, hi.” He doesn’t even bother to conceal the disappointment in his voice.

You close your eyes, wincing in disappointment as you hear Theo chuckle softly. 

“I wanted to know if you wanted to read our project before I turned it in.” The bundle of parchment crinkles in her grasp, the edges slightly rumpled from handling. Enzo’s eyes drop to the papers, his expression shifting as he takes in the sight.

“I’m good. Thanks, though.” Enzo starts to turn back to the boys, his tone polite but firm, signaling the conversation’s end. But before he can fully disengage, she takes a step forward, determination in her eyes.

“That’s fine! Maybe you’d like to do something together outside of class?” Her voice is laced with hope, almost too eager, as she tries to bridge the gap between them.

Enzo hesitates, his discomfort evident. “Uh, I don’t think so,” he says, wincing as a flush creeps up his neck, his cheeks turning pink. He glances around, clearly uneasy with the situation. “Like I said last time, I’m just not interested.” His voice softens, an attempt to let her down gently, but the awkwardness hangs in the air, making the rejection all the more painful.

“It doesn’t have to be a date.” She persists, her voice tinged with a hopeful edge. You glance over at Draco and Mattheo, who are laughing to themselves, clearly amused by the unfolding scene. She doesn’t seem to notice; her focus is entirely on Enzo, and her determination is ruthless.

“You know what? Let’s just talk about this tomorrow.” Enzo sighs, trying to find an easy out. Her face lights up at the mere mention of tomorrow, a hopeful smile spreading across her lips. She eagerly agrees, practically spinning on her heel to leave. As she walks away, Enzo lets out another sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Salazar, mate! That was pathetic.” Mattheo laughs.

Draco smirks, leaning back casually, “Honestly, Enzo, you’re being too fucking nice. She’ll keep coming back if you don’t tell her to fuck off.”

“I’ve tried!” Enzo protests, sending him an exacerbated look.

“Enzo, you can just say no directly.” You chime in, your tone light but pointed. 

Enzo looks over at you, shaking his head, “Sweetheart, I’ve tried.” Theo’s eyes narrow in annoyance at the pet name, but Enzo doesn’t notice.

“Grab a girl and make out in front of her. She’ll get the hint then,” Mattheo suggests nonchalantly, shrugging as if it’s the most obvious solution. He leans back in his chair, an arrogant smirk playing on his lips. “It’s worked for me plenty of times.”

“Are you hearing my problem? I don’t need another girl becoming attached.” Enzo snaps. Draco immediately scoffs at the mention of Enzo’s popularity with the girls of Hogwarts—it’s clearly always bothered him.

“Merlin, Enzo. Just ask one of the girls, then.” Draco huffs, his impatience evident in his tone. He rolls his eyes, clearly exasperated with the ongoing discussion. Sitting beside you, Theo tenses up slightly, his posture stiffening as he shifts uncomfortably.

“What the fuck, mate? Pans and I are together.” Blaise says, sending him an annoyed look. Draco just shrugs indifferently.

“She’d probably say yes.” Draco mumbles. He dismisses the glare Blaise throws his way.

Mattheo’s gaze drifts to you, and a sly, amused smile spreads across his face, carrying a hint of something darker in his eyes. “Well, love,” he drawls, his tone teasing, “looks like you’re the one who’ll be kissing Enzo.”

“No,” Theo grits out, his voice strained with protectiveness. His fingers spread out as he firmly grasps your hip, his fingertips creating dimples in your skin. His eyes lock onto Mattheo with a stern glare. “She isn’t.”

Theo’s reaction doesn’t catch you off guard. He’d always been protective of you. In the beginning, you chalked it up to his feelings for you, but as the years passed without anything more, you let that theory slip away.

“Unfortunately,” Draco drawls with a smirk, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, “that isn’t really up to you, mate.”

“You don’t have to,” Enzo says, his tone soft and reassuring. “That’s a lot to ask.” His words carry a gentle understanding, and Theo visibly relaxes.

Your gaze shifts to Theo, who is watching you with a furrowed brow and a trace of irritation in his eyes. You’ve been absorbed in your feelings for Theo for so long that you’ve avoided pursuing anything with anyone else. You’ve had a few kisses here and there, but they were disappointing. Kissing Enzo wouldn’t be awful. Probably the exact opposite. You’ve heard the giggles and whispers around school about how good it is to kiss Enzo. Much more than just that, actually.

Maybe things with Theo would never work out, and you’d always just be his best friend. You could accept that. But if that’s how it was going to be, he didn’t have the right to tell you not to kiss Enzo.

“I’ll let you kiss me.” You say, your voice firm. The boys exchange stunned and uneasy glances, their eyes darting nervously toward Theo, who stares at you in wide-eyed disbelief. 

The room feels charged with tension as Theo’s expression darkens, “Dolcezza—”

“It’s not up for debate, Theo. If Enzo wants to kiss me, he can,” You assert, pulling away from Theo and turning so you’re directly facing Enzo. Theo’s frown deepens, his hands clenching slightly as he struggles to suppress the urge to haul you back onto his lap. The tension is palpable as he watches you with frustration and reluctance. You glance back at Enzo, your voice softening as you add, “I don’t mind, Enz.”

“Are you sure?” Enzo asks softly, his voice barely audible. Theo shoots him a sharp, warning glare. Enzo casts an uneasy glance at Theo before turning his attention back to you.

“I trust you.” You say with a soft smile, your eyes meeting his. Enzo’s tension eases a tad as he returns the smile.

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

You arrive at your usual spot in the Great Hall well before the rest of your friends, hoping to settle in for a quiet breakfast and then head straight to class. Just as you begin to relax, Pansy slides into the seat next to you with a grin, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she catches your eye.

“I just heard the most scandalous thing.” Pansy says with a sly smile, leaning in as if sharing a secret.

“Did you?” You ask, taking a slow sip of your tea and watching her with a hint of amusement.

“I heard that Theo Nott’s girl will be making out with his best mate.” She hums thoughtfully, casting you a knowing glance as she carefully fills her plate.

“I don’t think Theo Nott has a girl.” You give her a pointed look as you speak. Pansy sighs, clearly tempted to launch into one of her usual lectures about how Theo feels the same way. But before she can say anything, the boys start to trickle in, their expressions groggy.

Theo’s mood is already sour and only worsens when he narrows his eyes at you, his gaze honing in on the subtle sheen on your lips. “Are you wearing lip gloss?” he asks, suspicion lacing his tone.

You hum in confirmation, a small, carefree sound that only makes Theo’s stomach churn harder. He feels a wave of nausea rise, the thought of you putting on lipgloss to kiss someone else—especially Enzo—causing an unsettling tightness in his chest. His jaw clenches as he struggles to keep it together. Mattheo and Draco watch him closely, clearly entertained as their eyes dart back and forth between the two of you.

His food sits forgotten as he stares at you incredulously, “Why?”

“What do you mean why? If I’m kissing Enzo, I want my lips to be soft for him.” Enzo flushes a deep red, and Theo stares at you in disbelief as the rest of your friends erupt in whistles and teasing comments, reacting to what you’ve just said.

Even though it seemed a bit unnecessary, you had applied some lip product and brushed your teeth for an unusually long time. The last thing you wanted was for him to think poorly of the kiss. 

“Careful, Nott. After this kiss, she might not be your girl anymore.” Draco snarks with a smirk, his voice laced with amusement. You hold your breath, anticipating Theo’s reaction, but to your disappointment, he says nothing.

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

Theo’s mood simmered down throughout the day, and you guessed it was because you hadn’t needed to kiss Enzo. You spent the entire day without catching even a glimpse of the girl Enzo was avoiding. Throughout the day’s classes, you remained on edge, ready to put on a show with Enzo if necessary. 

But as the hours passed and she failed to appear, it became increasingly clear that you might not need to kiss one of your best friends today. With hardly anyone in the halls, you hadn’t anticipated crossing paths with her again.

“How about a girls’ night tonight?” You ask, throwing a pointed glance at the boys trailing behind you. “I need a break from them.”

Pansy grinned, “Even Nott?”

“Oh, fuck off,” You laugh, playfully swatting at her arm with your free hand while balancing your book in the other. “Even Nott.”

“I would. But Blaise and I are hanging out.” Her tone is suggestive, and you respond with a knowing glance.

“Make sure you—” Your words are abruptly silenced as a firm grip pulls you backward. Enzo’s arm wraps securely around your waist, hauling you against his chest. The sudden, intimate contact leaves you breathless and disoriented. Before you can fully grasp what’s happening, his lips are on yours, hot and demanding. The sheer intensity of the kiss makes your heart race wildly, and a startled moan escapes from deep within you.

Your hand, momentarily frozen, then moves with a mind of its own, sliding into his hair. Your fingers bury themselves in the soft, silky strands, feeling the slight tremor of his breaths against your skin as the kiss deepens. Enzo’s other hand finds its way to the side of your neck, his thumb brushing along your throat. The tender, intimate touch sends a jolt of desire through you, making you gasp softly. Your book slips from your grasp, thudding heavily on the floor, but you’re too absorbed in the moment to notice. With your other hand now free, it instinctively reaches up to clutch his bicep, using him to hold yourself up.

Enzo’s lips trail a heated path from the corner of your mouth, inching toward the sensitive spot just below your ear. Each kiss sends a shiver through you, leaving your body feeling as though it’s melting into his touch. The intensity of the moment is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, and you find yourself lost, feeling his lips on you.

Clearly, you hadn’t picked the right guys to kiss before.

“Theo is going to beat my ass for touching you.” Enzo’s breathy whisper grazes your ear, sending a shiver down your spine before he begins to pull back. To his surprise, you instinctively lean forward, your eyes fluttering closed as you chase after his retreating lips, your breath mingling with his in a shared moment of longing. Just as he’s about to close the gap and kiss you again, Theo’s hand shoots out, gripping the collar of Enzo’s shirt with a firm hold. He yanks Enzo away with a decisive tug, his eyes blazing.

He’s absolutely furious.

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m letting you kiss her again. She ran off the second you grabbed Y/n.” Theo snaps, his tone icy and edged with contempt.

It takes a moment for you to register that Theo is talking about Enzo’s relentless former class partner.

His gaze locks onto the lip gloss smeared across Enzo’s lips, and a dangerous glint flares in his eyes. The flicker of anger in his gaze sharpens as he takes a deliberate step forward, his posture radiating barely contained tension. His fingers twitch at his sides, visibly itching to confront his best friend, the promise of retribution clear in his stance.

Enzo remains silent, but his eyes shift to you, conveying a mixture of regret and concern. Theo’s gaze follows, landing on you. Your lips are swollen from the intensity of the kiss, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Your eyes, still wide and slightly glassy, remain fixed on Enzo.

You look wrecked, and Theo despises it.

Without a second thought, Theo takes a decisive step forward, his jaw clenched tightly and his fingers digging into his palms. The sudden movement is charged with barely contained anger, his eyes locked onto Enzo with a fierce intensity.

“Nott!” Blaise barks, clapping a hand on Theo’s shoulder. “It was just a kiss.”

“Quite the kiss, though.” Draco adds with a smirk, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Mattheo lets out a low whistle, clearly entertained. Theo responds with a withering glare, his expression darkening.

Blaise shoves Theo back forcefully, his voice cutting through the tension. “Take your girl and go cool off.” He commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Theo fixes Blaise with a scathing glare, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shoves past him, grabs your hand with a firm grip, and pulls you down the hall toward his dorm, his movements fueled by anger and jealousy.

You protest, urging him to slow down, but he disregards your words, muttering curses in Italian under his breath. With a fierce shove, he throws open the door to his dorm. You trail after him, and as soon as you step inside, he slams the door shut behind you. As you watch, he paces the room, his hands running through his hair in frustration.

You’ve never seen him like this before—raw and seething.

He spins around to face you, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and distress, “What the fuck was that, dolcezza?’

There’s a moment of silence before you murmur, “A kiss,” as you lean against the door. Theo’s eyes follow your hand as it gently touches your swollen lips, and he sees the distant, reflective look in your eyes.

A flash of something dark and possessive ignites in his gaze. He clenches his jaw, the flicker of jealousy sharp and stinging. The sight of you lingering on the memory of Enzo’s kiss twists in his gut, fueling an intense surge of anger. He can’t stand seeing you so absorbed in someone else’s touch.

“That wasn’t just a kiss.” Theo snaps, his voice clipped.

“It was a bit much,” You reply with a resigned sigh, your gaze meeting his. “But it felt good—”

“Kissing him felt good?” Theo interrupts, his voice dropping to a strained, dangerous whisper. Each word cuts through the space between you with an intensity that makes your heart pound. He steps closer, his eyes blazing with anger and disbelief. You falter, your words catching in your throat as you watch him. “Is that really what you think I want to hear?”

“I don’t know what you want to hear.” You admit, your voice barely above a whisper. You meet his gaze with a defiant look, trying to hold your ground even as your heart races.

Theo’s eyes darken, and he takes another step closer, his face inches from yours. His breath is warm against your skin, mingling with your uneven gasps. 

“I want to hear that it meant absolutely nothing to you.” Theo says.

“It didn’t.” You confirm, eyes fixed on his, your breath catching in your throat. This is the closest you’ve ever been, the closest you’ve ever allowed yourself to imagine that he might actually kiss you.

“It didn’t?” He repeats, his voice low and dangerously soft. “Because it sure looked like it did.” The intensity in his eyes is almost overwhelming, and you can almost feel the heat of frustration radiating off him.

“It was just a kiss, Theo. It wasn’t real.” You say, looking away, a slight hint of exasperation to your tone.

“Are you sure he felt that way?”

“Enzo?” Your eyes snap back to him in disbelief. Theo stares blankly at you. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” He retorts, his voice shifting from anger to something softer, almost vulnerable. “Because the girl I love is standing in front of me, talking about how kissing my best friend felt good.”

The words hang in the air, and your heart stutters as you struggle to take it all in. The anger that once fueled his every move is now mingled with something else—something that feels like hope. The intensity of his confession leaves you momentarily stunned, your mind reeling as you try to make sense of it. Theo’s eyes hold yours, a storm of anger, hurt, and vulnerability brewing just beneath the surface.

“Theo…” You begin, but your voice falters, and you struggle to formulate a sentence. All you had ever wanted was for him to confess, and now that he had, you found yourself at a loss. The moment you’d imagined so many times was finally here, yet the reality of it left you frozen, uncertain of how to respond.

He steps closer, his hand lifting to gently brush his fingers against your cheek. The space between you is almost gone now. His gaze flickers to your lips, and you can see the conflict in his eyes—the tension between the desire to hold you close and the hurt of picturing you with someone else.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve loved you, dolcezza?” Theo’s voice drops to a whisper, thick with emotion, as he gently traces your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. The delicate touch sends a shiver down your spine, your breath hitching in response. His gaze flickers from your eyes, filled with desire and uncertainty, down to your parted lips, lingering there as if trying to memorize every curve and tremble. “Years,” he breathes, the word heavy with longing, his thumb still grazing your lip as if he’s afraid to let go.

The air between you feels charged, thick with emotions that have been kept buried for far too long. Theo’s confession hangs between you like a fragile thread, one that could break with a single wrong move. His thumb continues its gentle path along your lip, the contact sending a rush of warmth through your body.

“Years?” You echo, your voice wrecked as the realization sinks in. The word feels foreign on your tongue, like something you’ve never quite understood until now. 

Theo nods, his eyes never leaving yours. “I tried to push it away,” he admits, his voice low and raw. “Tried to convince myself it wasn’t real, that it was just some stupid crush I’d get over. But it wasn’t. It isn’t.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His thumb stills against your lip, and his expression darkens with regret. “Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I didn’t want to risk losing you. But now…” He trails off, his gaze dropping to your lips again, his resolve wavering. “But I can’t stand the thought of someone else touching you, kissing you, when I’ve been waiting all this time.”

“Theo…” You murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, as you reach up to cup his face. Your fingers brush against the rough stubble on his jaw, and he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

When he opens them again, they’re filled with a desperate kind of hope, one that makes your heartache. You whisper, “Will you please just kiss me?”

He moves with an intense determination, his hand sliding up to cradle the side of your head, fingers curling possessively just beneath your ear. The raw intensity in his gaze overwhelms you, a mix of longing and vulnerability that feels both foreign and intimately familiar. The depth of emotion in his eyes constricts your chest, an unexpected surge of feeling threatening to make you tremble.

His thumb trails a fiery path along your cheek, the warmth of his touch igniting a wave of sensation. As he leans in, the air between you becomes electrified with tension. When his lips finally connect with yours, the kiss is a fierce collision of need and tenderness—a deliberate press that lingers.

Your fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by pressing you firmly against the door. The proximity makes you draw a sharp, shuddering breath, a sound that mingles with the deeper kiss as he intensifies the connection. His lips are urgent and demanding, yet tender, each movement sending a shiver down your spine. His other hand braces against the door next to your head, anchoring you both in this intimate, electrifying moment.

The space between you disappears, replaced by the searing heat of his body against yours, drawing you irresistibly into him. Breathless, you’re lost in him, more exhilarated than you’ve ever been. His lips against yours send your mind reeling, and you know that if you weren’t pinned against the door, you’d cling to him just to stay upright.

When you finally pull back, breathless and dizzy, Theo’s forehead rests against yours, his eyes still closed as he savors the moment. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

You smile softly, your heart swelling as your throat constricts with emotion. “I’ve loved you for just as long.”

please consider reblogging or leaving a comment! it keeps me motivated to write! 💌

[arilevenatz]

Heart At Sea

Pairing: Pirate!Wooyoung x reader

Genre/trope: Fluff, pirate au

Word count: 14.4k

Warnings: Self-harm, scars, whipping, Imk if I missed any!

AN: Finally woo gets his fic! I'm so excited to finish all 8 fanfictions of the members! I've had so much fun writing this. Also yes I did cry while writing this thank u very much. I just love wooyoung being so sweet and he's extra sweet to mc. I think everybody deserves a wooyoung in their life

Masterlist

On the island of Seagrove, YN was known as the pharmacist's daughter. Her days were spent behind the counter of her father’s small shop, nestled near the docks. With her sleeves rolled up and her hair tied back, she sorted herbs, prepared remedies, and greeted customers with a quiet confidence.

Her father often ventured into the wild parts of the island, gathering rare plants and ingredients, leaving YN to tend the store. Though young, she had learned much from him—how to grind herbs into powders, mix tinctures, and recognize the faintest symptoms of illness. To the townsfolk, she wasn’t just a girl helping her father; she was a steady hand they could rely on.

The shop itself was simple but full of life. Shelves lined with glass jars and wooden boxes gave the space a calming scent of lavender and eucalyptus. The faint hum of the bustling harbor outside mixed with the occasional jingle of the shop’s bell, marking each new customer’s arrival.

A few townsfolk trickled into the small shop as the morning sun cast golden light through the windows. YN greeted each one with a warm smile that seemed to brighten the entire room.

“Good morning, Mr. Harris!” she chimed as an elderly fisherman stepped inside, clutching his back. “Here for the ointment again?”

“Aye, lass. This old spine of mine doesn’t let me forget it,” he grumbled, though his face softened at her cheerful demeanor.

YN bustled behind the counter, quickly grabbing a small jar of salve. “This should help, just like before! And don’t forget to warm it a little before applying—it works better that way,” she reminded him with a wink.

As he handed over a few coins, another customer entered—a young mother with a baby on her hip. “YN, do you have more of that chamomile tea? It’s the only thing helping my little one sleep these days.”

“Of course, I do!” YN said, her voice filled with enthusiasm. She fetched the tea leaves from a neatly labeled jar and handed them over. “Make sure to steep it for just a few minutes—too strong, and it might be a bit bitter.”

The mother smiled gratefully, the weight of her exhaustion easing just a bit under YN’s sunshine-like warmth.

One by one, people came and went, leaving the shop not just with their medicines but with lighter hearts. YN’s genuine kindness and optimism were infectious, and her presence made the small shop a place of comfort for everyone who stepped through its doors.

Every day, YN spent her hours in the shop, tending to customers with her signature warmth and energy. From sunrise until late afternoon, she ground herbs, mixed tinctures, and offered advice to anyone who came through the door. Her genuine care for others made her beloved in the town of Seagrove.

The shop’s bell jingled throughout the day, announcing each visitor. Sometimes it was a sailor seeking relief for a sore shoulder, or a mother in need of remedies for her child’s fever. YN treated them all with the same unwavering kindness, her cheerful voice and bright smile a constant in their lives.

When the day quieted, YN carefully closed the shop, counting the coins she had earned and tucking them into a small leather pouch. Slinging her basket over her arm, she walked the familiar cobblestone streets back to her home, greeting everyone along the way.

“YN! Thank you for the tea yesterday—it worked wonders!” called a baker as she passed by.

“Anytime! Let me know if you need more,” YN replied, waving with a grin.

The townsfolk adored her. To them, YN wasn’t just the pharmacist’s daughter—she was the heart of their little island, always ready to brighten someone’s day. As she reached her modest home, the warm glow of lantern light spilling from the windows, YN felt content. She had done her part for her community, as she did every day.

Aboard the Halazia, the sea stretched endlessly around the sleek black ship as it cut through the waves like a predator on the hunt. The crew was busy at work, each man fulfilling his role with precision honed through years of sailing under Captain Hongjoong’s command.

On the quarterdeck, Hongjoong stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes fixed on the horizon. His captain's coat billowed in the salty breeze, and a faint smirk played on his lips. “How much longer, Navigator?” he called without turning his head.

“Two hours at most, Captain,” Yunho replied from the helm, his hands steady on the wheel. His calm demeanor matched his confidence in guiding the Halazia through the labyrinth of islands and open waters.

Below deck, Yeosang organized his medical supplies in the dimly lit infirmary. The ship’s rocking didn’t bother him as he meticulously sharpened his tools and checked the cleanliness of bandages. He always prepared for the worst—life aboard a pirate ship demanded it.

Meanwhile, San was in the armory, inspecting the blades and sharpening the cutlasses. His focus was intense, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous energy. As the battle master, he made sure that every weapon on board was in top condition.

On the main deck, Mingi oversaw the crew, his booming voice carrying over the sound of the waves. “Secure those ropes properly! I don’t want to see slack before the next storm!” His role as boatswain made him responsible for the ship’s upkeep, and he took it seriously.

Wooyoung emerged from the galley with a knife in one hand and a basket of freshly cut fruit in the other. “Anyone hungry? I’m not making this twice!” he called out, his mischievous grin suggesting he’d already eaten more than his share.

Down by the cannons, Jongho stood inspecting the weapons that were his pride and responsibility. He ran his hands over the barrels, checking for cracks or defects, and tested the ammunition. Each cannon was polished and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

Above them all, Seonghwa moved seamlessly between tasks, keeping the crew in line and ensuring the captain’s orders were carried out. As quartermaster and first mate, he was Hongjoong’s right hand and the ship’s enforcer. His sharp gaze missed nothing.

The Halazia wasn’t just a ship; it was a well-oiled machine, and its crew was a family forged by countless battles and storms. Today, however, their mission had a specific target—the peaceful island of Seagrove.

The island of Seagrove had always been a neutral land, a safe harbor for travelers, traders, and even the occasional pirate crew. Its position in the Azure Archipelago made it an essential stop for ships to restock supplies and repair damages, but the island’s policy of neutrality demanded careful diplomacy.

When the Halazia docked at Seagrove, the townsfolk took notice immediately. The sight of its dark sails and ominous figurehead was enough to send a ripple of unease through the streets. While it wasn’t unusual for the infamous crew to stop by, the knowledge of their ruthless reputation made the air feel heavy.

“Looks like the Halazia is back,” muttered an old fisherman, his eyes narrowing as he watched the crew disembark.

“Better keep your heads down,” his companion whispered. “They may not cause trouble, but it doesn’t mean they won’t if given a reason.”

The townspeople moved cautiously, their smiles forced and voices hushed. They weren’t hostile, but they walked on eggshells around the crew, offering a nervous politeness that thinly veiled their fear.

The crew of the Halazia, however, carried themselves with practiced nonchalance. They strode through the cobblestone streets as though they owned them, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight and their gazes sharp.

“Do you think they’re just here to restock?” a shopkeeper murmured.

“They always are,” another replied. “But you never know with pirates. Best to stay out of their way.”

Even as the Halazia crew wandered the town, visiting taverns or inspecting the market stalls, the people of Seagrove remained wary. Neutral land or not, the presence of the crew was enough to keep everyone on edge.

The Halazia crew spread across Seagrove, blending into the island’s usual bustle, though their presence kept the townsfolk on alert. Conversations among the crew were as varied as their personalities, with each man displaying his unique quirks.

In the marketplace, Wooyoung strolled between the stalls, his sharp eyes scanning the goods. He held up a peculiar-looking fruit, turning it in his hands.

“Think this is edible?” he asked, tossing it to Mingi, who had wandered over.

Mingi caught it effortlessly, giving the fruit a skeptical glance. “Edible, sure. But are you willing to test it first?”

Wooyoung grinned. “I’ll pass. Maybe I’ll give it to Yunho—he’s got the stomach for weird stuff.”

Nearby, Yunho overheard and called out, “Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Wooyoung! You’re not slipping anything strange into my food again!”

Wooyoung shrugged innocently. “Last time it was harmless! How was I supposed to know it’d turn your tongue blue?”

Down at the docks, Jongho was inspecting a stack of cannonballs that had just been unloaded from the ship. San leaned against a post nearby, watching him with a smirk.

“You check those like they’re treasure,” San teased.

“They might as well be,” Jongho replied, not looking up. “A bad cannonball could cost us a fight. I’m not taking chances.”

San crossed his arms. “You’re too serious. Maybe you should come spar with me later. Get rid of some of that tension.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow, finally meeting San’s gaze. “Spar? With you? You just want an excuse to show off.”

San grinned wider. “Maybe. But if you’re scared, just say so.”

“Sure.” Jongho rolled his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait.

In a quiet corner of the town square, Seonghwa and Hongjoong stood under the shade of an awning, observing the crew as they mingled with the townsfolk.

“They’re behaving themselves,” Seonghwa said, his tone neutral.

Hongjoong smirked. “As they should. We don’t need unnecessary trouble here.”

Seonghwa glanced sideways at his captain. “You say that now, but when have we ever left Seagrove without some kind of incident?”

Hongjoong chuckled. “Fair point. Let’s hope this time is different.”

In the shaded alleyway near the market, Yeosang stood at a herbalist’s stall, quietly inspecting bundles of dried plants. His sharp eye quickly sorted the useful from the unnecessary.

“These are poorly dried,” he remarked, holding up a brittle bundle of valerian root.

The herbalist, a wiry older man, looked startled. “I—I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all I’ve got right now.”

Yeosang sighed softly, placing the bundle back. “I need quality. If it crumbles before it’s used, it’s worthless.”

From behind him, Yunho approached with an easy grin. “Always so picky, Yeosang. It’s like you expect perfect conditions out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Yeosang didn’t glance back, his hands moving to inspect another jar. “A surgeon doesn’t get second chances, Yunho. The better my supplies, the better I can keep the rest of you alive.”

Yunho leaned against the stall, arms crossed. “Fair point. Still, you could try to lighten up a bit. It’s not all life and death.”

Yeosang turned to him, an unreadable expression on his face. “For you, maybe.”

Meanwhile, Wooyoung spotted Yeosang as he walked away from the stall. “Hey, doc!” he called out, jogging to catch up.

“What is it, Wooyoung?” Yeosang asked, his tone even.

Wooyoung waved a bright yellow fruit in front of him. “You think this could kill someone if I cook it wrong? Or should I give it to the captain and find out?”

Yeosang raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “It’s a mango, Wooyoung. Unless you’re planning to drop it on his head, I doubt it’ll harm anyone.”

Wooyoung grinned. “Good to know! Maybe I’ll add it to dinner tonight. Think the captain likes tropical flavors?”

“I think the captain has more pressing concerns than your culinary experiments,” Yeosang replied, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he walked away.

In the distance, Hongjoong watched the exchanges with quiet amusement. Seonghwa, standing beside him, noticed his expression.

“Just as I thought they were behaving. They’re restless,” Seonghwa remarked.

Hongjoong nodded. “Let them stretch their legs. We’ll need them sharp soon enough.”

Seonghwa tilted his head. “And where does that leave us?”

Hongjoong’s gaze drifted toward the apothecary shop again. “For now? Let them play. But keep an eye on Yeosang. He always finds trouble where no one else is looking.”

Seonghwa chuckled. “That’s because he’s too clever for his own good.”

Hongjoong stood at the edge of the marketplace, his sharp gaze fixed on a small shop nestled between two larger buildings. The apothecary. It wasn’t his first visit, though his trips there were rare and purposeful. The shopkeeper had proven useful in the past, supplying him with everything he needed, no questions asked.

He turned to Wooyoung, who was busy juggling a few apples he’d “borrowed” from a stall.

“Wooyoung,” Hongjoong called, his voice firm.

Wooyoung caught the apples mid-air and grinned. “Yes, Captain? Need me to charm someone, or are we raiding the tavern early?”

Hongjoong smirked. “Neither. You’re coming with me to the apothecary. I need someone to carry what I buy.”

Wooyoung pouted dramatically, tossing one of the apples back into a basket. “What, I’m just your pack mule now?”

“Call it an extension of your scavenger duties,” Hongjoong replied, already heading toward the shop.

Wooyoung sighed, but his grin quickly returned as he jogged to catch up. “Fine, fine. But if they’ve got anything interesting, I’m keeping it.”

The bell above the door jingled as they stepped into the apothecary. The air inside was heavy with the earthy scent of dried herbs and freshly ground powders. Shelves lined every wall, filled with jars, bottles, and bundles of various remedies and ingredients.

YN stood behind the counter, her hands busy organizing a set of vials. She looked up at the sound of the bell and froze for a moment. It wasn’t every day the captain of the Halazia walked into her shop.

Hongjoong’s sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on her. He stepped forward, his coat swaying slightly. “You’re the pharmacist’s daughter,” he said, more a statement than a question.

YN straightened, her sunshine-like demeanor returning despite the intimidating presence before her. “That’s right. My father’s away, but I can help you. What do you need?”

Wooyoung leaned against the counter with a grin, glancing around the shop. “This place smells great. Got anything fun for a bored pirate like me?”

YN raised an eyebrow, but before she could reply, Hongjoong spoke. “Focus, Wooyoung.” He turned back to YN. “I need these.” He handed over a neatly folded piece of parchment with a list of items.

YN took it, her eyes scanning the list. Some of the ingredients were rare, but she recognized most of them. “I should have everything you need. Give me a moment.”

As YN moved around the shop, gathering items, Wooyoung leaned closer to Hongjoong and whispered, “She’s surprisingly cheerful for someone dealing with us.”

Hongjoong smirked but said nothing, his eyes following YN as she worked efficiently, placing jars and packets on the counter.

When she returned, she began explaining each item. “This powder needs to stay dry, and the tincture should be kept cool. And this—” she paused, holding up a small vial, “—is very potent. Use it sparingly.”

Hongjoong nodded, impressed by her knowledge. “You know your trade well.”

YN smiled warmly. “It’s my job.”

Once everything was packed, Wooyoung grabbed the bundle, pretending to stagger under its weight. “Oh no, Captain, it’s so heavy! What if I collapse under the strain?”

YN stifled a laugh, while Hongjoong rolled his eyes. “Stop complaining, or I’ll make you carry more.”

As they turned to leave, Hongjoong paused at the door, glancing back at YN. “Tell your father our deal still stands. I’ll be back when I need more.”

Just as Hongjoong and Wooyoung stepped toward the door, YN's curiosity got the better of her. She cleared her throat and asked, “What deal?”

Hongjoong stopped mid-step but didn’t turn around immediately. Wooyoung, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow and shot YN an amused look. “Curious, aren’t we?” he teased, leaning against the counter again.

Hongjoong slowly turned to face her, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. “Your father and I have... an understanding. He provides certain items I need, no questions asked. In return, I ensure that no harm ever comes to this shop or your family. A fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”

YN blinked, trying to process his words. “So, you’re protecting us? That’s what this is about?”

Hongjoong’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “You could say that. But don’t mistake it for charity. It’s business.”

Wooyoung chimed in, his tone light but with an edge of truth. “Think of it as an investment. The captain doesn’t waste time on things—or people—that aren’t worth it.”

YN frowned slightly, crossing her arms. “We don’t need protection. Seagrove is neutral ground.”

Hongjoong stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to be serious but not threatening. “Neutrality doesn’t stop trouble from finding its way here. Pirates, mercenaries, kingdoms—they don’t care about rules when desperation strikes. Your father knows this. That’s why he agreed to our deal.”

YN held his gaze, feeling a mix of defiance and unease. She wanted to argue but couldn’t deny the truth in his words. “Fine,” she said, her voice steady. “But if this is about protection, it works both ways. You might find yourselves needing supplies when no one else will sell to you.”

Hongjoong’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with approval. “Smart girl. Your father taught you well.”

With that, he turned and pushed the door open. Wooyoung gave YN one last playful wink as he followed the captain. “See you around, sunshine,” he said before the door closed behind them, leaving YN standing there with a mixture of curiosity and newfound wariness.

She looked down at the counter where the parchment list lay. Her fingers brushed against it as her mind raced with questions. Whatever deal her father had struck with the Halazia crew, it was clear this wasn’t just a simple exchange of goods.

After the encounter at the apothecary, Wooyoung couldn’t help but find his thoughts drifting back to YN. There was something about her—a bright, carefree energy that contrasted so sharply with the rough, unpredictable life aboard the Halazia. Her genuine warmth had lingered in his mind longer than he expected, and before he realized it, he found himself making excuses to return to the shop.

A few days later, the bell above the apothecary’s door jingled again. YN looked up from where she was sorting herbs, her face lighting up when she saw Wooyoung standing there, leaning casually against the doorframe with his usual mischievous grin.

“You again,” she said, her tone teasing but friendly. “Didn’t you stock up enough last time?”

Wooyoung shrugged, stepping further inside. “Captain wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything important. And, well...” He paused, picking up a small jar of dried lavender from a shelf and inspecting it idly. “I thought I’d keep you company. Can’t have you getting bored all alone in here.”

YN laughed, a bright, cheerful sound that filled the small shop. “Bored? Hardly. This place is always busy. Besides, I’m pretty sure pirates don’t come back just to check on someone.”

Wooyoung placed the jar back and leaned on the counter, his grin never fading. “Maybe not, but I’m not like most pirates.”

YN raised an eyebrow, her hands moving automatically as she arranged some vials. “Oh? So what makes you different, Mister Pirate?”

He smirked, resting his chin on his hand. “Well, for one, I appreciate good company. And two...” He trailed off, letting her fill in the rest.

Despite her initial resolve not to get too involved with the Halazia crew, YN found herself smiling. His playful energy was contagious, and she couldn’t help but be drawn into the banter. “You’re smooth, I’ll give you that,” she said, shaking her head.

Wooyoung chuckled. “Smooth enough to get a discount?”

She laughed again. “Not a chance.”

Over the next few weeks, Wooyoung started appearing more frequently. Sometimes he claimed he was running errands for the crew; other times, he didn’t even bother with an excuse. Each visit felt a little more natural, as though he was slipping into the rhythm of her world.

At first, YN kept her guard up. She reminded herself that he was a pirate, part of a crew that carried a reputation for chaos. But Wooyoung’s charm was disarming, and her naturally talkative, sunshine-like personality quickly overshadowed any hesitation.

He’d sit on a stool by the counter, chatting with her about everything and nothing. She’d tell him about the townsfolk, the busy days at the apothecary, and the little joys of living on Seagrove. In return, he’d share stories from the sea—some clearly exaggerated, others tinged with surprising honesty.

One day, as YN handed him a small satchel of herbs, she said with a grin, “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re just here for the company.”

Wooyoung took the satchel, his smile softening. “Maybe I am. Got a problem with that?”

She shook her head, laughing. “Not really. Just don’t scare off my other customers, okay?”

Despite herself, YN found that Wooyoung’s presence didn’t feel like an intrusion. In fact, it felt oddly... comforting. And though Wooyoung never said it outright, he started looking forward to the quiet moments in the apothecary, away from the noise and chaos of life aboard the Halazia.

For now, neither of them thought too hard about what this strange, unexpected connection might mean. They simply enjoyed the moments they had, both of them quietly grateful for the fleeting peace they found in each other’s company.

Over time, Wooyoung became a regular sight in the apothecary. He would stroll in with his usual grin, plop himself onto the old wooden stool by the counter, and watch YN work.

At first, he was content just to chat, but as the days passed, he started offering to help.

“Here, let me do that,” he said one afternoon, stepping behind the counter and shooing YN away as she struggled with a particularly heavy crate of supplies.

She raised an eyebrow at him but stepped aside. “Are you sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to stick around?”

Wooyoung shot her a wink as he effortlessly lifted the crate onto a shelf. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

Soon enough, he became more than just a fixture in the shop. He started assisting her with customers, surprising her with how quickly he learned.

An older woman entered one day, asking for a salve for joint pain. Wooyoung, leaning casually on the counter, chimed in before YN could answet.

“Second shelf on the left,” he said, pointing. “Green jar with the brown lid. That’s the one you want.”

The woman looked at him, then at YN, who nodded in confirmation. “He’s right.”

The woman smiled and handed over her coins, muttering something about how “helpful young men” were hard to find.

After she left, YN crossed her arms and gave Wooyoung an appraising look. “You’re actually pretty good at this.”

He smirked. “Told you. Many talents.”

Not all of his interactions in the shop were so lighthearted, though. Occasionally, a customer would walk in with an attitude—someone trying to haggle too aggressively or speaking to YN with unnecessary harshness.

One such day, a burly man stormed in, slamming a few coins on the counter. “This isn’t enough,” he growled, pointing at a small pouch of medicine YN had just handed him. “You’re overcharging.”

YN opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Wooyoung stood up from his stool and stepped forward, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something far more dangerous.

“She gave you the price,” Wooyoung said, his voice low and sharp. “Take it, or leave.”

The man turned to Wooyoung, clearly unimpressed. “And who do you think you are?”

Wooyoung’s grin returned, but this time it was anything but friendly. He leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower. “I’m someone you don’t want to mess with. Now, are you going to take the medicine and go, or should we make this... interesting?”

The man hesitated, clearly weighing his options. After a tense moment, he snatched the pouch from the counter and stormed out, muttering under his breath.

YN let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said softly.

Wooyoung shrugged, sitting back on the stool and spinning it lazily. “Nobody talks to you like that while I’m here. That’s a rule.”

YN smiled despite herself. “I don’t know whether to thank you or scold you for almost starting a fight in my shop.”

Wooyoung grinned. “Thank me, obviously.”

And she did, though she didn’t say it out loud.

With each passing day, Wooyoung’s presence in the shop felt more natural, like he belonged there. The townsfolk began to notice, too, casting curious glances when they saw the pirate helping YN arrange shelves or handing a bag of herbs to a customer. Some whispered about it, others just smiled knowingly.

And though YN had told herself not to get too involved with the crew of Halazia, she couldn’t deny that having Wooyoung around made her days a little brighter—and a lot more entertaining.

It was an ordinary evening aboard the Halazia when Seonghwa walked into the captain’s quarters, a folded letter in his hand. His expression was calm, but there was an edge of seriousness that made Hongjoong look up from the maps spread across his desk.

“What is it?” Hongjoong asked, leaning back in his chair.

Seonghwa handed him the letter without a word. As Hongjoong unfolded it, his sharp eyes scanned the neatly written words. It was from the pharmacist on Seagrove, a message laced with urgency.

“They’re coming back,” Hongjoong muttered, reading aloud. “The same goons who wanted his land before. He says they’re planning to create trouble, maybe worse. He’s asking us to protect his daughter while he’s away.”

Seonghwa crossed his arms, nodding. “It seems they’re waiting for the perfect moment, knowing the island has no real enforcement.”

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. His mind worked quickly, weighing the situation. The pharmacist had been a valuable ally, and they owed him for the resources he’d provided in the past. Letting this go unanswered would be a stain on their reputation—and, truthfully, Hongjoong didn’t enjoy leaving favors unpaid.

He looked up at Seonghwa. “We can’t ignore this. We’ll need to send someone to keep an eye on her.”

Before Seonghwa could respond, the door swung open, and Wooyoung strolled in, as casual as ever. “Someone say watch over her?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe with a knowing grin.

Hongjoong arched an eyebrow at him. “Eavesdropping now, are we?”

“Not eavesdropping. Just walking by,” Wooyoung said innocently, though his smirk betrayed him. “So, what’s the plan? I’m assuming it involves our little sunshine at the apothecary.”

Seonghwa sighed. “It’s serious, Wooyoung. The pharmacist says trouble’s coming her way, and she’ll need protection while he’s gone. This isn’t just a casual errand.”

Wooyoung’s grin faltered slightly, his playful demeanor softening. “I know that. And that’s why I’m volunteering.”

Hongjoong studied him for a moment, noticing the uncharacteristic determination in his eyes. “You’re volunteering? That’s a first.”

Wooyoung shrugged, though there was no hiding the slight tension in his posture. “She’s a good person, Captain. She doesn’t deserve to deal with scum like that. Besides, I’ve been spending the most time with her. Makes sense for me to step in.”

Hongjoong exchanged a glance with Seonghwa, who gave a small nod. Finally, the captain leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Fine. You’ll handle it. But keep a low profile—no unnecessary fights unless it’s unavoidable. And if you need backup, you call for us immediately.”

Wooyoung grinned, his confidence returning in full force. “You got it, Captain. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

Later that evening, Wooyoung gathered a few essentials before heading toward the apothecary. As he walked through the dimly lit streets of Seagrove, his mind raced with thoughts of YN.

He didn’t know why, but the idea of something happening to her lit a fire in him that he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was her kindness, her unshakable warmth, or the way she always smiled, even when dealing with stubborn customers. Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to let anyone take that away from her.

When he reached the shop, the bell jingled softly as he stepped inside. YN looked up from the counter, surprised to see him.

“Wooyoung? You’re back already?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

He nodded, his usual playful grin softening into something more genuine. “Yeah. Looks like I’ll be sticking around for a while.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. “Why? What’s going on?”

Wooyoung hesitated for a moment before leaning against the counter, his voice gentle. “Your dad sent us a letter. Said some people might cause trouble while he’s gone. So... I’m here to make sure they don’t.”

The morning sun bathed Seagrove in a warm glow as YN stepped out of the apothecary with a basket in hand, ready to run her errands. She hummed softly to herself as she walked down the cobblestone streets, her mind focused on the list of things she needed.

But she wasn’t alone.

Though his footsteps were silent and his movements careful, YN could feel the weight of a gaze following her. She smirked to herself, pretending not to notice as she turned a corner, heading toward a quieter part of town.

When the street became deserted, she abruptly stopped and turned around, catching Wooyoung mid-step. He froze like a child caught sneaking sweets, his wide eyes meeting hers.

“So,” YN began, tilting her head and walking backward to keep her eyes on him. “You’re basically a bodyguard now?”

Wooyoung let out a small sigh, shaking his head as he caught up to her. “Careful, you’ll trip if you keep walking like that,” he said, his tone light but protective.

“I’m serious,” she pressed, ignoring his warning. “Isn’t this what bodyguards do? Follow people around, stay hidden, and swoop in dramatically when there’s trouble?”

Wooyoung chuckled, crossing his arms as he walked beside her. “Something like that. But I wouldn’t call myself a bodyguard. More like a... pirate with a purpose.”

YN laughed at that, the sound echoing through the quiet street. “A pirate with a purpose? That sounds so noble for someone like you.”

“Hey,” he said, feigning offense. “I’m plenty noble when I need to be. Like right now. I’m literally protecting you.”

“From what?” she asked, her voice full of innocent curiosity. “There’s no one around.”

Wooyoung glanced around, his eyes scanning the surroundings instinctively. “You’d be surprised. Trouble doesn’t announce itself, you know. One second everything’s fine, and the next... well, it’s not.”

YN stopped walking backward and faced him fully, her brow furrowed. “You really think something’s going to happen?”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, and he shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But your dad was worried enough to ask for help, and I’m not taking any chances.”

She blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. For all his jokes and playful attitude, there was something reassuring about knowing he took her safety seriously.

“So... what do I call you now? Protector Wooyoung? Sir Wooyoung?” she teased, a playful glint in her eyes.

He rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at his lips. “Just Wooyoung is fine, sunshine. Now, can we please focus on where you’re walking? If you trip, I’m not carrying you back.”

YN laughed again and turned to continue her errands, her steps lighter than before. Despite the strangeness of being followed, she couldn’t help but feel a small sense of comfort knowing that, no matter what, Wooyoung was there.

A few days passed without incident, though the air felt charged, as if something unseen was brewing. YN went about her routine with Wooyoung never far behind, always lurking in the background or perched casually on her shop’s stool, keeping watch.

But then, late one night aboard the Halazia, a lowly pirate messenger arrived with urgent news.

Hongjoong sat in his quarters with Seonghwa when the messenger was brought in. The scruffy man, clearly uneasy in the presence of the infamous captain, fumbled with his words but got the message across clearly:

“The goons you’ve been watchin’ out for... they’re plannin’ to hit the apothecary. Heard it straight from one of their lot.”

Hongjoong’s face darkened as he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “When?”

“Soon,” the messenger replied. “Could be tonight, could be tomorrow. They’re waitin’ for the right moment.”

Hongjoong dismissed the man and turned to Seonghwa, who stood silently by his side. “We can’t risk it,” the captain said. “The girl’s too vulnerable in the shop. Wooyoung needs to bring her here—now.”

Seonghwa nodded. “I’ll send the word.”

At the apothecary, YN was cleaning up for the night when Wooyoung walked in, his expression unusually serious.

She glanced up at him and immediately noticed the shift in his demeanor. “What’s wrong?” she asked, setting down the jar she was holding.

“We need to leave,” Wooyoung said, his voice firm but calm.

Her brow furrowed. “Leave? Why? What’s going on?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The goons your dad was worried about... they’re planning to attack the shop. Captain’s orders are to get you to the ship where you’ll be safe.”

YN’s eyes widened. “The ship? Halazia? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious,” Wooyoung said, stepping closer. “It’s not safe here, YN. I can protect you better if you’re with us.”

She hesitated, looking around the shop she’d grown up in. “But... what about the store? What about my father’s work?”

Wooyoung softened, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll make sure nothing happens to it. But right now, you’re what matters. We can’t replace you, sunshine.”

Her heart skipped at the unexpected tenderness in his words, but the gravity of the situation quickly pulled her back. She nodded, her resolve hardening.

“Alright,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear creeping in. “Let me grab a few things.”

Wooyoung watched as YN quickly packed a small bag with essentials—some clothes, a few jars of medicine, and a small book she seemed hesitant to leave behind.

As they stepped out into the cool night, Wooyoung’s eyes scanned their surroundings, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. The streets were quiet, but he knew better than to trust the stillness.

“Stay close,” he whispered, his voice low but firm.

YN nodded, clutching her bag tightly as they made their way through the town toward the docks.

The journey felt longer than it should have, every shadow and faint sound putting them both on edge. But eventually, the silhouette of the Halazia came into view, its sails swaying gently in the night breeze.

As they approached the gangplank, Wooyoung turned to YN, his usual grin making a rare appearance despite the tension. “Welcome to the Halazia, sunshine. You’re about to meet the best—and most chaotic—crew in the seven seas.”

As soon as YN stepped onto the deck of the Halazia, she froze, her wide eyes taking in the sheer majesty of the pirate ship. The towering masts, the intricate ropes, and the faint smell of saltwater mixed with wood—it all felt surreal, like she’d stumbled into one of her dreams.

Her fear of ships and the open sea had always held her back from venturing onto one, but now, standing here, it felt like that fear had melted away, replaced by pure wonder.

“This is... amazing,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the gentle creaking of the ship.

Wooyoung, who had been following her with her bag slung over his shoulder, smirked as he watched her light up like a child discovering a new world. “You act like you’ve never seen a ship before,” he teased, though his tone was soft.

“I haven’t,” YN admitted, turning to him with an excited grin. “Not like this! I mean, I’ve seen them from the shore, but actually being on one? It’s completely different!”

She wandered across the deck, her fingers brushing against the railings and ropes, her eyes darting to every detail—the cannons lined up neatly, the sturdy wheel, and the faint reflection of the moonlight on the water below.

“This is incredible,” she said again, more to herself than to Wooyoung. “I never thought I’d actually step foot on a ship.”

Wooyoung chuckled as he trailed behind her, carrying her things without complaint. “Well, you’re lucky this isn’t just any ship. You’re standing on the Halazia, the finest vessel on the seas.”

YN turned to him, her eyes sparkling. “The finest, huh? You don’t seem very humble about it.”

“Why should I be?” he said with a grin, leaning casually against a mast. “The Halazia deserves to be shown off. Just like me.”

YN rolled her eyes but couldn’t help laughing. She turned her attention back to the ship, climbing a few steps to the raised quarterdeck and looking out over the bow. The gentle rocking of the ship made her heart race, but it wasn’t fear—it was exhilaration.

“You look like a kid in a candy shop,” Wooyoung said, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and fondness as he watched her.

She spun around, leaning against the railing with a bright smile. “I feel like one. This is so much better than I imagined.”

Wooyoung’s smirk softened into something more genuine as he watched her. He wasn’t sure what it was about her—maybe the way her excitement was so contagious, or the way her wide eyes seemed to find magic in everything—but seeing her like this made him forget, even for a moment, the dangers that had brought her here.

“Alright, sunshine,” he said, breaking the moment. “As much as I’d love to let you explore all night, you’ll need some rest. The captain will want to speak with you in the morning.”

YN nodded, reluctantly tearing herself away from the view. “Okay, fine. But I’m not done exploring. You’ll have to show me everything tomorrow.”

Wooyoung laughed. “Deal. But for now, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping. Come on.”

He led her below deck, still carrying her things as she followed him with the same wide-eyed wonder. And though the weight of what lay ahead lingered in the back of his mind, Wooyoung found himself smiling, content in the moment.

When Wooyoung led YN to a small cabin below deck, she stepped inside and immediately felt the silence pressing in around her. The cozy space was nothing like her home, with its small wooden bed, a lantern casting soft light, and the faint creaking of the ship filling the air.

“Here you go,” Wooyoung said, setting her bag down by the bed. “It’s not much, but it’s cozy enough. You’ll be safe here.”

YN nodded, clutching her arms tightly. “Yeah… it’s nice.” But her voice wavered slightly, betraying her unease.

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, noticing the way her eyes darted around the room and how she hesitated to step further in. “Something wrong?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.

She shook her head quickly, forcing a smile. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m just… not used to being alone, that’s all.”

His smirk faded as he studied her. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a small sigh. “A little. Back home, I always stayed with my aunt when my dad wasn’t around. I’ve never really been by myself at night. It’s… it’s just something I’m not used to.”

Wooyoung frowned, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed. He could see the fear in her eyes, the way she fidgeted nervously. It wasn’t something he was used to—seeing someone so openly vulnerable. Most people tried to hide their fears around pirates, but YN was an open book.

“You know,” he started, his voice softening, “I could always stick around for a bit. Keep you company until you fall asleep. That way, you’re not completely alone.”

YN’s eyes widened. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m your bodyguard, remember? Can’t let anything happen to you, even if it’s just a bad dream.”

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she nodded. “Okay. Just until I fall asleep.”

Wooyoung pulled a chair over and sat down near the bed, leaning back comfortably as YN hesitantly climbed under the blankets.

For a while, the only sound was the gentle creak of the ship and the distant crash of waves. YN lay on her side, her gaze fixed on Wooyoung, who seemed completely at ease, his legs stretched out and arms crossed behind his head.

“You’re really not going to leave, are you?” she asked quietly.

“Not until you’re out like a light,” he replied with a grin.

She chuckled softly, the sound easing some of the tension in the room. “Thank you, Wooyoung.”

“Anytime, sunshine,” he said, his voice dropping to a soothing tone.

Slowly, her eyes began to droop, the sound of the ship and the comforting presence of Wooyoung lulling her into a sense of safety she hadn’t expected to feel. And true to his word, he stayed right there, watching over her until her breathing evened out and she drifted into sleep.

The next morning, Wooyoung leaned against the doorframe of YN’s cabin, watching her stretch and yawn as she woke up. Her face was lit with the same cheerful glow he’d come to recognize, her fear from the night before seemingly forgotten.

“Morning, sunshine,” he greeted with a teasing grin. “Sleep well?”

YN sat up, her hair slightly messy, and nodded enthusiastically. “Like a baby. I guess ships aren’t so scary after all!”

He smirked, stepping aside to let her step out. “Told you you’d be fine. Now come on, let’s get some food. The others are already up.”

As they walked toward the breakfast hall, YN’s natural curiosity bubbled over. “So… aren’t you ever scared the ship’s going to sink?” she asked, tilting her head.

Wooyoung snorted, looking at her like she’d just said the most ridiculous thing. “Scared? Me? Sunshine, this ship is sturdier than a fortress. She’s not going anywhere.”

“But what if a giant wave crashes over it?” she asked, her eyes wide with imagined catastrophe.

“Then we ride the wave,” he answered smugly.

She hummed thoughtfully before hitting him with another question. “What if a whale bumps into it? Wouldn’t that cause trouble?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “A whale? Do you think whales just swim around bumping into ships for fun?”

She giggled, shrugging. “I don’t know! Maybe they’re curious.”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, but the fond smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “Alright, sunshine, what’s next? Got any more doomsday scenarios for me?”

“Many. What about sharks? Aren’t you worried they’ll try to bite through the hull?”

Wooyoung stopped walking, staring at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Sharks, YN? Biting through the hull? What kind of stories has your dad been telling you?”

She shrugged with a playful pout. “I don’t know! I just thought… maybe it could happen!”

He shook his head, still grinning as they resumed walking. “I promise you, sharks don’t want to eat wood. You’re safe.”

“What about storms?” she asked next, her voice full of innocent curiosity. “Have you ever been caught in one? Like, a huge one that flips the ship upside down?”

Wooyoung gave her an exaggeratedly serious look. “Oh, sure, all the time. And we just flip her back over and keep sailing.”

YN gasped. “Really?!”

He laughed, ruffling her hair as they walked. “No, sunshine, not really. But we’ve weathered storms before. This ship’s been through it all.”

As they reached the breakfast hall, YN slowed down, looking up at him. “One more question,” she said, her tone quieter but still curious.

“Shoot,” he replied.

“Have you ever been scared on this ship?”

For a moment, Wooyoung paused, his grin fading into something softer. “Maybe once or twice,” he admitted. “But not because of the ship. Because of what might happen to the people on it.”

YN blinked, surprised by his honest answer, but before she could ask more, Wooyoung opened the door to the hall with a dramatic flourish.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced loudly, “the sunshine of the seas has arrived!”

As YN stepped into the breakfast hall, the chatter of the crew quieted, and all eyes turned toward her. Though most of their expressions were neutral or curious, the sheer presence of eight men in one room felt overwhelming. She froze for a moment, clutching Wooyoung’s shirt from behind like a lifeline.

Wooyoung glanced over his shoulder, noticing how she shrank behind him. He let out a soft laugh but didn’t comment, allowing her to use him as a shield.

“Don’t be shy,” he teased lightly, his tone warm. “They don’t bite. Well… maybe San does, but only if you get on his bad side.”

“Hey!” San called from across the room, earning a chuckle from the others.

Hongjoong, seated at the head of the table, gave her a reassuring smile. “Good morning, YN. Don’t let them intimidate you. They’re loud, but they’re harmless.”

She nodded shyly but didn’t let go of Wooyoung’s shirt. The rest of the crew exchanged glances, some amused, some curious.

“Alright, alright,” Wooyoung said, clapping his hands to break the awkward silence. “Let’s get the introductions out of the way so sunshine here can relax.”

He stepped aside, gently nudging YN forward, though she still kept close to him.

Hongjoong stood first, his presence commanding yet calm. “I’m Hongjoong, the captain of this ship. You’ll be safe here, YN. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

Next was Seonghwa, who gave her a polite nod. “Seonghwa, the quartermaster and first mate. Welcome aboard.”

Yunho, the navigator, grinned warmly. “I’m Yunho. I make sure we don’t get lost. Nice to meet you, YN!”

Yeosang, the quiet surgeon, gave her a small smile. “Yeosang. If you ever get hurt, come to me.”

San leaned back in his chair, flashing a mischievous grin. “San, the battle master. Don’t worry, I only bite if provoked.”

Mingi, the boatswain, waved enthusiastically. “Mingi! I keep the ship in shape. You’re gonna love it here!”

Wooyoung gave her a playful nudge. “And you already know me, your personal bodyguard and scavenger extraordinaire.”

Finally, Jongho, the master gunner, nodded firmly. “Jongho. I handle the cannons. Welcome to the Halazia.”

The introductions helped ease her nerves, and soon enough, the crew’s warm smiles and lighthearted jokes began to make her feel more comfortable.

“Thank you,” she said softly, glancing around at the group. “It’s nice to meet all of you.”

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” Wooyoung said, guiding her to a seat at the table, “let’s eat. Sunshine needs to keep her energy up, after all.”

As the crew returned to their meals, YN slowly started to join the conversation, her natural warmth and curiosity shining through. By the end of breakfast, she wasn’t hiding behind Wooyoung anymore—instead, she was laughing along with the rest of the crew, feeling like she might actually belong.

After breakfast, Wooyoung led YN back out onto the deck. The crew had dispersed to their duties, leaving the ship relatively quiet. He decided it was the perfect time to give her a small tour—not of the whole ship, but just the places he knew she’d actually need.

“Alright, sunshine,” Wooyoung said, walking ahead of her with a slight bounce in his step. “Since you’ll be with us for a while, you should know your way around—at least enough so you don’t get lost.”

YN’s eyes sparkled with excitement, her earlier shyness completely replaced by her usual sunshine-like demeanor. “Okay! Show me everything!”

“Not everything,” he corrected with a chuckle. “Just the essentials. Come on.”

He started with the main deck, pointing out where the crew stored extra supplies and how to tell which ropes were safe to touch—“Don’t go pulling random ones unless you want to drop a sail on your head,” he teased.

YN followed closely, hanging on to every word he said, her excitement growing with every little thing he explained. She’d occasionally gasp or ask a question, her enthusiasm contagious.

“This is where the weapons are stored,” Wooyoung said, gesturing to a small hatch near the mast. “But you probably don’t need to mess with that. Leave the fighting to us.”

“Noted,” YN said with a grin. “No weapons for me. I’ll stick to not breaking anything.”

They moved below deck next, where Wooyoung showed her the mess hall, the kitchen (“Wooyoung’s kingdom,” as he called it), and a few storage rooms.

When they reached the small infirmary, YN gasped. “Oh, it’s so organized!”

“Yeosang keeps it that way,” Wooyoung said with a shrug. “Don’t mess with his stuff, though. He’ll know.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, her eyes wide as she peeked inside.

Finally, Wooyoung led her back up to the quarterdeck, where the ship’s wheel stood. YN looked out over the vast ocean, the sun sparkling on the water like diamonds. Her grin grew even wider, and she spun around to face him, her hands outstretched.

“This is amazing, Wooyoung! I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like a whole new world!”

Wooyoung leaned against the railing, watching her with a soft smile. Her joy was so genuine, so unfiltered, that it tugged at something deep in his chest. He’d spent years on this ship, but he’d never seen it through someone else’s eyes like this.

“Glad you like it,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

YN turned back to the ocean, leaning against the railing as the wind played with her hair. “I can’t believe I was scared of this. It’s beautiful.”

Wooyoung found himself staring, his heart doing something strange—something he didn’t quite understand. He’d been around plenty of people, but there was something about YN’s presence that felt… different.

Shaking off the thought, he smirked and nudged her lightly. “Well, sunshine, you’re part of it now. Welcome to the Halazia.”

She looked up at him with a radiant smile. “Thanks, Wooyoung. I think I’m going to like it here.”

He didn’t say anything, but as they stood there, watching the endless expanse of ocean together, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to like it even more now too.

As they leaned against the railing, watching the endless stretch of blue, YN broke the comfortable silence with a quiet question.

“Are you scared of the ocean?”

Wooyoung glanced at her, slightly taken aback. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, her fingers lightly tracing the wood of the railing. “It’s just… it’s so big. And unknown. You don’t really know what’s down there. I’m scared of it. Always have been.”

Wooyoung’s gaze softened as he watched her. For all her bright and cheerful energy, there was a vulnerability in her words that struck him.

“I’m not scared of it,” he said after a moment. “But I get why someone might be.”

YN turned to look at him, her eyes searching his face. “You don’t think about it? How deep it goes? How it could just… swallow you up?”

Wooyoung chuckled softly, leaning his elbows on the railing. “I guess I’ve been around it so long, I don’t think about it that way anymore. The ocean’s unpredictable, sure, but it’s also… home. It’s dangerous, yeah, but it’s beautiful too.”

“Beautiful and dangerous,” she echoed, looking back at the waves. “I guess that makes sense.”

He glanced at her, his tone softening. “But it’s okay to be scared of it, you know. Everyone’s scared of something. The important thing is not letting it stop you from living.”

YN nodded slowly, his words sinking in. “I guess that’s why you’re here, huh? To make sure I don’t let my fear stop me?”

Wooyoung smirked, his usual teasing tone returning. “Exactly. Think of me as your very own fearless tour guide of the seas.”

She laughed, the sound light and free, and for a moment, her fear seemed to fade. “Thanks, Wooyoung. You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Don’t let the others hear you say that,” he said with a wink. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

YN smiled, her earlier worry replaced by warmth. Maybe the ocean was still scary, but with someone like Wooyoung by her side, it didn’t feel quite so overwhelming.

As the day passed, Wooyoung found himself growing increasingly aware of YN’s presence. Whether it was her soft laughter when she found something amusing, the way she tilted her head with curiosity at every little thing he showed her, or even the quiet moments when she was simply taking in the ship’s vastness—he couldn’t help but feel something stirring within him.

It wasn’t just her cheerfulness that got to him. It was the way she spoke with an honesty that seemed so rare, the way she made everything feel a little brighter, even in the vastness of the open sea.

At one point, YN was sitting on a crate near the mast, her feet swinging lightly as she hummed to herself. Wooyoung had been organizing some ropes nearby, but his hands slowed as he glanced over at her. She was just sitting there, doing nothing in particular, and yet he found himself staring.

What is wrong with me? he thought, shaking his head.

“Wooyoung?” her voice cut through his thoughts, and he turned to see her looking at him with her usual wide-eyed curiosity.

“Yeah?” he asked, quickly snapping out of his daze.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked bluntly, tilting her head.

He blinked, caught off guard. “I wasn’t staring.”

She gave him a look that clearly said she didn’t believe him. “You totally were. Do I have something on my face?”

“No!” he said quickly, waving his hands. “I was just… lost in thought.”

“About what?”

“Stuff,” he replied vaguely, avoiding her gaze as he returned to the ropes.

She frowned a little but didn’t press him further. Instead, she hopped off the crate and walked over to him, standing by his side. “You’re weird,” she said with a laugh, nudging him lightly.

“Thanks, sunshine,” he muttered, though there was no bite in his tone.

As the day wore on, Wooyoung couldn’t shake the strange feeling. It wasn’t a bad feeling—just… unfamiliar. He found himself smiling more than usual, his mind wandering whenever she was near.

By the time the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Wooyoung was leaning against the railing, watching YN as she marveled at the view.

She turned to him, her face lit up with excitement. “Is it always this beautiful?”

He nodded slowly, though his eyes weren’t on the horizon—they were on her. “Yeah,” he said softly, his voice barely audible. “It is.”

And for the first time in a long while, Wooyoung found himself wondering if the ocean was truly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

A few weeks had passed since YN stepped onto the Halazia, and in that time, the ship had somehow begun to feel like home to her. She leapt around the deck with her usual cheerful energy, helping wherever she could, whether it was Wooyoung in the kitchen, Yeosang in the infirmary, or even Seonghwa and Hongjoong with their work.

“Hold this for me, YN,” Seonghwa said one afternoon as he handed her a map while he adjusted the compass in his hand.

“Like this?” she asked, holding it up as if she were presenting a prized treasure.

Seonghwa chuckled. “Perfect.”

When she wasn’t assisting Seonghwa, she was often seen pestering Yeosang in the infirmary, her endless questions making him both amused and slightly exasperated.

“What does this do?” YN asked, pointing to a jar of some strange salve.

“It’s for burns,” Yeosang replied patiently, though he didn’t miss the way she scrunched her nose at the smell.

“That smells awful!” she exclaimed.

“It’s medicine,” Yeosang said with a small smile. “Not everything can smell like roses.”

She laughed and quickly moved on to the next question, her curiosity never-ending.

And then, of course, there was Wooyoung.

She spent the most time with him, naturally. Whether it was helping him in the kitchen or following him around during his scavenger tasks, she was always by his side, her bright personality lighting up even the dullest moments.

But for Wooyoung, those weeks had been… confusing.

The strange feeling he had whenever he looked at her had only grown stronger. It was there in the way his heart would skip when she laughed, or the way he’d find himself looking for her whenever she wasn’t around.

“Wooyoung!” YN called out one morning, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?” he asked, turning to see her balancing on the railing, arms stretched out for balance.

“Look! I’m not scared anymore!” she said, beaming.

“Get down before you fall!” he scolded, rushing over to steady her.

She laughed, hopping down with ease. But not without Wooyoung holding onto her. “I wouldn’t have fallen. You’d catch me anyway, right?”

Wooyoung sighed, shaking his head, though there was a small smile on his lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re grumpy,” she shot back with a grin, poking his arm.

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the warmth that spread through him. She had that effect on everyone, he realized—not just him. She had somehow charmed the entire crew, even the usually reserved Yeosang and the ever-serious Seonghwa.

But for Wooyoung, it was different. The way he felt when she was near wasn’t just fondness or friendship. It was something more, something that made his chest tighten and his heart race.

And as he watched her skip off to bother Hongjoong about something, laughing and smiling as if the world was nothing but sunshine, Wooyoung realized he was in trouble.

Big trouble.

That night, like every other, YN was tucked into the small bed they’d arranged for her in one of the crew’s spare quarters. Wooyoung sat on the floor near the door, leaning back against the wooden wall, his legs stretched out comfortably. It had become their nightly routine—talking about anything and everything before she drifted off to sleep.

“Wooyoung,” she started, her voice soft and a little drowsy already, “why do you like being a pirate? Isn’t it scary, always running into danger?”

He chuckled, resting his head against the wall. “Nah. It’s what I’m good at. And besides, it’s exciting. Who doesn’t like a bit of adventure?”

She smiled faintly, her eyelids heavy but still determined to stay in the conversation. “I think it’s cool… but I’d be too scared to fight. I’d probably just hide behind you.”

“You already do that,” he teased with a grin.

“True,” she murmured with a sleepy laugh. “You’re good at making me feel safe, though.”

His heart clenched a little at her words, but he kept his tone light. “Of course I do. That’s my job, sunshine.”

For a while, they continued their usual back-and-forth, her words growing slower and quieter with each passing minute. Wooyoung found himself doing most of the talking, filling the silence as she nodded off.

Then, mid-sentence, he heard her breathing even out. He paused, looking over at her. She had fallen asleep while he was talking, her head resting on the pillow, her face peaceful and relaxed.

A soft smile spread across his lips as he watched her, the moonlight filtering through the small window casting a gentle glow on her features.

“She’s cute,” he muttered to himself before he could stop the thought.

It hit him then, like it had been building up for weeks and finally clicked into place—he was falling for her. Hard.

But Wooyoung knew one thing for sure: even if it was love, he wasn’t going to say anything. She was his friend, his sunshine in an otherwise stormy world, and the last thing he wanted was to burden her with his feelings. She had enough to worry about, and he wasn’t about to make things harder for her.

Instead, he sighed quietly, leaning his head back against the wall as he closed his eyes. If staying silent meant she could keep smiling and talking his ear off every night, then he’d take that. For now, just being close to her was enough.

Wooyoung stood up quietly, ready to leave her room and let her sleep peacefully like every other night. But as he turned to glance back at her one last time, something caught his eye.

Her blanket had slipped down, revealing her arms—usually hidden under long sleeves. He moved closer, intending to fix the blanket like he always did, making sure she was comfortable.

But then he saw it.

His breath hitched as his eyes fell on her wrists, faintly illuminated by the pale moonlight. There were marks and scars, some faint and others deeper, etched into her skin like silent memories of pain.

Wooyoung froze, his heart tightening painfully in his chest.

No… he thought, his mind racing. She’s always smiling. Always happy.

He couldn’t reconcile the sunshine YN he knew—the one who laughed at his jokes, who skipped around the ship with boundless energy, who asked him silly questions every day—with the person who bore these scars.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at her sleeping form. She looked so peaceful, so innocent, and yet those scars told a story he didn’t know—a story she had never shared with him.

He clenched his fists, a wave of emotions crashing over him. Anger, sadness, confusion. How could someone as bright as her carry so much pain? And why hadn’t she told anyone?

Wooyoung gently pulled the blanket back up, covering her arms again. His hand hovered for a moment before he stepped back, his movements slow and deliberate as if he might wake her.

He sat back down on the floor, his back against the wall, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He replayed every interaction they’d had, every laugh, every smile. Had he missed the signs? Had she been hiding this from everyone the whole time?

And yet, despite the questions and the pain in his chest, one thought rang louder than the rest.

I’ll protect her.

Whatever she had been through, whatever had caused those scars, Wooyoung silently vowed that she would never have to feel that kind of pain again. Not as long as he was around.

The morning came with the usual rhythm of life on the Halazia. The crew went about their tasks, the sounds of footsteps and distant laughter filling the ship. YN, as always, was a ball of energy. She skipped onto the deck, her bright smile lighting up the day as she greeted everyone she saw.

“Good morning, Wooyoung!” she called, waving cheerfully as she spotted him leaning against the railing.

He smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Something had shifted within him since last night, and even though YN seemed like her usual, bubbly self, he couldn’t stop the protectiveness that now gnawed at his chest.

As she wandered off to help Yeosang in the infirmary, Wooyoung found himself watching her closely, more vigilant than ever. His heart felt heavier, knowing the scars she carried beneath her sunshine exterior. He couldn’t let this eat him up inside—it was too much.

Without thinking too much about it, he made his way to the captain’s quarters.

Hongjoong was seated at his desk, a map spread out before him as he carefully marked their next route. He glanced up when Wooyoung knocked and motioned for him to enter.

“What is it?” Hongjoong asked, leaning back in his chair as he crossed his arms.

Wooyoung hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to put his swirling thoughts into words. But this was Hongjoong—his captain, his guide, his second guardian. If there was anyone he could trust, it was him.

“It’s about YN,” Wooyoung began, closing the door behind him.

Hongjoong’s brow furrowed slightly. “What about her? Is she alright?”

“She is,” Wooyoung said quickly. “At least… I think she is. But…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

“But what?” Hongjoong pressed, his tone serious now.

Wooyoung took a deep breath and looked down at the floor. “Last night, I… I saw something. She always wears long sleeves, and I never thought much of it, but her blanket slipped, and I saw her wrists.”

Hongjoong didn’t say anything, but the sharpness in his eyes told Wooyoung to continue.

“They’re scared,” Wooyoung said quietly. “Like… she’s been through something. Something bad. And she’s always smiling, always acting like she’s fine, but I don’t think she is, Captain. I don’t think she ever was.”

Hongjoong leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he processed Wooyoung’s words. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

“Because I don’t know what to do,” Wooyoung admitted, his voice almost breaking. “I want to protect her, but I don’t know if I’m doing enough. I don’t want her to feel like she’s alone. And—” He hesitated, swallowing hard before continuing. “I care about her, Captain. More than I probably should.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of Wooyoung’s words hanging in the air.

Hongjoong studied him carefully, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Wooyoung, you’ve always been someone who cares deeply about the people around you. That’s one of your strengths. But you need to tread carefully here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Hongjoong said slowly, “that YN isn’t just anyone. She’s someone who’s clearly been hurt before, and if you push too hard or too fast, you might end up hurting her even more.”

Wooyoung nodded, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’d never hurt her.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Hongjoong said, his tone softening. “But she might not be ready to talk about whatever’s happened to her. You have to be patient. Be there for her, but let her come to you when she’s ready.”

Wooyoung exhaled shakily, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “I just… I hate the thought of her suffering alone.”

Hongjoong gave him a small, understanding smile. “You’re doing more for her than you realize, Wooyoung. Just keep being her friend, her safe place. That’s what she needs most right now.”

Wooyoung nodded again, his resolve strengthening. “Thank you, Captain.”

As he left the room, Wooyoung felt a little lighter, though his heart still ached for YN. He would take Hongjoong’s advice to heart. He would wait, be patient, and let her set the pace. But in the meantime, he’d keep being the one thing she could always count on: her protector, her friend, and her silent guardian.

Wooyoung stepped out onto the deck, the salty breeze ruffling his hair as his eyes scanned for YN. He spotted her near the railing with San and Jongho, her arms waving animatedly as she spoke. The two men stood there, half-amused, half-bewildered, listening to whatever silly tangent she was on this time.

“Wait, wait, let me get this straight,” San said, holding up a hand to stop her. “You’re asking me if a sword can cut through a cannonball?”

“Yeah!” YN exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “I mean, they’re both metal, right? So if you hit it hard enough…”

San burst into laughter, clutching his stomach. “You’ve been reading too many stories, kid.”

Jongho, who had been leaning against the railing, shook his head but couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Even the sharpest blade would shatter before it cut through solid iron.”

“Aw,” YN pouted, crossing her arms. “I thought pirates could do anything!”

San laughed harder, wiping a tear from his eye. “We’re not magicians, sunshine.”

Wooyoung stood off to the side, watching the scene unfold. A warm smile crept onto his face as he saw how easily YN interacted with them now. When she’d first come aboard, she’d been hesitant, hiding behind him whenever the others were around. But now, here she was, chatting away with San and Jongho like they’d known each other forever.

It felt good to see her like this—happy, carefree, and finally warming up to the crew.

“You’re really curious about everything, aren’t you?” Jongho said, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement.

“Of course!” YN said brightly. “I’ve never been on a ship before, so I want to learn as much as I can. Like… do you guys ever get scared of storms? Or, oh! What happens if someone falls overboard? Do you just throw them a rope, or—”

“Whoa, slow down,” San said, holding up his hands. “One question at a time, sunshine!”

Wooyoung chuckled softly as he approached them, leaning casually against the mast. “Looks like you’ve been keeping my brothers busy.”

YN turned to him with a beaming smile. “Wooyoung! Did you know San once fought off five guys by himself?”

San puffed out his chest, clearly enjoying the attention. “It was six, actually.”

“Here we go,” Jongho muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Wooyoung laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t let him fool you, YN. He probably tripped over a barrel and took them all down by accident.”

“Hey!” San protested, but YN was already giggling, her laughter light and infectious.

As they continued talking, Wooyoung couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. She wasn’t just his sunshine anymore—she was becoming theirs, too. And that made him happier than he could put into words.

The gentle sound of the waves lapping against the ship provided a soothing background as Wooyoung and YN sat on the deck. The sun was beginning to set, casting the sky in shades of orange and pink. YN was carefully folding a piece of parchment, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she tried to perfect the origami bird Mingi had taught her.

Wooyoung watched her with a soft smile, his elbow resting on his knee as he sat cross-legged beside her. He loved seeing her like this—calm, happy, and free to express herself.

“Wooyoung,” she suddenly said, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Let’s play a game.”

“A game?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes! It’s simple. One person asks a question, and the other has to answer truthfully. No skipping. Deal?” She held out her pinky finger, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

Wooyoung chuckled and linked his pinky with hers. “Deal.”

The game started innocently enough, with lighthearted questions that made them both laugh.

“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?” she asked.

“Once, I fell off the ship during training and blamed it on a loose rope,” Wooyoung admitted, grinning sheepishly.

She burst into laughter, nearly dropping her origami. “You didn’t!”

“I did. Yunho still hasn’t let me live it down,” he said, shaking his head.

When it was Wooyoung’s turn, he asked, “What’s your favorite food?”

“Anything sweet,” she answered easily. “The sweeter, the better!”

The game continued, each question becoming a little more personal, a little more revealing. Wooyoung learned that YN’s favorite color was blue because it reminded her of the ocean and that she used to dream of being an adventurer before life tied her to the store.

Then, as the playful banter lulled, Wooyoung asked the question that had been weighing on his heart.

“Where are the scars from?”

As soon as the question left Wooyoung’s mouth, YN froze, her body stiffening as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

“W-what?” she stammered, her voice shaky, eyes darting to her hands in panic.

“Your wrist,” Wooyoung said, his voice softer this time but unwavering. “I saw the scars. Tell me what happened.”

Her heart raced, her palms growing clammy as she clutched the half-folded paper bird. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t answer the question. Without another word, YN shot up from her spot and darted away, her footsteps echoing across the deck.

“YN!” Wooyoung called after her, but she didn’t stop.

She didn’t know where she was going, her mind clouded with panic, but her feet carried her to Seonghwa’s quarters. She knocked quickly before opening the door, her chest heaving as she stepped inside.

Seonghwa was seated at his desk, a book in his hands, but he looked up at her abrupt entrance. He immediately noticed her pacing back and forth, her hands trembling as she fidgeted with the sleeves of her shirt.

“YN,” Seonghwa called gently, setting the book down and standing up. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” she started, but the words caught in her throat. She stopped pacing and turned to him, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears.

“YN,” he said again, walking over to her slowly, his voice calm and reassuring. “Breathe. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I…” She hesitated, her mind racing. She couldn’t tell him about her wrists, couldn’t tell him about the scars, but she didn’t know how to explain the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

Seonghwa waited patiently, his arms crossed but his gaze kind. When her bottom lip quivered and her eyes spilled over with tears, he stepped closer and placed a steady hand on her shoulder.

“Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone,” he said softly. “You can tell me, YN.”

Her shoulders shook as she wiped at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, trying to compose herself. “It’s just��� it’s too much,” she finally whispered.

“Too much?” he prompted, his voice careful, coaxing.

She nodded, her voice trembling. “I—I don’t know how to explain it. Everything’s just… overwhelming.”

Seonghwa nodded in understanding, guiding her to sit on the edge of his bed. “Take your time,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her.

She clutched the fabric tightly, sniffling as she stared at her lap. “I just… sometimes I feel like I can’t keep up. Like I’m trying so hard to be happy, to be… me, but it’s exhausting.”

Seonghwa crouched down in front of her, resting a hand on her knee. “You don’t always have to be the sunshine, YN. It’s okay to feel tired. It’s okay to need help.”

YN's chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath coming in shallow gasps as the weight of her emotions overwhelmed her. Her hands trembled as they clung to Seonghwa’s forearm, her grip so tight it felt as though she was holding onto him for dear life.

Seonghwa didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, a steady anchor in the storm of her panic. He knelt in front of her, his calm presence a stark contrast to her spiraling emotions.

“YN,” he said softly, his voice like a gentle tide. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, slowly… and out through your mouth.”

She shook her head, her tears streaming freely. “I—I can’t,” she choked out, her voice cracking.

“You can,” Seonghwa reassured her, his tone unwavering. “I’m right here. Just focus on me. Look at me, YN.”

She hesitated but finally met his gaze, her teary eyes locking onto his calm, reassuring ones.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Now, follow my breath. In… and out.”

She tried, mimicking his slow breathing, though her breaths still hitched with sobs. Her fingers dug into his arm, and he didn’t so much as wince. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and gently dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief, his movements deliberate and careful.

“It’s okay to cry,” he said softly, his voice unwavering. “It’s okay to feel scared. You don’t have to apologize for how you feel.”

Her sobs quieted slightly, though her grip on his arm remained as strong as ever. She clung to him as though letting go would cause her to crumble entirely.

Seonghwa stayed patient, his calmness never faltering. He wiped her tears every so often, his hand moving with the same care as someone handling something fragile. “You’re safe here,” he reminded her. “Nothing’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m here.”

His words were like a lifeline, grounding her enough to slow her racing heart. After a few moments, her breathing began to even out, the tightness in her chest loosening bit by bit. She loosened her grip on his arm but didn’t let go entirely, her fingers still clutching him lightly as she hiccupped through her tears.

“Better?” he asked softly, his eyes searching hers.

She nodded weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he replied gently. “You’re not alone, YN. You never will be.”

Though her tears hadn’t fully stopped, a flicker of warmth spread through her chest at his words. Seonghwa’s presence was steady and unwavering, and in that moment, she felt just a little bit lighter.

After leaving Seonghwa’s room, YN made her way to her quarters. Her steps were slow, her mind a swirl of emotions she couldn’t quite pin down. She opened the door quietly, her gaze immediately landing on Wooyoung sitting cross-legged on the floor near the door, as he always did at night. His head lifted when he saw her enter, concern evident in his eyes.

“YN, I—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted firmly, her voice steady despite the whirlwind inside her. She stood before him, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the hem of her sleeves.

Wooyoung’s eyes widened slightly, and he opened his mouth to say something, but she silenced him with a look. Slowly, she rolled up her sleeves, the fabric slipping upward to reveal the scars etched into her wrists.

Wooyoung’s breath hitched as he saw them up close for the first time, the pale lines stark against her skin. His heart ached, a heavy weight settling in his chest as he looked at her, at the vulnerability she was showing him.

“This is what you wanted to know, right?” YN said, her voice soft but laced with a mix of courage and apprehension. “You wanted to know where the scars came from. Well… here they are.”

Wooyoung stood slowly, his movements careful as if afraid any sudden action might scare her away. He didn’t say anything at first, his gaze flicking from her wrists to her face.

The silence lingered for a while before YN took a shaky breath, her fingers twisting together in her lap. She stared at the floor, her voice barely above a whisper as she finally began to speak.

“My mother…” she started, pausing to collect her thoughts. “She wasn’t… normal. She was cruel. A maniac, really. She’d punish me for anything and everything—spilling a drink, speaking too loudly, even just… existing.”

Wooyoung sat perfectly still, his gaze fixed on her, his heart breaking with every word.

“And her punishments,” YN continued, her voice trembling, “they weren’t like what most kids go through. She didn’t yell or ground me. She… she used a whip. Always on my wrists. Always in the same place. I can still feel it sometimes, even now.”

Wooyoung’s fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t interrupt, letting her speak at her own pace.

“My father tried to stop her,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “He did everything he could, but she didn’t care. She was… relentless. And then, one day, she just… overdosed. Died right there in the house.”

She swallowed hard, her hands shaking as she rubbed at her sleeves. “You’d think I’d feel relief, right? That the nightmare was over. But I didn’t. I fell into this… dark hole. A part of me hated her, but another part of me missed her. I was so confused, so… lost. And that’s when it started.”

Wooyoung’s breath caught in his throat as she glanced at her wrists, her voice quieter now, as if she were confessing a sin.

“I started hurting myself,” she admitted, tears welling up in her eyes. “At first, it was just to feel something—anything other than the emptiness. But then it became… addictive. Like I couldn’t stop. Every time I felt overwhelmed or scared, it was my way of coping. It felt like the only thing I could control.”

Her voice broke, and she wiped at her cheeks, the tears now falling freely. “I hate it. I hate what I’ve done to myself. But it’s so hard to stop. Even now, there are days when the urge comes back, and I have to fight it with everything I have.”

Wooyoung moved closer, his heart heavy as he watched her crumble in front of him. “YN…” he said softly, his voice laced with pain and understanding.

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of vulnerability and shame. “I didn’t want you to know,” she whispered. “I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought I’d be fine keeping it to myself, but now… now I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” Wooyoung said firmly, his voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside him. “You have me. You have Seonghwa, the captain… all of us. You’re not alone, YN. Not ever again.”

Her lips quivered, and for a moment, she looked like she wanted to argue, but then she nodded, the smallest bit of relief shining through her tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Wooyoung reached out, hesitated for a moment, and then gently placed his hand over hers. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said softly. “And I’ll remind you of that every day if I had to”

For a moment, she saw nothing but sincerity and warmth in his eyes. “I’ve already burdened Seonghwa enough tonight,” she said with a small, forced laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

“You’re not a burden,” Wooyoung said immediately, his voice firm. “Don’t ever think that. Not to him, not to me, not to anyone.”

The corner of her lip twitched upward, a small, grateful smile breaking through. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Wooyoung nodded, his expression softening. “Always.”

Without another word, she sat down on the edge of her bed, and Wooyoung returned to his spot on the floor near the door. The air between them was quieter now, but it wasn’t heavy. It felt lighter, like a silent understanding had settled between them.

And for the first time in a long while, YN felt a small sliver of peace.

The following days on the ship were like a fresh breeze in YN’s life. The weight she had carried for so long didn’t feel as heavy anymore. She laughed more, her usual sunshine-like personality shining even brighter now that the storm inside her had started to clear. She could feel it—she wasn’t alone anymore.

Wooyoung noticed the change in her, and it made his heart swell with pride and affection. She still leaped around the ship like a child, asking silly questions and sometimes pestering the others for answers. But now, there was something different about her—the way her laughter came from a place of genuine joy, the way her smiles reached her eyes.

And Wooyoung… he couldn’t stop looking at her. Every time she smiled, every time she glanced his way, his heart raced. He knew what it was now, that feeling that had been growing inside him from the moment he met her. He loved her.

She had become his light, his reason to be better, his reason to fight. And though he wasn’t brave enough to say it aloud, he showed it in every little thing he did. Whether it was sitting outside her door at night to keep her company or silently slipping her favorite snacks into her bag, his love for her shone through his actions.

For YN, Wooyoung had become her pillar, her safe place. She loved the feeling of knowing someone had her back, someone who cared for her as deeply as he did. It was something she’d never had before, and she treasured it more than anything.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson, YN sat on the deck, her feet dangling over the edge. Wooyoung sat beside her, his usual playful demeanor softened by the quiet moment.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly, her voice carrying a softness that made Wooyoung turn to look at her.

“For what?” he asked, tilting his head.

“For being here,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the endless ocean before them. “For being my friend, for being my… everything.”

His heart skipped a beat, and he smiled softly. “You don’t have to thank me for that, YN. I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

She turned to him then, her eyes shining with gratitude and something deeper. “You’ve made me feel… safe. Happy. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before.”

Wooyoung’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t say anything, afraid he might ruin the moment. Instead, he reached out and gently took her hand in his, giving it a light squeeze.

And in that quiet moment, with the ocean stretching endlessly before them and the stars beginning to appear in the sky, they sat together, content in the knowledge that they had each other.

For YN, it was the start of a new chapter, one where she wasn’t defined by her scars but by the happiness she was finally allowing herself to feel.

And for Wooyoung, it was enough to simply be by her side, loving her quietly but completely, knowing that she was his light just as much as he was hers.

[heartlessvirgo]

Pins and Needles

Summary:

You work at the bar in Jackson, and Joel is a frequent visitor.

Paring: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+MDNI, Swearing, Kissing, heavy petting, unprotected sex, yearning, uhh I think that's it keepin it simple tonight

Word Count: 6.1K

A/N: hi there, I wrote this one today, so enjoy. Also idk what else to write about so please someone for the love of God send me a prompt. I am just a woman, who needs help and who has also never had an original thought in her life! -mel

The bar, The Tipsy Bison, loomed ahead, its sign barely visible through the swirling snow. You curse under your breath, pulling your coat tighter around you, but it does little to ward off the biting cold of the morning. December had arrived with a vengeance, and the snow storm showed no signs of letting up. But people still drank, even in weather like this. In fact, you found the bar was busier on days like this. 

Your fingers fumble with the key as you reach the double doors, the cold seeping through your skin to your bones. The sensation creeps through your hands, pins and needles prickling as numbness begins to set in. You rub your hands together, hoping to summon some warmth, but the unforgiving wind steals what little comfort you can muster.

With a final twist, the frozen lock gives, and you push open the doors to bar, the familiar scent of wood and stale beer greeting you like an old friend. Inside, it’s quiet, the soft hum of the heater the only sound as the door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the storm.

Your boots trail in some snow, leaving a damp path across the worn wooden floor. If you could feel your toes, you'd manage to stomp off some of it, but the numbness has already claimed them. Flicking on the lights, a groan escapes your throat as one of the overhead bulbs flickers, sputtering briefly before giving out entirely, casting a shadow over the far end of the bar.

"Great," you mutter, shrugging off your coat and tossing it onto a nearby stool. The dim corner adds another task to your growing list for the day. You make your way behind the counter, fingers still tingling from the cold as you rub them together again, hoping the warmth will return soon.

As the heater hums to life, a soft warmth begins to creep into the space, thawing the icy pins and needles that had gripped you outside. But the flickering bulb lingers in the back of your mind, a small reminder that nothing ever stays entirely comfortable for long.

The list is long before opening today, and you realize it’s just you and the cook all day. Mornings at The Tipsy Bison were never particularly busy—just a slow trickle of night shift workers, looking to unwind at the end of their day. The nights were hecti, and despite the cold outside, you often found yourself sweating by the time you got through the rush. You move around the bar, checking off tasks one by one. Stock the shelves. Fill the ice bin. The steady rhythm of your routine is oddly comforting, like a quiet meditation. It’s midafternoon, and you’re just finishing up a rush of orders—mostly bar food, meant to fill the empty spaces in their stomachs before they start drinking their rations away.

As you wipe down the bar, the sound of the door creaking open catches your attention. The heavy thud of boots stomping snow off their soles echoes through the space, a quiet gesture of courtesy against the cold. You glance over your shoulder, offering a small, automatic smile as you continue drying a few cups.

It’s Joel Miller that steps in, his presence immediately filling the room in that quiet, commanding way he always had. One of the few night workers you recognized, that usually came in at the tail end of his shifts on watch. His face, as always, was a mix of exhaustion and something that looked too much like annoyance. Or maybe that was just how he looked at you now—ever since that night.

You knew him well. He was curt, sometimes even polite, but always quick with the transaction, his focus more on the drink than anything else. So, you let him have his whiskey, and leave him to drown whatever sorrow clung to him after the long nights on watch.

He was tall when he wanted to be, but the years of bad posture and sleeping on hard ground had left him with shoulders that sagged just slightly. Even so, you could always tell how strong he was—how well he carried it without needing to show it off. You knew. 

You knew all too well.

Joel wasn’t the kind of man who hooked up anymore. Not the type to lose control or give in to temptation. But one night, it happened. Maybe it was the way you poured his drinks heavy that night. And the shots you shared with a few regulars, the way the whiskey loosened your limbs and warmed your skin. By the time your shift ended, you could no longer feel the cold in your bones, your thoughts hazy and distant as the night stretched long and dark between you.

He’d been waiting, just outside the bar, as you took the trash out while locking up. You hummed a mindless tune, one your coworker would probably replay on the jukebox for hours if you let him. 

After the amount of alcohol you’d consumed, it didn’t surprise you to see him standing there. What you couldn’t quite recall was the reason—whether it was the free drink you’d slipped him earlier or the way you’d found yourself watching him from across the room, tracing his features with your eyes, practically undressing him with every glance.

Without a word, he walked you home, a perfect gentleman, like he wasn’t expecting anything in return. And yet, somehow, you’d found yourself dragging him inside, consensually of course, your hands on him before the door even had a chance to shut behind you. It was messy and reckless, but it felt too good to stop.

The heat of his body against yours, the hard muscle that never seemed to fade despite the years and long hours he worked—it was all there, strong and solid. But there was softness, too, and it was so syrupy sweet. His stomach, warm and firm, the delicate skin of his neck, where your fingers lingered, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat beneath the surface.

Joel had you fucked into the mattress, your ass up, face buried against the sheets to stifle the sounds that slipped out despite you. It was quick—too quick—but the intensity left a mark, something you couldn’t shake, no matter how much time passed. The heat of him lingered on your skin, his release on your lower back. It was, without question, the most unforgettable moment of your life. But it was also the last. He didn’t return.

Joel never really understood why he had let it happen, why he gave in to the pull between you. Maybe it was the need to feel alive again, the kind of vitality the world had taken from him long ago. Or maybe it was because you were so impossibly sweet, and he knew exactly how easy it would be to ruin that innocence, to watch the halo above your head fall apart.

That’s why he switched to overnight shifts—so when he came into the bar, you’d be deep in your sleep, tucked away in the comfort of your bed. The same bed he’d been in, your thighs pressed against his face as he’d lost himself in the taste of you.

So, you can imagine his surprise when you greet him this morning. Your eyes wide, your smile sugary sweet, a flicker of something else—something almost familiar—lingering as you watch him settle into his usual spot.

“Morning,” you greet, your voice warm despite the chill still clinging to your skin from the blizzard outside. Every time the doors open, a freezing breeze floats through the drafty building, but Joel’s gaze stays steady on you, stony, calculating, but also… a little guarded, like he knows better than to linger on you for too long. 

He gives a curt nod, his usual, as he settles into his spot at the bar. You pour his whiskey, straight, and slide it over to him. His fingers wrap around the glass, but he doesn’t drink right away. His gaze flicks to you as you move back to your tasks, a habit you’ve noticed but never addressed. Much like the way you’ve both avoided addressing that one time when the line between familiarity and something more blurred.

After a moment, he breaks the silence. “Everything holdin’ up alright in here?”

“Mostly,” you reply casually, glancing toward the flickering light. “Haven’t had the chance to fix that yet.”

Joel follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “Need a hand?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t need the help, but because it’s Joel offering. He’s not exactly known for small talk, let alone unsolicited offers of assistance. And especially not with you, not after you both silently agreed to act like that night never happened. 

“‘M good, thanks,” you reply, already on the task of grabbing the ladder from the backroom. 

The task is simple, but of course, it’s right in front of Joel. Your heart races as you set up the ladder beneath the overhead light, the realization of how close you are to him making everything feel suddenly too intimate.

Climbing the ladder, you reach for the bulb, your arms stretching high. The fabric of your crop top shifts upward, exposing a sliver of your skin. It’s only a brief moment, but it’s enough. You don’t need to look down to know that Joel is watching you, his gaze heavy and fixed. The air in the bar thickens, charged with something electric and raw.

You try to focus on the task—unscrewing the old bulb—but his eyes are like a magnet, pulling your attention, dragging your mind away from the simple fix. You glance down, just for a split second, and you catch his gaze. There’s no mistaking it: he nurses his whiskey as he drags his eyes up from your exposed skin and to your face. His eyes are locked on you, intense and unreadable. It feels like too much, like where you stand becomes unbalanced. 

 A sudden noise breaks the tension, and just as the door to the bar swings open with the sound of the wind, you release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your fingers shake, and before you can regain control, the bulb slips from your hand and falls—clink—shattering on the floor below.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, stepping down from the ladder. You can feel the heat still lingering in the air where his gaze had been, but it’s gone now, replaced by an uncomfortable emptiness. With a sigh, you add sweeping up the shattered bulb to your growing list of tasks.

By the time you return with the broom, though, Joel’s already gone, and with him, the tension that had hung between you like a thick fog. The silence left in his wake feels different—quieter, colder somehow. You remind yourself to shake it off. You don’t have the luxury of getting lost in thoughts about him—not when you’ve still got hours to go before you can close this place down and collapse into bed.

By the time the end of your double rolls around, your body aches, longing for a seat, or hell, even just a place to lie down. The weight of the day has settled into your muscles, a dull throb that makes every movement feel like an effort. The bar has emptied out, the late-night crowd now a memory, and you’re left to lock up, your feet dragging as you complete the last few tasks.

You double-check everything—lights off, doors locked—and step out into the cold night. The gusts of wind hit you with a sharp sting, but it’s a welcome jolt, the sudden rush of cold almost comforting after hours spent in the warmth of the bar. You tug your coat tighter, but the chill creeps in anyway, the familiar pins and needles sensation creeping up your fingers again, your skin still feeling like it’s buzzing from the long shift.

Rubbing your hands together, you start shuffling down the path to your home, your thoughts half on the walk home, half still up in the clouds. Your breath puffs out in little clouds, and as you turn the corner to your front porch, you stop short.

There, standing in the dark, is Joel. His figure looms against the porch light you forgot to turn on, barely visible except for the faint outline of his broad shoulders and the glint of his eyes in the moonlight.

The sight of him makes your heart skip—unexpected, unnerving.

“Joel?” Your voice comes out a little softer than you intend, as if the cold air has stolen the strength from your words.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just stands there, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn jacket. A moment stretches between you, the cold air settling in the silence, the weight of the unspoken history between you hanging thick in the air. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he steps forward.

“Wanted to make sure ya got home okay,” he mutters, his voice rough, like it hasn’t been used much today. For a moment, you're speechless, caught off guard by his presence on your porch. The unexpectedness of it twists something inside you, leaving you momentarily breathless.

But it’s the way his eyes flicker over you—soft, dark, searching—that sends a shiver through you. You swallow hard, your pulse quickening again.

He looks... lost. Like a stray dog on your doorstep, seeking refuge from the cold. How could you possibly turn him away? Not with those eyes, the ones that speak of something unspoken, and not after he’s waited out in the freezing cold just to make sure you were safe.

A tightness grips your chest, the question lingering in the air between you. Is that really why he’s here? To check on you, or is there something more—something fleeting, like the brief comfort of your touch, your body? You can’t blame him for it, not when you ache for him just as badly as he seems to ache for you.

You step onto the porch, fumbling for your key. After a moment of searching, you unlock the door and push it open, the soft creak of the hinges breaking the silence. Shifting your weight, you glance over at him, tilting your head. “Do you want to come inside?” The question feels tentative, lingering between you.

Joel pulls his hands from his pockets, his gaze flickering to yours as if he’s weighing your words. His mouth parts slightly, a quiet surprise crossing his face—like he hadn’t expected you to ask, or perhaps hadn’t expected it to be this simple. He nods, the wood creaking beneath his boots as he follows you inside. 

You hear the door close softly behind him as you hang your coat over the back of the couch. Your hands move almost automatically, searching through the small kitchen for two glasses. You pour a generous two fingers of whiskey into each, the amber liquid catching the dim light. 

Joel's footsteps approach the kitchen, the sound of his boots soft against the floor. Without looking up, you cork the bottle and extend one of the glasses toward him, the subtle tension in the air thickening with every movement.

“Thanks.” He takes the glass from you, and you bring yours to your lips. You’re not in the mood for savoring the fine whiskey tonight. Without hesitation, you tip the glass back, letting the burn of the liquid scorch its way down your throat in a few quick gulps.

The wind howls outside, rattling the windows as the blizzard continues its assault on Jackson. You pour another glass of whiskey, the burn lingering, comforting in its simplicity. 

Joel shifts where he stands in the middle of your kitchen, his gaze flicking to the window, then back to you. “Cold out there,” he mutters, his voice low, rough, like gravel.

You nod, half-smiling as the whiskey takes its effects. “Yeah, that storm came out of nowhere.” You don’t look at him directly, but you feel his eyes on you. You wish it didn’t feel so damn heavy.

“Always damn cold this time a year,” Joel murmurs.

Joel couldn’t stand being in the same room as you—not now, not when you were so close, just a few feet between you. But at the same time, being near you felt like a breath of fresh air, like a cure he hadn’t known he needed. No amount of whiskey could drown out the chaos in his mind, but somehow, when you were around, you quieted it. Just your presence, like a calm that washed over everything else. 

And that’s how he found himself here tonight, standing on your porch, waiting for you to open the door. Waiting for you to let him in—waiting for something to hold on to that might feel real. He didn’t care if it was a lie, didn’t care about the tangled mess of it all. All he knew was that you felt real. The warmth of your body, the scent of your skin, the way you had felt under him, the vague memory of you clenching around him so tight he could barely fuck into you.

He just didn’t expect you to actually invite him in. Hadn’t planned this far ahead.

You watch the flicker of inner turmoil that crosses Joel’s face, the subtle tension in the way his eyes drift, lost in thought. His hand moves absently, scrubbing through the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. He finishes his whiskey in one slow, deliberate motion, the glass emptying with a quiet finality.

"Answer me this one thing," Joel says, his voice heavy with confusion.

"Shoot," you reply, not hesitating for a second.

His eyes lock with yours, a flicker of vulnerability passing through them. “Why? I don’t get it.” His voice is low, heavy with self-doubt. “Why would you want anything to do with someone like me? I’m too damn old, barely able to keep up most of the time. Hell, I couldn’t even keep up with you. Couldn’t even last long—” He falters, the words choking him for a moment. His gaze drops, embarrassed. “And I lie awake at night, wondering why you'd ever even think about being with someone like me.”

Joel sets his glass down on the kitchen table with a soft thud, his lips pressed into a thin line. The question lingers in the air, but the way he does it—like he’s already decided—tells you he’s done with it.

“Why not?” you shrug, the burn of the alcohol settling in your stomach, a sharp reminder that you’ve had nothing to eat.

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, the silence deepens. “Why not?” he repeats, his voice low, almost like he’s challenging you to give a real answer.

“Joel,” you start, swallowing the words that have been sitting on your tongue for what feels like forever. “I’m old enough to know that I wanted you to fuck me. I enjoyed it.” 

His gaze hardens, a flicker of something in his eyes that you can’t quite place. It’s not surprise. Maybe it’s something darker.

“There are men, more age-appropriate,” he says, his voice edged with something almost bitter, “haven’t you seen the way they gawk at you?” His jaw tightens, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s been holding this back.

“If you mean the guys at the bar,” you cut in, meeting his gaze head-on, “they can gawk all they want. Doesn’t mean I care about any of them. What do you think this is, Joel?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, a woman like you could do better,” he mutters, his voice gravelly. “You don’t owe me anythin’, but... why me?”

You swallow, a mix of frustration and understanding swirling in your chest. It’s not insecurity you see in him, but utter confusion. The question hangs between you, and there’s no easy answer, only the weight of everything unsaid.

“I don’t really give a fuck about what’s ‘appropriate’,” your tone is sharper than you mean it to be, the edges of your words fraying. “So, why not you?” The question lingers, heavy in the air, as a knot forms in your stomach—hot and molten, a slow burn that spreads lower, igniting something between your legs.

“I—” Joel starts, but you cut him off, your words sharp and unwavering.

“No more questions,” you say, your voice low, steady, leaving no room for doubt. “I know what I want. And right now, I want you to fuck me again.”

You close the space between you, the soft thud of him bumping into the table echoing in the stillness as you press flush against him. Your gaze locks onto his, daring, almost pleading, though your tone leaves little room for negotiation.

“Don’t make me beg,” you murmur, the heat between you palpable, every word laced with intention.

“Fuck, you’re desperate for it, aren’t ya?” Joel’s voice is rough, strained. You let out a needy whine in response, feeling his strong hands grip your hips, gently guiding you back until your back hits the counter. With ease, Joel lifts you and places you on the counter. His gaze locks onto yours, intense and unwavering, as you grind against the rough denim of his jeans. Your palms slide up the solid plane of his chest, fingertips gripping the fabric before reaching the sides of his neck, pulling him closer. Needing him closer.

"Please," you whisper, your voice trembling as you tighten your legs around his waist, offering yourself completely. His breath comes out in slow, heavy bursts, like he's stalling—grasping for any reason not to give in.

“Don’t know how long I’ll last,” he mumbles, his breath hitching, the subtle tremor in his voice betraying the tension building between you.

“Don’t care.” Your fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt, your touch deliberate as your skin meets the heat of his stomach, the warmth searing straight through you. It feels like fire, like the space between you is alive with every brush of your hands.

“You’re the first person I’ve been with in a while,” he adds, his voice rough, as if the admission is supposed to change the moment. As if it might make you hesitate.

“Good.” The word leaves your mouth low and thick, the weight of it heavier than expected. The possessiveness that rises within you is sharp, stirring something deep inside that only makes you want him more. Every inch of him feels like something you’re not sure you’re willing to share, and the feeling claws at your chest.

His breath hitches again, louder this time, as you slide your hand further up his torso, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. The steady beat of his heart thrums through the contact, syncing with your own pulse.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, but there’s no mistaking the raw edge to it. His fingers curl into your wrist, not to stop you, but as if he’s waiting for your permission, your assurance.

“Never been more sure.” The words come out like a challenge, something to push him further, a quiet claim you didn’t even realize you wanted to make.

“Okay, well, I-” 

“Please, just fuck me,” you plead, the desperation in your voice raw and unfamiliar. You’ve never wanted someone this badly before—you’d drop to your knees and beg if it would make him touch you.

Joel’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and you can’t help but lean into his touch, craving more. The world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this moment. He inches closer, and you feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek, stirring up the anticipation coiling in your stomach.

"Tell me you want this," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sends another shiver down your spine. You swallow hard, torn between desire and making sure he had his questions answered. But the way he’s looking at you, the way his body presses against yours—it’s all too much.

"I want this, want you." You finally breathe out, each word a confession.

Before you can even think, his hand rises to the back of your neck, his grip firm but not painful, and a rush of heat floods through you. Without warning, his lips crash against yours—there’s nothing soft or calculated about it. It’s raw, urgent, and makes your breath catch in your throat. The kiss is a little too fast, too overwhelming, and you fumble. Your teeth bump together, and you let out a breathless gasp, desperate to find some rhythm.

You’re flustered, completely out of control, but your hands find their way to his chest, your fingers curling into his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline. The world around you blurs, every nerve in your body igniting from the warm cavern of his mouth. It’s messy, hungry, like you both can’t get enough. 

You want more.

His mouth moves against yours, slow at first. You try to keep up, but your head spins, your body already begging for more. Just when you think you can’t handle it, that the intensity might break you, he deepens the kiss. His lips press into yours with a slow, deliberate pressure that sends a wave of heat crashing through you, pooling low in your stomach.

You melt into him, your chest tight, heart pounding, every inch of you craving more, wanting to feel everything—feel him, feel this—without holding back. It’s not enough. You need more, but you’re not sure if you can even breathe, let alone stop yourself from pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, hungry and desperate, as his hands slide down to your hips, gripping you like he can’t let go. Before you can fully process it, he’s lifting you effortlessly from the counter, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he holds you against him. Your heart hammers in your chest, your body igniting from the sudden proximity. The sensation of him between your thighs, the heat of his body pressed so close, makes everything feel electric.

He moves with purpose, never breaking the kiss as he navigates toward the bedroom in the dark. The sound of his boots scuffing against the floor is steady, like a heartbeat, like a countdown. Your mind races, trying to catch up with what’s happening, but all you can focus on is the way his mouth tastes, the roughness of his hands on your skin, the feel of your pulse under his touch.

He pushes the bedroom door open with his foot, barely slowing as he crosses the threshold. The next thing you know, he’s gently laying you back on the bed, his hands smoothing over your body, the heat of his touch leaving a trail of fire everywhere he goes. Your legs stay draped around his waist, your breath shallow, every part of you desperate for him to close the distance again.

Without stopping, Joel slots himself between your legs, his hips pressing against yours with a satisfying pressure. The warmth of his body sinks into you as if you’re both melting into the same rhythm. Each movement, each breath, feels heavier, like you’re chasing something you’ve both wanted but didn’t know how to ask for.

Your palms cup Joel’s scratchy jaw, pulling him up to meet your rushed, top-lip kiss. His breath is warm, his lips so soft against yours, and the taste of him—so familiar now. You’ve wanted this for so long that your chest aches from the weight of it.

“Can’t believe I never tasted ya like this,” Joel pulls away to say thickly, his voice low and rasping, like he’s just come up for air after drowning in the moment. “Gonna be the death of me,” with a soft shake of his head, he nudges his nose against yours, kissing your lips again slowly.

Joel pulls away one last time, his breath warm against your skin as he rises to kneel on the bed. He smirks as he pulls his shirt over his head, and the sight of him—bare, broad, and breathless—makes something inside you tighten. He looks like he’s only thinking of you, like he’s burning with the need to claim you.

You’re captivated, watching intently as he moves to unfasten his jeans, revealing a trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his underwear. With a grunt, Joel pushes his jeans down to his thighs, his cock springing free. 

“So hard for me,” you say, amazed. Your pulse quickens, and you shift beneath his gaze, your fingers trembling as they slip beneath the fabric of your jeans and panties. The rough material clings to your hips for a fleeting moment before you tug them down, the cool air teasing your bare skin. You move with urgency as you pull your shirt over your head, driven by an insatiable need to connect, to lose yourself in the heat of the moment. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you glance up at him. 

You look flushed against your sheets, and he hasn’t even touched you fully. 

“Tell me what ya want, I’ll give ya anything,” Joel finishes removing his jeans and crawls over you on the bed. He trails open mouthed kisses up your sensitive stomach, capturing the peak of your breast into his mouth. 

For a second, you want him to flip you over, to take you like he did before—rough, demanding, with your knees digging into the mattress. But this time, you want to stay on your back, to catch his soft yet heated gaze. 

“Make me feel good again,” you whisper, voice trembling. The cool air makes you aware of the slick heat dripping down your pussy and pooling against the sheets. One of his hands settles on your naked hip, the other fisting himself before rubbing the head against your lips. Your hands find themselves on the soft flesh of his chest and stomach, feeling his muscles tremble over you. 

"This all it takes? A lil kissin’, and you're this soaked?" His voice drops, rough with desire, as he watches, mesmerized, the way you suck him in, the words rough with desire.

“Such a pretty girl, with such a pretty pussy—never seen one so pretty,” he adds, and you can’t help but blush all over under his compliment. 

His forearm rests against the pillow beside your head, the other hand slipping between you as his cock teases your entrance. Just before he pushes in, he pauses, brushing your hair out of your eyes with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. His eyes meet yours for a beat longer than they should before he thrusts his hips, and his mouth parts like he can’t help it.

You’re soaked, but he still stretches you, inch by inch, filling you completely. Every movement is deliberate, the pull of him tight inside you, and you can’t help but cling to the feeling of him—of all of him.

A whimper escapes your lips, the sound making Joel shudder above you.

“Ya feel so good,” he whispers, pulling out and slowly pushing back in. It’s like torture, like he’s trying to kill you. His hand comes up and grabs the back of your neck. “So hot, so wet.” he adds in your ear. 

“Please, Joel. Faster,” you whisper, the words trembling with need. He doesn’t hesitate—immediately, he gives it to you like you asked, filling you completely. Every inch of him stretches you, makes it hard to breathe, your body aching as it fits to his. You can’t look away from him—the way his brows furrow, his jaw tight, and that frown of his fading as his eyes close, a quiet desperation painting his face. He looks undone, and it only drives you deeper.

The fullness of him fills the hollow inside you, the ache fading like it never existed, as if he’s the missing part you never knew you were craving—slipping into every space you didn’t even know was empty.

“You’re takin’ me so damn good,” Joel murmurs, his hand moving from your neck, his thumb tracing your cheek with surprising tenderness.

His silence envelops you both, thick and suffocating, as you give in to the raw, primal sounds that fill the air—the slick rhythm of your bodies moving together, the broken whimpers and low grunts that echo between you. Nothing else matters, nothing else exists—just the heat, the movement, the noise. The obscene sound of skin against skin is almost unbearable, drowning out everything but the need.

“Joel, fuck,” Your legs shake, thighs quivering as he strikes a spot deep inside, making your vision blur and your breath falter. Your head tilts back, eyes rolling as waves of pleasure crash over you, each one stronger than the last, a force you can barely keep up with.

“So fuckin’ hot... Fuck, play with your clit.” Joel’s voice drops to a growl, dark and raw, his gaze following the rhythm between you both as he disappears inside you. His chest rises, flushed with heat, and then, with a sharp exhale, he shifts, kissing the side of your mouth—sloppy, desperate, like he can’t get enough of you.

“Want you to come for me... Think ya can do that?” His voice is rough, almost commanding, as he palms at your breast, pinching your nipple hard.

You’re dripping onto him, every inch of him slick as he thrusts into you, his rhythm erratic, relentless. When he accidently slips out, the emptiness is maddening—a sharp ache that leaves you gasping—until he grabs himself and presses back in, a low grunt escaping him, laced with pure hunger. The wet slide of him fills you again, messy and desperate, a connection so raw it makes everything else feel impossibly distant.

“Oh my god,” you moan, already burning with need. Your fingers work frantically over your clit, slick and swollen, desperate for release. A fire builds deep inside, spreading like wildfire, making your legs tremble uncontrollably around his hips. It feels overwhelming, too fast—like you might shatter if you don’t get what you need.

A tingling sensation creeps up the base of your neck, your body instinctively arching toward him. Every muscle tightens, caught between resistance and surrender, as his thursts deepen.

You come—hard—your body seizing, waves of ecstasy crashing over you with such force, you can barely draw in a breath. Your vision blurs, the only sound the frantic pounding of your heart, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. Your walls tighten around him, pulling him deeper, as the orgasm tears through you, leaving you breathless, broken.

He groans, his grip tightening on your thighs as he fucks you through it, each thrust driving you further into the haze of pleasure, until you’re nothing but the lingering aftershocks of what he’s given you. You can barely hold on, but you don’t want him to stop.

Joel shudders, pushing deeper, the sensation sharp and all-consuming, as a dull ache spreads through you, an ache that feels like everything. 

“Good girl, fuck…” Joel’s voice cracks, strained with urgency as you tighten around him, making it almost impossible for him to move. He pulls out with a sharp breath, stroking himself before spilling hot ropes of release onto your stomach, the frantic spurts reaching your breasts. His orgasm draws out, the harsh sound of his groan echoing in the quiet room, and the sound alone sends you trembling, your body arching against the bed.

“Think you’re tryin’ to kill me,” Joel murmurs, his voice low and rough, the look in his eyes still wild as he shifts to rest beside you.

You meet his gaze, a playful spark in your eyes. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time,” you tease, your voice light, but the smell of sex still lingers in the air between you.

Joel’s lips twitch, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes stay intense, as if he’s still trying to catch his breath. “Don’t think you need to,” he mutters, but there’s something unreadable in his expression—like he's both caught off guard and addicted to the way you’ve made him feel.

 Good, you think smugly. 

The moment hangs there, suspended between you, before he shakes his head, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. You stay where you are, your pulse still racing, a quiet smile tugging at your lips as you watch his back.

[cowboybeepboop]

Fling

“God damn it Y/N... you're going to be the death of me.”

Pairing: Tyler Owens x fem! Reader 

Genre: Smut

Word count: 2.5k

Summary: Fucking during a storm

Warnings: Public sex, unprotected sex, p in v, not proofread. 

a/n: I’m currently posting a little bit of everything so if you have any requests for any fandom you can send it my way and I’ll do my best :) Also idk this one is just a random ass idea I had 

You and Tyler have been sneaking around for a couple months, the rest of the team doesn’t know about it. It first started with a drunk hookup but then you couldn’t get him out of your mind. 

It’s nothing too serious, at least not right now. Tyler isn’t exactly sure what you two are yet, but he knows he’s a lot more protective and possessive in you than he’s ever been with any other girl. He doesn’t share you with the guys and tries to subtly mark his territory in public, something you’re entirely obvious to. 

You yawn as you step out of your motel room, nearly crashing into Tyler who’s standing with a coffee in his hand. 

Tyler reaches his arm out stopping you from falling, one hand around your waist and the other holding the coffee. “Woah, watch where you’re going darlin.” He chuckles.

“What are you doing? Creeping outside my room?” You tease, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Tyler chuckles again as he stands you steady, taking a sip of his coffee. “Well I was waiting for you to get your sleepy ass out of there! It’s like 9am. The hell have you been doing in there?”

“Maybe I had company,” you keep the teasing tone, walking down the stairs with Tyler at your heels.

Tyler grabs your wrist stopping you from walking any farther, making you turn to face him, the two of you still on the stairs. “You didn’t…?” He asks looking down at you, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist.

You giggle softly, “Of course not.” You walk down the stairs to the truck greeting Boone and the rest of the team.

The day of chasing starts very eventfully, you’re sat in the passenger side of Tyler’s truck. It’s just the two of you, Boone and Lily in the other vehicles for once.

Throughout the day, Tyler finds himself stealing glances of you in the passenger seat, the thought of anyone else “visiting” you this morning has been on his mind all day, even throughout chases. He’s always had a possessive side but for some reason it’s ten times stronger with you.

You reach over placing your hand on his thigh, your eyes are focused on the storm in front of the vehicle.

Tyler almost flinches slightly to your touch, but then he relaxes, your hand on his thigh is now the only thing he can focus on. He glances down at it before returning his eyes to the road, clearing his throat a little awkwardly before speaking. “You really didn’t… have any visitors this morning did you?” He asks, trying to sound nonchalant but only coming off as a bit jealous.

“Tyler of course not,” you laugh. “Is that why you’ve been so sour today? You know I was just teasing you.”

He sighs, a look of slight relief coming over his face as he realizes you were just teasing him. “I know you were. I just couldn’t help but think you were getting up to something. You were sleeping in awfully late this morning.” He glances over at you, a sly smile appearing on his face.

“Whatever, I was just tired.” You retort. “But you know.. I’ve been thinking,”

He raises his eyebrows as he continues to pay attention to the road, he’s all too familiar with the tone you’re using right now. “Oh, have you? And what have you been thinking about?”

“It’s just, there’s something I wanna try..” you rub soft circles into his thigh.

Tyler can feel the heat from your hand on his thigh radiating through his jeans. He shifts his legs apart slightly before speaking again. 

“What is it? What do you wanna try?” His voice is low as he speaks, sounding as if he already knows where you’re going with this.

“Well, we’ve been chasing for a while, it’s thrilling and all but..” You gulp, cheeks flushed. “I’ve always wanted to have sex during a storm.. outside.”

Tyler almost swerves the car a little as your words register in his head. He wasn’t expecting you to be so blunt. 

“Y-you wanna.. what?” He can feel the heat building in his face, but he manages to keep his voice steady.

“I’ve always thought it would be hot.. to do it outside, you know.” You move your hand further up his thigh.

Tyler lets out a soft groan, he glances out the window, the storm is getting further away as the tornado is dying out, and the sun is setting. 

“You really wanna do it out here? In public?” He asks, knowing he’s not going to be able to deny you anything.

“We could.. do it in a barn or behind a building.” You chew on your bottom lip, eyes focused on his face.

Tyler’s fingers are gripping the steering wheel tightly as your words flood his mind. The way you’re looking at him is not helping either. 

“Y-yeah, yeah a barn would work..” He chokes out, already considering the risks of someone seeing you two together in broad daylight.

“You think?” You perk up, shifting in your seat. “You’d actually.. want that?”

He glances at you, seeing how excited you are to do this in the first place. God when did he become such a pushover for you.

“Yeah. I’d want that. A lot actually.” He smiles devilishly, already scouting out a location in his mind.

You lean over pressing kisses to his neck, your hand sliding up his leg.

Tyler swallows hard, his fingers wrapping around your wrist to try and stop your hand from moving any higher. 

“G-god damn it darlin. I’m driving.” He says, his breath hitching in his throat when your lips press against his neck.

“I know.. I just can’t help myself.” You whisper against his skin.

His hand tightens around your wrist as he looks over at you, taking in your eager form. He’s only human and he’s been craving your touch for so long. “You keep doing that and we ain’t gonna make it to a barn.”

You continue to pepper kisses against his flesh, your hand squeezing his thigh. “You have me so worked up..”

He grits his teeth as your hand continues to rub his thigh, your lips against his skin make it incredibly hard to focus on the road. 

“Jesus darlin.. I think I see a barn up ahead. Hang on.” He swerves off to the side, quickly parking. He told the rest of the team to stay back  while you two do the chasing. He leads you to the barn hand intertwined with yours.

Tyler pulls you through the barn door, shutting and barricading it behind you. He quickly pulls you behind a high stack of hay, his body immediately pressed up against yours. 

“God damn it darlin.. I’ve been craving this all day.” You press your lips to his hungrily, the warring of the storm outside adding to the passion.

Tyler’s hands grip your waist, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, desperate to taste you. He pushes you back against a wall, his body pinning you in place as he continues to kiss you passionately.

He pulls away for a moment taking in your form, your face is flushed and your breath is heavy. He’s never seen anything so beautiful before. “God damn it Y/N... you're going to be the death of me.”

“Ty.. I need you.” You pull your skirt up, leaning back against the wall. Your free hand pulls his body closer, fingers digging into his side.

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your legs as you pull up your skirt. His hands move to the front of his jeans, struggling to unbutton them. 

“You have no idea what you're doing to me right now... I've been thinking about you all day.”

You help him, trying to free his erection as fast as you can. “Tyler, enough talking.” You kiss him hungrily, the wind whistling in the distance.

He pushes your hand away, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down just enough to free his aching erection. He pins you up against the wall, his hands moving up your legs, under your skirt. His hips roll against yours, desperate to relieve the pressure he's been feeling all day. 

“God damn it..” He pants, his head falling forward as he tries to focus. He moves his face to your neck, his lips trailing kisses down to your collarbone.

You let out desperate moans, moving your panties to the side so he can slide inside you.

Tyler groans loudly as he pushes himself inside you, his hands now on your hips, pulling you closer to him as he bottoms out.

With a rough growl of desire, Tyler starts to thrust into you, his movements urgent and demanding as the wind outside seems to echo your own passion. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer as the barn creaks around you, muffling the sounds of your union. 

Rain begins to pound against the roof, adding to the intensity of the moment as your bodies move together in a rhythm that feels almost primal. You can feel the storm's electricity in the air, mirroring the intensity of your own desires as Tyler claims you, right here in the middle of nature's fury. 

The scent of damp earth and hay fills your nose, mixing with the musky scent of Tyler's body. The storm outside seems to fuel your passion, making every touch, every kiss feel more urgent and necessary than ever before.

With a fiery need burning through him, Tyler's hands slide up your body, gripping the soft flesh of your breasts as he kisses you deeply. His movements become more erratic, driven by the pounding of the rain and the crackle of thunder. 

You arch into his touch, your nails digging into his back as you try to get closer, needing more of him. The barn feels alive around you, the storm's fury matching the tempestuous passion that has overtaken you both. Your breath mingles with his, coming out in short, ragged pants that sync with the increasing tempo of your love making. 

Each thrust is met with a moan, the sound lost in the cacophony of the storm, as Tyler claims you over and over again, marking you as his in this most primitive of ways. The wind howls outside, but it's nothing compared to the intensity of your shared desire as you climb closer to the edge of pleasure, your bodies moving in a dance as old as time itself.

As the storm reaches its crescendo, so does Tyler's passion, his thrusts becoming more powerful and punctuated by the cracks of lightning that pierce the sky. You moan louder, your body responding eagerly to his every move. The sound of rain drumming against the barn roof is the only music to your symphony of desire. 

He kisses you deeply, his teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls back, leaving you gasping for breath. His eyes are filled with a fierce hunger, the kind that can only be satisfied by the person they're devouring. You can feel yourself tightening around him, the promise of release coiling in your belly like a serpent ready to strike. 

Tyler's hands slide down to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin as he lifts you off the ground, holding you in place against the wall. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, the sensation of him filling you completely sending sparks through your body. 

The world outside the barn is a whirlwind of chaos, but in here, all that matters is the two of you, lost in the eye of the storm, your bodies joined in the most intimate of ways. The barn feels like it's shaking with the force of your passion, and you know that you're about to reach the peak of the tempest together.

As the storm reaches its peak, Tyler's movements become more frenzied, his eyes never leaving yours as he feels you tighten around him, the signs of your impending climax written all over your face. 

With a grunt of pure masculine need, he drives into you even harder, pushing you both closer to the precipice. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, as you feel the beginnings of your orgasm start to build. 

The thunder outside seems to sync with your heartbeat, the lightning flashing through the gaps in the barn's walls illuminating the sweat-drenched, desperate expressions on your faces. The wind howls around you, echoing the sounds of your passionate cries as you both give in to the intensity of the moment. 

Your bodies are slick with sweat, your skin sticking together as you move in unison, the rain outside turning the hay beneath you into a wet, squelching mess that only serves to enhance the carnality of your encounter. And just as a particularly vivid bolt of lightning pierces the sky, casting a stark, white light across the barn, you both shudder in unison, reaching that pinnacle of pleasure and letting it crash over you like a wave, your cries of ecstasy joining with the thunder as you cling to each other, lost in the tempest of your love.

As the thunder rumbles in the aftermath of your shared climax, Tyler's arms tighten around you, his breathing ragged in your ear. He whispers sweet nothings, his words barely audible over the dwindling storm. He gently sets you back on your feet, kissing your forehead tenderly before helping you fix your clothes. 

The barn feels warmer now, despite the chilly rain outside, the air thick with the scent of passion and the earthy aroma of wet hay. You both stand there for a moment, catching your breath, your eyes locked in an intimate gaze that speaks of secrets and promises unspoken. Tyler's hand lingers on your waist, his thumb brushing the soft skin just above your hip. 

The storm outside begins to calm, the rain slowing to a gentle patter, almost as if it's giving you two a moment of peace after the tumultuous chaos. You lean into him, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of his body against yours.

The world outside seems so far away, and all that matters is the warmth and comfort you find in his embrace as the storm slowly fades away into the night.

[clarkeybabey]

❝ wish you were sober ❞

# prompt; "I got you flowers" "what's the occasion?" "uh... just because?"

# playlist; wish you were sober, conan gray, bubble gum, clairo

# word count; 999 (i wish i was kidding)

# note; sorry i've been mia guys, i had nooo inspiration or ideas for a few days:(. definitely send some requests my way id love to write anything for you guys.

Although today was your free day with no filming or other commitments, some of your friends asked if you'd like to hang out. You decided it would be better to catch up on all the laundry that had been piling up from the past month of traveling. The messy bun you put your hair in had sagged its way down to the nape of your neck evidence of your many half-assed attempts

During your search for straggling socks for the laundry, an unexpected knock on the front door echoes through the empty flat. Not expecting visitors at this hour, you wonder if it might be your roommate who has forgotten her key.

Another brief knock on the door grabs your attention, followed by the sound of your name being called. That's definitely not your flatmate, hurriedly, you gather the scattered clothes around you, tossing them into the hamper with a sense of urgency. Speed-walking to greet the unexpected visitor.

When you reach for the doorknob you step up onto your toes looking through the peephole, you feel the beat of your heart thump against your ribs as you realize the visitor is none other than your long-time friend, Arthur Fredrick. Taking a deep breath and mustering up courage, you turn the lock, opening the door, excitement bubbling up inside of you.

Nearly immediately you notice how unsteady he is on his feet and to your surprise he's holding a bouquet of flowers out to you, "Got these-" he's interrupted by a hiccup, his free hand coming up to his chest, his face reddens making you smile, "Sorry, got these for you," despite knowing how intoxicated he is, you feel warm all over at the gesture.

He grins cheekily, although he can't help but stumble slightly due to his intoxicated state. Through his inebriated haze, he notices your nervous demeanor at the sight of him not even trying to hide his amusement, "Thank you," another hiccup from him makes you pause whilst he composes himself again, 'For what exactly?"

Curiosity is laced in your voice as you carefully accept the flowers from his wobbly hands, gesturing inward with a nod of your head. "Come inside, it's bloody freezing out here," you say, concerned when you notice his lack of coat and the shorts he's wearing.

Steadying himself against your door frame, he clumsily maneuvers his way inside, fumbling with his trainers and setting them down on the shoe rack where he always does.

He grabs onto the rack to stand up, "I was on my way back from filming platform roulette, and I saw these at a shop," he slurs, gesturing towards the bouquet of flowers. he pauses momentarily, using all his brain power to follow you into your kitchen, "Then I remembered you lived pretty close, so I thought I'd stop by."

You hum in acknowledgment as you stoop down the find a vase from the lower cabinet, carefully setting it in the sink to fill with water, "'s really sweet of you, I love them, thank you," A smile plays at the corners of your lips as you turn on the faucet.

You hear him shuffling around behind you but he comes up just next to you, leaning against the counter. His presence fills the small kitchen, and you catch a pleasant whiff of his cologne, mixing with the faint odor of alcohol

"I'm glad you like them," he murmurs, his voice has the slightest rasp to it which has your mind bussing in a way you can't exactly understand. As you turn with the vase of flowers in hand, his gaze is unwavering as his eyes roam over your face making your breath hitch at the unintentional proximity.

The space between you is electrified, the world outside forgotten as his warm expression draws you in heightening the tension that hangs between you both.

"Sorry," you exhale softly, he smells your toothpaste on your breath as you sidestep around him in the small kitchen, the bouquet still clutched in your hand. You carefully place the flowers in the vase on the island, then rummage through the cabinets to find a glass. You fill it with fresh, cool water from the fridge, setting it in front of him.

"Drink this we'll get you sobered up a bit. If you're feeling up for it, we can watch a movie," you suggest with a friendly smile, although a hint of awkwardness seeps through as you await his response.

He flashes a knowing smile, watching you anxiously pick at your nails. There's a brief moment of silence before he gives a firm nod, his eyes holding another thing you can't seem to pinpoint. "I'd like that," he murmurs, the words carrying a hint of vulnerability.

The air hangs still, filled with the weight of so many unspoken things.

He obeys your instructions, finishing the water while you slip off to your room to change into pajamas. When you re-emerge you find him sitting on the couch, his phone in hand, and his empty glass on a coaster, Upon noticing your return he drops his phone onto the table patting the spot next to him.

He has already chosen the first Harry Potter movie, which elicits a genuine smile from you. As the opening credits roll, he turns to you, his voice sincere:

"Thank you for letting me stay for a bit," he says, lacing your fingers together and you give his hand a squeeze instead of verbally replying, The atmosphere is intimate, the soft glow of the screen casting shadows over his features as the movie unfolds. The silence between you is comfortable, and the shared familiarity of the film creates a cozy bubble where only the two of you matter at this moment.

Your mind screams at you to say so many things at once, but you simply bite your tongue and continue staring at the TV. All you can think is how different things would be if he weren't drunk.

[juletheghoul]

corrupted

a/n: I asked for requests and y'all came THROUGH. Freaks - all of you!! (same) hope you enjoy this fucking ovulation-fueled fever dream lmao. @quicax3 - I am dedicating everything I post today to you- Happy birthday! 🩷hope ya'll enjoy (not even a little beta'd or proofread lol all mistakes are mine)

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, hand stuff, rough / marathon sex, homeboy paints the boobies- Marcus gets dosed with something and is * d e s p e r a t e *(a little graphic / I guess this could be hurt / comfort?), master / slave dynamic (power imbalance) he’s still pretty possessive, Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus - let me know if I missed any! 🩷

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 2.6k (😅)

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series masterlist

You frowned to see her darkening his doorstep once more from your place just inside the giant doorway. 

“Announce my arrival to Marcus if you would, I have brought him a gift.” She smiles her prettiest smile at you, moving to walk past you but you hold fast, blocking her path. 

“Apologies my lady, the Dominus is absent. I do not know when he will return and I am not to allow visitors in his absence.” Part of you felt a twinge of guilt at the way her face fell, but the memory of her proposal, and her apparent attempts to change his mind twisted something in your gut. She clutched at the wine bottle in her hands, cradling it as her eyes scanned what she could see of the house behind you. 

“Do you know when he left.” She frowns, eyes focusing on you once more. 

“He has been gone since first light, and as I said before, I am unsure of when he will return. He did not say when he left.” You were telling her mostly the truth, he had left early in the day, but you knew he’d be back before nightfall. He’d told you.

“I could just wait, I doubt he’ll mind–” She flashed her winning smile, thinking it would work on you as it had worked on everyone throughout her years but she had no notion of your ire for her.

“Apologies my lady, I cannot permit you inside, it will be my head.” It would never come to that, you knew it but he would not be pleased. 

“Oh come now.” She huffed just outside the door, crossing her arms and for a moment you saw a spoiled child on the verge of a tantrum. One of his guards heard the commotion and came over to assist. 

“Apologies my lady, but you will have to return another time, when the Dominus is here to greet you.” He was large, and her demeanor changed instantly. 

“I have brought him a gift, he will be happy to see me I swear it–” She held the bottle out to the guard and he took it, looking over what seemed to be a dark red wine.

“I will make sure Dominus receives your gift.” He closed the door in her face despite the widening of her eyes at having been left outside, giftless, and unwelcome. She knocked again, but the guard only put the bottle in your hands, and sent you off with a nod. You went about your business and left him to it. 

Your Dominus was true to his word. The sun had just kissed the horizon when he walked through the door. His brow was furrowed in frustration and you rushed to greet him, hoping his business hadn’t gone awry. His eyes found yours and they softened, but only a touch. 

“Shall I prepare your meal Dominus? Or would you care to rest first?” You followed as he made his way towards his study, his stride quick enough to make you hurry after him. 

“I’ll take my meal in my study, fetch me clean water and linens to cleanse before I eat–and the red wine if you would.” He sat at his desk, putting down scrolls he’d brought with him. His talk of wine reminded you of his visitor.

“Oh–I just recalled. You had a visitor while you were away today, Dominus.” You brought the empty basin from the corner and set it up at the little table beside his desk for the water you’d have to fetch. His eyes shot up, his attention solely focused on you. “I obeyed your commands, no one came in–it was Lavinia.” 

His eyebrow raised, and a small, half-smile formed on his lips. The scrolls sat on the desk, forgotten as he leaned back a little in his chair, amused now at the way your chin jut out in uncharacteristic defiance. 

“Was it now? And just what did Lavinia want?” He narrowed his eyes, his smile widened a fraction. 

“I think I can divine what she wanted.” You mumble the words under your breath, picking at your nails and he clears his throat, a gentle warning. “Apologies Dominus, I said, I think I can divine what she wanted. I do not think she took your refusal with good grace. She brought you a gift, in hopes to sway you if I had to hazard a guess.”

“Well, seems she would like me to reconsider.” He crossed his arms, watching your face and it’s hard to keep it free of emotion. “Bring me her gift, I would like to see it.” He gestured to the door with a playful smile and although your belly twisted at the thought of her working her charms on him from afar, you knew in your heart of hearts he simply liked to frustrate you.

The temptation to smash the bottle into pieces was almost too big to ignore. The thought of him being displeased however kept your grip on it tight, kept you obedient as you did everything he’d asked of you. With his hands cleansed, with his food served, you put the bottle onto his desk. 

“So this is what she offers.” He took the bottle in his hand, turning it over with more interest than you would have liked. He opened it, and put it under his nose. You watched him, fighting tooth and nail to keep your expression neutral. He only smiled the harder, reveling in your poorly disguised discomfort. 

“It smells like good wine, but fortified with something.” He poured some into a goblet, swirling it with growing interest. 

“Shall I leave you to enjoy your meal, Dominus?” You kept your head held high, reminding yourself that he had refused her after all, and a cup of wine wasn’t going to change anything. 

“No. I would have you here.” He smiled, bringing the cup to his mouth and draining it in a few gulps. 

It was almost instant, the change in him. 

“Dominus?” You approached him, heart sinking at the way his eyes momentarily lost focus, at the way his face went slack, all of him utterly empty for a moment. A wild fear gripped your heart, surely she wouldn’t poison him? “Dominus? Dominus!” You almost scream, pushing between him and the desk to pull his face up. 

“Hmmm?” For a moment he couldn’t focus, and it looked as though he might faint into a feverish sleep but then his eyes found yours and he smiled, truly smiled. 

“Dominus—“ he moved cat-quick, pulling you into his embrace roughly. 

“Gods above, why do you smell so good?” He pressed his nose to your chest, pulling in greedy sniffs of you while his hands slipped under your tunic. 

“Dominus, are you well? What is happening?” You tried to get him to look at you, but his eyes were focused on his hands, on pulling at the seams of your tunic. You can’t help but let out a little scream when he rips it open. 

“I am going to die if you don’t sit on my cock this instant, Girl, I need it, I need to feel you, I need to take you—fill you with my seed.” He moans out the words, more desperate than you’ve ever seen him and for a moment you give in, his face tilted up to beckon your mouth to his.

There is a strange taste in his mouth, something honeyed and full of an almost seductive smoke. 

You pull away despite his iron grip on your waist.

“Dominus, Dominus wait—” You try to look into his eyes again but it’s like he’s not there. Something in you awakens, and you do something you’ve never even considered, you do something that could cost you your life. You strike him clean across the face. 

The crack of it is loud enough, and hard enough to stop him cold. 

“Dominus—I beg your forgiveness but I need you to listen to my words—I think Lavinia has slipped you some sort of love potion, some magic to seduce you—“ your hands shake as you speak to him, praying to all the Gods that you aren’t punished for trying to help him. 

“Girl…” he speaks slowly, his face splotchy and red and an ache builds in your throat, fear threatening you with tears. “Girl, I think you may be right.” He trembles slightly, his skin warm where you still touch him. You can see the effort on his face to keep himself under control, to keep his wits about him as the potion works through his body.

He stands, swaying slightly and takes the bottle to the door while you watch, clutching at your ripped tunic. He hands it to one of his guards and instructs him to dispose of it, to not let anyone have any of it because it is corrupted.

“Shall I get you something else?”

“I need your body, Girl.” He holds onto the wall for a moment to steady himself, his eyes cast downwards. “I need to bury myself inside you, I am sick with it, I feel as though if I don’t I will surely die.” His eyes are red when they find yours and there is a fire there you have only ever seen after a battle. 

“If you do not desire this, then leave and lock yourself in your chambers. I will make do with my fist.” He takes a steadying breath, waiting with an almost divine patience despite his state.

The anger you feel for Lavinia knows no bounds, that she would resort to something like this to force him to give her his body makes your blood boil. The way in which he devours you however, that makes your cunt clench and drip for him.

“I am yours, Dominus.” You let the tunic fall and beckon to him with open arms. You see his prowess in the moment it takes him to cross the room and all but dig his fingers into you. His mouth is insistent, his hands are rough at your waist and on your breasts, his passion is hard as steel at your hip where it digs into your skin, all of his sharp desire, his sharp edges scraping at your softness with an inhuman strength. 

“I am in pain Girl, every fucking inch of me aches—“ his words are a painful moan as he all but tears at his layers. You help as best you can and once he is bare you gasp. His cock is so red, his balls look so swollen, you think he really might burst if he does not find his release. 

There is no time for gentle touch. 

You turn and bend over his desk uncaring of his papers falling to the floor and present your backside to him. It’s with trembling hands that he slots his cock at your entrance. He enters you with one brutal shove of his hips and moans like you’ve never heard him moan before. Despite your own arousal, you wince.

“Forgive me Girl, I cannot be gentle-“ He does not ease you into it, it is a rough pushing and pulling of himself into your sex and he is too thick, too deep, you feel him in your lungs, in your throat. 

“I do not wish to hurt you, but you feel so fucking good, so tight, so wet I cannot stop myself.” His words help, his true nature helps. You focus on the feel of him, on the reassuring grip of his big hands on your hips, on the noises he makes as his groin hits the plump of your ass with every sharp thrust.

Your cunt leaks around him, coating him, raising the volume on the sounds of your coupling and before long he’s pulled you up, his chin resting over your shoulder while one hand holds onto your breast tight enough to almost hurt. 

“Here it comes—“ he barely gives a warning before he groans long and loud, filling your poor little cunt with his gift. He presses his forehead to the back of your neck, taking greedy pulls of air into his lungs while he keeps himself buried deep. 

You catch your breath for a moment before he pulls out and turns you to face him. His eyes are shut tight, and then he looks down. His cock has not softened, it looks just as angry, just as hard as it did before, his balls still heavy and full of seed. 

“I fear I may be like this for a while, the pain returns even as I stand here.” 

You sit him in his chair and climb onto him, sheathing him inside you once more but this time, with his mess and your arousal easing his passage, and you setting the pace things are better. 

“I will take care of you Dominus, let me take the pain away.” You wrap your arms around him and slip your tongue into his mouth with a deep kiss, relishing the noise he feeds directly into your lungs. His arms are a cage around your ribs, tight enough to make you fight for every breath but it matters not. He feels so good like this, so deep and with every roll of your hips his noises become more frantic, more imploring.

He comes again almost without warning as you keep your rhythm, wincing when he tightens his grip a little more but still, he does not soften. 

He lets out a whine, a pathetic, gorgeous thing when you keep rolling your hips, clenching around him in search of your own climax.

“Please Girl, please please, I beg of you, milk my cock, I need to spill inside you again, over and over, please—“ his voice is not his own, it’s some needy, powerless creature under your spell and you want nothing more than to oblige him. You speed up despite the sweat shining on your shin, despite the ache in your body and again he spills, crying out like a teenage boy touching a woman for the first time.

“Again Dominus?” You’re tired, but it feels so good, and the desperate, slack jawed expression makes you ache for your own climax.

“Yes Girl, Gods yes- again—“ he helps you move, your sweat slicked flesh spilling between his fingers, his lap is a mess of his own seed and your arousal, you cannot stop now. He takes your nipple into his mouth just as his thumb slips into the mess between your thighs and swirls it around your clit. 

Your own climax hits you like a slap across the face- all at once making you seize and he comes again at the feel of it, both of you suspended in exquisite agony.

You are truly sore now, every muscle aches, everything burns. 

“Dominus- I don’t think my body can handle more.” You brush back his hair, placing a small kiss where you slapped him.

“It is a little better now, come to my bed with me.”

Hours pass, and he still stands at attention but he relieves himself with his fist as you lay on his bed. He begs for your hand, and you oblige him. He begs to look at your cunt, and you show him, he begs to let him paint your breasts in his seed, and you position yourself for him, until he finally softens and rests.

You cleanse him, and yourself, and fall into his arms, asleep before you’re fully settled. 

He does not leave his chambers the next day, and orders you to take a full day of rest yourself. While grateful to sleep and give your tired body time to recover, part of you fears he might not want to see you, but then one of the older women brings a feast to your chambers at his instruction, good wine and more food than you could eat in a whole day and you know you are forgiven. 

You smile around your bites of food, content with your thoughts of what he might do in retaliation. 

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[kumkaniudaku]

Five Minutes

Summary: Terry and Patrice are in a race against the clock.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)

Word Count: 2,082

Warnings: Mature Content, Suggestive Situations (18+)

"Knock knock."

A cheery voice accompanying two raps against Patrice's half-open bedroom door paused a conversation between the teenagers sprawled across different pieces of furniture a respectable distance apart. 

Rosalyn stepped fully into the room with a warm smile to greet Terry again and turn her attention to her daughter. "I gotta step out for a moment. Junior walked out of the house without his wallet again, and I need to run it down the street before he goes to the trampoline park for Bryson's birthday party with Walter. It'll only be a few minutes." 

Both ladies knew her announcement was less of a need-to-know piece of information and more of a warning – a coded message to keep things well within the rules or face the consequences if detected. Terry sat confused in his favorite bean bag, wondering whether this was his cue to pack up and leave or wait for further instruction. He chose the latter.

"Okay," Patrice answered without much pomp and circumstance. "Is there leftover pizza for us to split?" 

"I don't think so. Your brother and daddy played clean-up crew this morning. When I get back, we can order Chinese." 

Another riddle only Patrice could decipher. No, I'm not extending my trip. We'll all leave together before I do something that crazy. Patrice heard the words in her head loud and clear. 

She nodded her understanding. "Alright," she answered with an almost too cheery smile. "I'll look at the menu on the fridge and pick some stuff." 

"You staying for dinner, Terry?" 

For a moment, Terry was convinced he didn't exist. Many conversations conducted around him between the women in his own home had been enough to teach him to stay out of what he wasn't invited to. With an official call for his participation, Terry straightened up to answer. 

"Yes, ma'am," he responded, trying not to seem nervous. Not enough for detection, at least. "I told my mama I'd be here until around 8 o'clock, so if it's okay with y'all, I want to stay." 

Terry's heart raced wildly in his chest as if he were being interrogated by the FBI. Could Rosalyn smell his nervousness? Could she sense the mix of excitement and danger signals coursing through his blood?

For a moment, she seemed to linger on his twitching smile. But then the flash of what he was sure was only a mirage disappeared. Rosalyn smiled like she always did when Terry showed off the manners his parents made sure he possessed wherever he went. "It's always okay, sweetheart." She turned her attention to Patrice. "I'll be back. Ten minutes, tops. You know how Belinda likes to talk."

"Yes, ma'am." Maybe that one was too sweet. Patrice had half a mind to try and clean up her assumed mess but remained mum until her mother was out of the room and audibly pulling her keys from the console table beside the front door. 

Patrice and Terry eyed each other like two wild cats waiting for an opportunity to pounce on unsuspecting prey while waiting for Rosalyn to open, close, and lock the last barrier between them and a few minutes of privacy.

Alone. They'd been in this state a few times before. Short spurts of time without the quiet simmer of bedding teenage hormones were always platonic, innocent affairs with nothing much to worry about outside of a silly argument quickly put to bed once someone giggled while trying to make a needless point. 

Yesterday, however, was yesterday. Today was brand new and full of additional physical possibilities. 

Together, Terry and Patrice listened to the car's engine start, warm up, and grow silent as the vehicle disappeared the short distance to the next street over. The moment's gravity sat in the room like an invisible third visitor, then ducked for cover once Terry bounded from his spot to meet Patrice's outstretched arms, waiting to wrap around his shoulders and pull his body onto the bed. 

Excited lips and tongues took full advantage of an opportunity to explore uninhibited, pressing kisses and leaving well-times licks to satisfy intense cravings for the other. The need for air became secondary to the need to make out like maniacs starved of physical affection. 

Terry took the initiative to adjust their tangled mess of legs and arms, leaving Patrice's hands pressed against his cheeks while he held her by the waist to guide them against the soft duvet, inviting a horizontal display of affection. 

Breathless panting and the light smack of young lips doing the only thing they could think to do with newfound freedom eclipsed the movie watching them toe the line from the background.

Patrice took a break from the action to sigh, "I love you," with Terry's tongue licking around the constant thump, thump, thump of her pulse on her neck. A soft whimper slipped from her lips. "That feels so…so good." 

"You sound pretty when you do that. Keep talking to me." Terry's rational mind had long left the building, likely in the backseat waiting for Rosalyn to return to a car still running in another driveway. Only thoughts of Patrice existed in the confines of a near-empty head. He wanted to feel her skin beneath his rough fingertips and taste the flavored lip gloss he'd been feening for since the last time they kissed after school. He wanted to hear her say his name and giggle when he blew raspberries on her cheeks. He wanted to feel that rush of energy elsewhere in his body and allow the dull ache of wanting to fuel private fantasies until they met again. He'd received all that and more with his hands playing a game of 'will they or won't they' at the waistband of her leggings. 

Pushing him by the back of the neck as a request to maintain the light suction on her collarbone, Patrice offered a green light to proceed. "You can do it." 

"You sure," he questioned, finally pulling away to look at Patrice for reassurance. "I don't have to, and don't feel like I'm makin' you. This is fine."

Sure, it was fine. Weeks of internet research and girl talk had led Patrice to the absolute conclusion that touching and being touched were the keys to unlocking all of life's possibilities. In a perfect world, they'd have the whole day to experiment. She'd seen the infographics in Cosmo and Ebony, read all the message boards on websites meant to teach young girls about their bodies, and seen enough rom-coms without supervision for a general sense of how things were meant to go. All Patrice needed was the time and space to practice. While time wasn't currently on her side, she had ample space. 

"It's fine," Patrice reassured Terry. No dice. He slowly moved his hands back to a neutral zone, prepared to stop the gradual march of blood to his lower extremity and return to what was expected of their behavior when Rosalyn left the house. But Patrice wouldn't be deterred. 

A firm push to Terry's shoulder helped convince him onto his back, leaving his lap wide open for Patrice to straddle the spot that needed no introduction. A quiet groan escaped Terry's parted lips when body parts tingling from the newness of touch met in the middle through thin athletic shorts. He anchored his hands on her hips again, looking up at her with hazel and green puppy dog eyes and praying for the strength to remain respectful. 

Gripping his wrists, Patrice pushed Terry's hands to the curve of her behind before pressing his fingers into the pliant flesh. "It's okay, Terry. I promise." 

This time, Terry couldn't find the words to object. And, even if they were available somewhere on the tip of his tongue, they'd lost the battle to fingers eager to massage what he knew would one day be his favorite place to see sans clothing. 

Enthusiastic kissing soon resumed more fervent than before. Tongues danced an uncoordinated tango neither of them knew to feel ashamed about. Patrice braced her hands on Terry's chest to keep from sneaking them underneath the shirt keeping her sliver of midriff from abs growing more defined by the day. 

Three minutes. Or something like that. Both of them were losing track of time in favor of recreating something they'd seen on television at least one hundred times. What they'd seen less of, though, was the involuntary grind Patrice had started to satisfy the newfound sensation between her legs. 

Terry froze entirely, unsure of how to proceed, but knowing that what Patrice was doing had awakened something new within him. She continued slow revolutions of her clothed center against him, reveling in the friction and trying to connect the mind to the body. 

"Damn," Terry whispered when the breath in his body returned and demanded release all at once. "D'you wanna stop?"

Patrice shook her head with her lip trapped beneath her top row of teeth. "Mm-mm." 

"Okay. I don't…I don't… want you to stop, either." 

Sixty seconds in heaven felt long enough for two eighteen-year-olds experiencing the most prolonged touching either of them had ever experienced. Hands kneading thighs and backside returned to their earlier deep sea dive beneath black cotton and took the plunge without hesitation. 

Unfamiliar feelings crept up their young spines and tickled the base of their necks, transmuting messages of love and intimacy into brains possibly too young to understand the consequences of premature sex. No matter, though. They wouldn't listen even if they could turn the knowledge of how babies are made, and bonds are formed into something tangible. This type of carrying on was more fun than all that other mumbo jumbo.

Four minutes. Or maybe five. Six? The number was immaterial to the sudden jolt caused by CeCe Winans' voice growing louder and clearer in the driveway before an abrupt ending. Time was up. Terry knew it before Patrice could piece together information and tossed her to the side in a rush to the bathroom down the hallway, hoping his hands were enough to conceal his now very noticeable problem.

Patrice pushed the fuzz from her brain long enough to quickly adjust her clothing, wipe the mess of lip gloss from her face, and sprint into the kitchen to act as naturally as possible. Her bottom hit the worn cushion in her assigned seat at the kitchen table just as Rosalyn's keys jiggled in the deadbolt lock. A deep breath was the only hope she had left for the heart rate to even and for her hands to stop trembling long enough to keep the Lucky China #9 menu steady while she pretended to seriously consider dinner options. 

The tune of some song Patrice should've known from repeated listens entered the house before Rosalyn, carrying through the foyer and into the kitchen as a final reminder to calm down. A Half-hearted examination of Mongolian beef and sesame chicken combos read to a pre-occupied mother as her only daughter following directions with no sign of trouble afoot. 

"Where's Terry," Rosalyn asked on her way into the kitchen. 

Patrice nodded toward the hallway. "In the bathroom, I think. At least he has been for the last minute or so." Rosalyn opened her mouth to inquire further, having heard no such sign but stopped short when the toilet flushed in the distance. Patrice tried to mask her relief and shrugged. "See?" 

"I hope he's feeling alright. This greasy behind food won't help him if he isn't. You know what you want? I need to call before your daddy gets back so he has food on the table." Satisfied with a charade she could've easily seen through with a few more questions, Rosalyn began a search for her always missing cellphone, fully releasing Patrice her moment in the spotlight. 

Terry's lanky body soon appeared in the hallway's threshold in better shape to peer around the corner and check the temperature. Patrice sent him a cautionary glance before inconspicuously waving him over to join in on a conversation neither of them could focus on. Visions of what could happen with ten or fifteen minutes alone followed them into a lively dinner with two adults wholly unaware of the treasure trove of information unlocked in their home. 

Without a word spoken, Terry and Patrice eyed each other from across the table, speaking their own coded language telepathically communicated in sly glances and smiles. That was fun. Consequences avoided. See you next time?

------

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@bruleecream

[makeitmingi]

When Flowers Bloom In The Dark [Chapter 10]

Genre: Romance, Mafia!AU, Violence, Angst, Slow burn

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Florist!Reader, Mafioso!Hongjoong, Mafioso!Seonghwa, Mafioso!Yunho, Mafioso!Yeosang, Mafioso!San, Mafioso!Mingi, Mafioso!Wooyoung, Mafioso!Jongho

Summary: When you appeared and wept at his mother's funeral, Hongjoong found himself wanting to find out more about you. A regular girl, who owns a flower shop in his territory and has a relationship with the mother that he hasn't spoken to in years, why hasn't he ever noticed you before?

[Warning(s): 18+ for violence, use of weapons, smoking, alcohol consumption, slight gore, gang affiliation, tattoos and character deaths. Minors DNI. This is a work of fiction and does not represent the Ateez members in real life.]

Word count: 3.3K

Chapter warning(s): Mentions of the boys' one night stands outside of the house, Mingi is flirty

Usually, Hongjoong would have been cooped up in his office the entire morning. The others were used to seeing him skip breakfast. So it was weird when they saw him sitting in the second floor lounge, going over papers.

"What's wrong with your office?" Seonghwa asked. Even he was curious as to why the captain was out here.

"There's nothing wrong with my office. I'm just sitting out here for a change of environment." Hongjoong wasn't the best at lying, especially to his best friend.

"Whatever you say..." Seonghwa wasn't convinced but he was hungry and wanted breakfast.

"Can you ask them to send me another coffee when you're down there?" Hongjoong asked. Seonghwa nodded and headed downstairs.

"Morning, hyung." Those that were having their breakfast in the dining room greeted the oldest.

"Morning. Send Hongjoong another coffee. Second floor lounge." He acknowledged the others then gave Hongjoong's order to the maid. She bowed and ran to the kitchen to make Hongjoong's coffee.

"How was Mingi's race last night? I didn't hear anything from him." Seonghwa asked Yunho. Yunho merely shrugged.

"I have no idea, I haven't heard from him either. But considering how he isn't in his room, I'm guessing he stayed out the whole night, probably to celebrate a win. You know those girls like to glue themselves to him." Yunho chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. Seonghwa hummed and ate his breakfast.

"Mr Park, the physician is here. Shall I let him in?" The butler came in, informing Seonghwa with a bow.

"Yes, wake San and let him know then bring to doctor to his room directly." Seonghwa replied. The butler nodded and bowed before leaving the dining room.

"Was it that bad?" Jongho asked.

"The opponent last night clocked him bad. We just want to make sure there's nothing internal that's too serious." Yeosang informed.

"I've got to go, got a meeting with my contractor for the new casino. Have a nice day everyone." Wooyoung jumped up, grabbing his suit jacket off the chair and running out of the room.

"Wooyoung hyung's been so busy with the casino nearing completion." Jongho noted.

"From what I saw last time, it's coming together nicely though. San's still going through the investors that you put together for him. Everyone seems to want a stake, the two did a good job in securing the lot since it's in prime real estate." Seonghwa said.

"That's a good breakfast. Now it's time to go to work." Yunho stretched and stood up to take his leave.

"There's a car coming in. Open the gates." They all heard Hongjoong come down the stairs, announcing to the mansion staff. Turning their heads, they saw the captain jog past.

"What visitor does hyung have?" Yeosang asked. Seonghwa shrugged but did look at the door way curiously.

"(y/n)! You're here." Hongjoong greeted you at the door.

"Hongjoong, good morning." You bowed. Honestly, you were still trying to keep your shock and awe to a minimum upon seeing this place, it was huge.

"Your drive way is very long. Luckily I took a cab or else I would have had to walk." You chuckled.

"Ah, sorry about that. I should have told you. But anyway, I would have gone to pick you or send a car over." Hongjoong said.

"I'm just kidding. It's no worries at all." You removed your shoes. Hongjoong walked before you, leading you further into the house. The maids and butlers that crossed your paths bowed to you and Hongjoong. It was awkward for you so you just bowed back, compared to Hongjoong who just continued ahead.

"(y/n) sshi, you're our new gardener?" Yunho's eyebrows raised in surprise as he greeted you, as if this was the first time he knew that you were going to be the gardener.

"Temporarily. I overheard Hongjoong needing one so I offered my help." You explained.

"Ah, I see. I guess it's good to know our garden is in the safe hands of an expert." Yunho complimented.

"I'm not an expert but thank you for thinking so highly of me." You smiled kindly. Hongjoong cast a slightly suspicious look at you then at Yunho, then back to you.

"So, the garden is this way." Hongjoong intercepted. You hummed and followed him out the glass doors to the back garden.

"Wow... It looks even better in person." You gasped.

"All the work of the landscaper when we got here and all the other gardeners that have worked here. I'll be honest, none of us here are really good with plants. It's just nice to look at so we decided to keep it and maintain it." Hongjoong rubbed the back of his neck.

"Ah, I see. I'll take note of that." You chuckled.

"Also, if you need anything, any extra tools or equipment, go ahead and get them. We'll reimburse you, you shouldn't pay out of your own pocket." Hongjoong smiled a little.

"Thank you. I'll just survey the garden now." You bowed your head awkwardly and stepped up.

"Isn't that..." Jongho tilted his head.

"Mhmm." Yunho nodded as they all gathered there, keeping their distance but still observing you and Hongjoong in the back garden. Seonghwa remained indifferent.

"You did this... Didn't you?" Seonghwa looked up at the tallest. Yunho merely shrugged in response but his smile was enough of a reply.

"Is it okay for her to be here?" Yeosang asked. No one replied to that, Seonghwa was too busy analysing.

When you looked up from where you were observing the plants, you looked behind Hongjoong to see his 4 friends or brothers standing there, staring at the two of you. Suddenly, you became so self aware and self conscious. Hongjoong followed your line of sight and turned around to see the 4 there.

"I'm good on my own, Hongjoong. If you're needed somewhere else..." You cleared your throat. Hongjoong nodded stiffly, realising he was just standing there with nothing much to add anyway.

"If you need anything, just let me know. Or let any of the staff know." He said. You hummed and watched as he headed back in.

"What are you guys doing?" Hongjoong asked.

"I should be asking you that. Since when were you close enough to her to ask her to be our gardener?" Seonghwa raised a questioning eyebrow. Hongjoong shrugged.

"We're not close. She overheard that we needed a new gardener and volunteered to help temporarily." Hongjoong explained.

"Oh, she overheard coincidentally?" Seonghwa shot Yunho a look, who looked away innocently.

"What?" Hongjoong blinked in confusion.

"Nothing. Just... be smart about this. Inform the others about her being here. I don't want to imagine what will happen to her if she sees us drag a corpse out there or something." Seonghwa said. Everyone nodded and Seonghwa went up to his office.

"Is this why you were working outside today, hyung? Waiting for her arrival?" Jongho nudged the captain. Hongjoong shot Jongho a dirty look and pushed his arm away.

"Of course not. I just needed more breathing space. My office was getting too stuffy." Hongjoong said.

"Sure..."

"Don't you all have work to do?" Hongjoong barked.

"Alright, alright. Geez, hyung. No need to shout." Yunho winced and covered his ears. They didn't realise that you were looking at them the entire time.

"They're an odd bunch." You noted to yourself as you inspected the plants in the plots.

"So are you going to be working outside the whole day, hyung?" Yeosang asked. Hongjoong glared at them and they all scurried away.

"Listen, if she needs anything, get it for her. Drinks, snacks, whatever, you understand?" Hongjoong turned to the butler. The butler nodded and bowed respectfully as Hongjoong went back upstairs. He gathered the files and papers that he had left in the lounge and returned back to his office.

With his coffee in his hand, he pulled back the curtains behind his chair, letting in all the light from the big window. And Hongjoong's eyes immediately found you.

"She's something else." He says to himself as he sees you used your fingers to dig through the soil.

All the other girls he has come across never liked getting their hands dirty but you so enthusiastically touched the dirt with bare hands.

"These two should not be planted next to each other." You noted, looking at the herb garden that was there. You assumed that it was for those that cooked on the estate.

"No wonder you're dying." You pouted a little, talking to the plant as you touched the wilting leaf.

"Miss, please help yourself to some refreshments and snacks. If you need anything else, please do not hesitate to let us know." A butler came out with a tray of items and a small, foldable table tucked under his arm.

"Thank you! Let me help you." You rushed over to help him unfold the lawn table he had with him. He seemed surprised that you had dropped what you were doing and came over to help him.

"Oh, miss. Don't worry, I can handle it." He bowed repeatedly but you took the tray from him politely.

"It's okay." You giggled and put the tray down on the table.

"Thank you so much, miss." He bowed deeply and poured the drink from the job into the glass for you. You smiled and received the glass, taking a sip.

"Ah, wait. There is something. Do you know if anyone uses the herb garden out here?" You asked him before he left.

"I'm not sure. Let me check with the kitchen." He said and went back into the house.

"So there is a kitchen crew here." You mumbled to yourself. You sipped the cold, fruit tea that was prepared. It was very delicious and refreshing while standing out in the sun.

"Miss, I have asked and the chef said that he used to take from the herb garden but lately, the herbs have not been in very good condition and they are not as fragrant as before so he has not been havesting." The butler came out, informing you. You nodded with a hum and thanked him.

"Looks like we have to repot and add some new plants while I try to revive these other ones." You said to yourself, making a mental note.

"So, how bad is it?" A voice came behind you. You straightened up and turned around to see one of men there. You didn't recognise him or knew his name.

"Hello. Nice to meet you. It's not that bad, just need to move the plants around." You bowed respectfully.

"That's good to hear. My name is Seonghwa. (y/n), right?" He tilted his head.

"Yes. Nice to meet you, Seonghwa sshi." You awkwardly bowed again. He exuded so much confidence and power, plus he was so elegantly beautiful, you couldn't take your eyes off him.

"Thank you for helping us. Hongjoong said you volunteered to be our gardener." Seonghwa said.

"Oh, no need to thank. Any chance to work with plants in such a big garden." You shook your head. Maybe you didn't know him but there was an intimidating aura around him. Seonghwa was purposely trying to psych you out.

Just in case you had any ulterior motive in being here and getting close to Hongjoong. He didn't know that Hongjoong was the one constantly seeking you out.

"Do you need anything so far?" Seonghwa asked.

"Not at the moment. I didn't bring my tools with me but I will the next time. Hopefully to revive the herb garden." You said.

"What is Hwa doing?" Hongjoong's eyes widened when he turned to the window and saw Seonghwa standing there, talking to you. You were shifting on your feet, looking a little frightened.

"What's a pretty girl doing out here?" A deep voice appeared. Mingi stood there, a smirk on his face.

"No, Mingi ah. No." Seonghwa shook his head. Mingi obviously didn't recognise you from Hongjoong's mother's funeral.

"Selfish." Mingi scoffed but obeyed and headed into the house. Seonghwa sighed and shook his head. Having seen Mingi come, Hongjoong had raced down. Mingi was one of the ones that liked to get flirty with girls. For some reason, he didn't like the idea of Mingi trying to flirt with you.

"Was that Mingi?" Hongjoong lied and acted nonchalant, trying to hide the fact that he was panting from how fast he ran down the stairs. You blinked in confusion at his behaviour.

"Yes, why? He just got home." Seonghwa raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I... Uh, needed to ask him something... So, (y/n), how's the garden?" Hongjoong changed the subject.

"It's alright. My plan is to revive the herb garden and some stuff need to be moved around, they shouldn't be grown together. And some of them are planted in the wrong soil." You explained.

"I guess the gardener before you wasn't as good as we thought." Hongjoong joked.

"They're common mistakes, I guess." You chuckled.

"Didn't you have to find Mingi?" Seonghwa cleared his throat as he reminded Hongjoong. Hongjoong nodded stiffly, giving Seonghwa a suspicious glance.

"See you later, (y/n)." Hongjoong said. You waved as he went back into the house. Seonghwa didn't stay too long too since you just went back to what you were doing. Honestly, it was awkward to have any conversation with him so you focussed on the plants.

"Mingi ah. You don't recognise her?" Hongjoong asked. Mingi shook his head, a look of confusion on his face.

"She's the girl that was at my mother's funeral... The one that knew her..." Hongjoong reminded.

"Oh! Oh... I didn't recognise her. I've only seen her like once, hyung. I barely remember all the girls that hang with us." Mingi shrugged. Hongjoong facepalmed.

"Whatever but no flirting, okay? She's here to be our temporary gardener, that's all." Hongjoong lectured.

"Yeah, yeah, captain. I get it, she's off limits." Mingi waved him off.

"I was going to tell everyone about her being here and working in the house tonight but I guess I should tell everyone now." Hongjoong sighed and took his phone out to send a text to the group.

"And Mingi, no weapons, no blood, nothing of that sort on the days she's here." Hongjoong said.

"Yes, captain." Mingi saluted and went to the kitchen to find some food since he was a little hungover from partying all night.

"The doctor's done with San." Seonghwa came and informed Hongjoong. The captain nodded and headed upstairs with his second in command to check on their brother. Seonghwa knocked on San's door lightly before the two of them entered. San was against the headboard, with an annoyed look on his face.

"Oh, hyungs. It's the two of you. I thought it was that annoying doctor again." San rolled his eyes, reading documents on his iPad. Seonghwa shook his head.

"He was just telling you to get bed rest, San ah. Yeosang said you went down bad last night." Seonghwa said.

"I'm fine. It's just some minor injuries, it's normal. I don't need bed rest." San shrugged.

"Just listen to the doctor, San. No fighting for a bit. In the mean time, help Wooyoung out with the casino stuff." Hongjoong instructed. San was going to protest but decided against it.

"Fine." He slumped.

"At least until you've recovered. Oversee things as the owner, just don't participate." Seonghwa told him.

"Easy for you to say, hyung. You get into a motorcycle crash and still continue racing." San glared. Seonghwa's eyes widened but San knew what he was doing.

"You what?" Hongjoong asked. Seonghwa muttered a curse and shot San the stink eye before slowly turning to see Hongjoong there, with his hands on his hips and a disappointed frown on his face. San smiled victoriously, he wasn't going down on his own.

"It wasn't a major crash." Seonghwa sighed.

"Still a crash, nonetheless Hwa! How could you continued racing?" Hongjoong scolded. Seonghwa rolled his eyes and held Hongjoong's shoulder, pushing him out of the room.

"Hongjoong, don't overreact. It was a minor thing. No serious injuries." Seonghwa said.

"Still, you should tell me if you get hurt." Hongjoong said.

"I will, I will. Now please get back to work. I don't want to find you loitering in the garden." Seonghwa teased. Hongjoong squinted his eyes at Seonghwa.

"Don't even go there." He warned and walked back to his office to do work.

If Hongjoong was worried about you, he could just periodically check in on you from his office window. No, not creepy at all.

"Luckily I have my spade at least." You sighed in relief as you dug through the soil to uproot one of the plants. You felt bad for creating such a mess and getting the soil onto the pavement. But you needed to move the plants, you would have to help them clean up the pavements later when you're done.

"There you go. Welcome to your new home." You smiled as you placed the plant into the new hole you dug, shovelling the soil over the roots and lightly packing it down.

"Excuse me, where's the bathroom?" You entered the house.

"Let me take you, miss." The maid bowed and led you down one of the hallways. She opened the bathroom door for you.

"Thanks." You smiled and entered. The first thing you did was wash your hands thoroghly, not wanting to drop any dirt or soil on the ground of the house.

When you were done with the bathroom, you stepped out and almost bumped into someone.

"I'm so sorry!" You exclaimed and bowed repeatedly. The man shot you an odd look. He was covered in injuries.

"It's fine." He mumbled and walked past you, continuing on his way. Even if you didn't know him, it was concerning to see someone so badly hurt. Was he in a fight? Or did he get beaten up?

"Miss, do you need help getting back to the garden?" A maid came up to you when she saw you standing there in the hallway. You lied and nodded your head. With a small smile, she led you back to where the backyard was.

"Thanks." You smiled gratefully and went back to the area you were initially working on.

"Yunho sshi?" You blinked, seeing him stand there, looking at the hole in the soil that you had dug up previously.

"Why are you digging holes?" He asked.

"Some of the plants are in the wrong soil or shouldn't be grown next to each other so I'm trying to move them. I can't do it all today but I'll start plot by plot." You explained.

"Isn't all soil the same? It's dirt." He stated. There was such a confused look on his face as he tilted his head at you.

"A lot of people think all soil is the same, just dirt. But there are different nutrition levels, the way they retain water, all that differs from soil to soil. Even how they pack around the roots." You giggled.

"Oh... If all the soil here is the same, our gardeners before you must really suck." Yunho clicked his tongue.

"Hongjoong said the same thing earlier too but all I can say is, being a gardener isn't as easy as it seems." You shrugged.

"You're too humble, (y/n)." Yunho smiled charmingly. The two of you burst out laughing. You were unaware that Yunho sent a small wave to someone who was watching your entire interaction from his office window.

~

Series masterlist

[avastrasposts]

The Guard Dog

Written for @studioghibelli Writing Challenge themed around History and Art History.

Plot: Sent to your uncle's bleak castle in the north of England, you expect only a dreary existence until you meet his groundskeeper, a scarred, frightening Spaniard. But love in the Victorian era is not easy and life doesn't follow straight paths.

Groundskeeper!Pero x Reader

Warnings: this is mainly all fluff with a bit of angst. Some of that casual racism and predjucde of the period rears its ugly head though. I've tried to keep the reader as blank as possible, but it's Victorian England and she's a lady so I have to presume she doesn't speak Spanish and has fair skin. No use of y/n.

Word count: 18k (yeah, I know....)

The ancestral home of your uncle’s family, Yotes Castle, was not a place that made people feel comfortable or welcome. Built on the ruins of an old thirteenth century castle, some of the old rooms still part of the house, it cast a forlorn gloom on the surrounding landscape. The long drive up to the house, the ancient portcullis cutting visitors off from the outside world, and the dark granite stone, it all made the place look as bleak as something out of a penny dreadful. The one forgiving feature was the big park surrounding the house, sprawling and wild with endless pathways curving through the trees and shrubs to small hidden glens and meadows. This is where you’d often taken refuge when you were allowed, and it was where you’d first met him, the groundskeeper.  

You’d arrived at the house the previous autumn, just as the weather turned cold; heavy rains and thick fog rolling in from the nearby Irish Sea. Your father had passed away long before you could remember him, and for most of your life, your mother had raised you with the help of a governess and her maid in the London house. But your mother’s health was never what it should be, and when she too passed, her brother became your legal guardian. And rather than let you stay in London, he gave you a choice; to come and work as his children’s governess at Yotes, or stay in London and be cut off once your mother’s meagre fortune ran out. You had no choice but to pack your bags and make the long journey north.  

You’d never been to Yotes Castle, only heard your mother’s stories about it and how much she’d detested it growing up; dark, lonely, stifling. She’d married your father and left for London as soon as she could, and she’d never returned to the north.

Your own first impression of the castle was not promising either. The place had been shrouded by heavy mist, the whole place damp, inside as well as out. Long, dark corridors and staircases confused you as the butler led you to your uncle’s study when you first arrived, his nose turned up at your carpet bag luggage. Your uncle had greeted you like you were a new servant, not his departed sister’s daughter, and dismissed you after letting you know he expected you to take full responsibility for his two children. You were assigned a room next to the children, but at least you were allowed to eat with the family and not the servants. Although, after a few days, you thought it might be nicer to eat with the servants than suffer the stilted conversation and heavy silence in the family dining room. 

The housekeeper, Mrs Pluck, might think otherwise though. She viewed you as a servant, and would ignore any requests you made, sending up lunch only for the children, and not you, when your aunt and uncle were out. Making sure you weren’t served dinner in the dining room, instead making you go downstairs and explain to the cook why you hadn’t eaten. Until one day, Amelia, your ten year old cousin, told your aunt about this, and Mrs Pluck was told to make lunch for you too. After that, Mrs Pluck seemed to view you as her mortal enemy, doing anything she could to trip you up. 

Amelia, on her hand, had not told her mother out of the goodness of her heart, rather the opposite. She wanted you gone, as did her eight year old brother Albert. In the interim between their old governess leaving and you arriving to take her place, the children had run wild. Your attempt at making them learn at least the basics were met with protests and complaints. To say that your first winter was trying was an understatement. 

Spring was slow to arrive in these parts, but as the weather dried up, you could at least escape the house while the children had other lessons. The days were still chilly, you’d grown accustomed to breaking the ice on your wash basin in the mornings as your uncle refused to heat the house properly. But despite the cold, you wrapped yourself in layers of wool and escaped into the park, leaving the bleak house behind. 

You had a favourite spot, right at the end of the wooded area and well out of sight from the house. The path led through a thicket of rhododendrons and curved around a small lake, more like a pond really. On the far side of the pond sat a small cottage where no one seemed to live, covered in dark green ivy and climbing roses, all devoid of leaves this early in the spring. Where the path ended was a bench with a view across the lake and to the cottage. Even on the dreariest of days, the spot seemed bright, the weak sunlight of early spring reflecting in the lake’s mirrored surface. 

The first time you saw him, the sound of the cottage front door closing made you jump. The thump echoed across the small lake and you looked up, startled. On the other side a man had just come out of the cottage, a heavy looking axe in one hand. He stopped as he saw you, your eyes meeting briefly before he turned, a deep scowl on his dark face as he stalked away, disappearing from view behind the trees. You lifted your hand to shield your eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of his retreating back, but his long legs took him into the woods and he vanished in moments. Instead you looked at the cottage, it still seemed abandoned but now you saw the thin tendril of smoke rising from the chimney. Whomever he was, it seemed as if he was now living there.  

You returned to your book, but the man had disturbed your peace, his look at you had been so troubling. It was almost as if he disliked you on sight, while you didn’t even know who he was. What could have made him regard you with such aversion? 

With a sigh you closed your book and stood up, your favourite spot suddenly seemed less welcoming. 

It was a few days before you saw him again in the park. The weather had turned milder after two days of rain, and you’d left the children with their riding master. Slowly strolling through the copse of beeches at the far end of the park, reading your book, you didn’t notice the man leaning on his spade, or the ditch he’d dug. 

“Watch where you’re going!” 

The warning came too late as the ground disappeared from underneath your feet, and with a gasp you stumbled forward, just as a hand closed around your arm, pulling you back. 

“Cuidado!” he snapped, his fingers digging into your flesh as he all but shoved you back from the edge of the ditch, “Keep your eyes on where you are going, girl. I won’t explain a broken neck to your uncle.” 

You staggered back, his hand letting go of your arm as the book fell to the ground. 

“Th-thank you,” you stuttered, finding your balance again as the man shook his head with a scowl. 

“If you fall and break your neck or your leg, I’m without a job, so don’t get in my way,” he snarled, snatching the book from the ground and shoving it into your hands, “Now get away from here, go back to your books and keep them indoors.” 

Without a backwards glance he turned and grabbed the spade again and jumped into the ditch. You hesitated for a second, but the man stabbed the dirt with the spade with aggression, and began digging without another word. 

Holding tight to your book, you hurried away. The man’s fingers had left painful imprints on your upper arm, and you rubbed them as you made your way back towards the house, your heart still beating hard in your chest. He had scared you as much as almost falling into the ditch had. The scowl he’d given you had been amplified by dark eyes under his dishevelled mop of black hair and unkempt beard. It made him look foreboding and very dangerous. But what had really frightened you was the scar that marred his face, a wicked looking gash across his left eye. Even to your inexperienced eyes he looked like a man who had fought many battles and lived a hard life. What he did here, working for your uncle, you couldn’t even begin to imagine. His accent had been foreign, and he’d used a word you didn’t recognise when he first shouted at you. With a shudder you tried to calm yourself as you pulled open the heavy back door to the big house. 

The kitchen of the house was the only welcoming room in the place, much thanks to the elderly cook, Mrs Robertson, who ran it with a scullion to help her. Now Mrs Robertson greeted you with a smile, looking up from the dough she was kneading. 

“Hello, dear, you look frozen solid, is it still cold outside?” 

“Hello, Mrs Robertson. No, it’s not too bad, it’s just still cold in the shade,” you replied, unbuttoning your wool coat and hanging it over a chair in the corner. 

“Well, put the kettle on anyway, it’s time for some tea and you do look as if you could do with some warming up.”

She tucked the dough into a clean bowl and washed her hands while you filled the kettle and put it on the hob, stoking the coals to get it going. 

“I ran into a man in the park,” you said, taking down the teapot and cups from the cupboard, “did my uncle take on someone new?” 

“Tall, dark haired fellow with a nasty looking scar?” Mrs Robertson asked and you nodded. “That’s Mr Pero Tovar, he’s the groundskeeper. He’s been away for a bit, he usually is during the winter when there’s less to do. He must’ve returned recently, I haven’t seen him in a bit.” 

“I almost fell into a ditch he was digging but he caught me just in time, gave me a terrible fright.” 

“He will do that to you, poor man,” Mrs Robertson replied, “I met him once coming back late from the train, I was just coming up to the main gate, and he stepped out from the small path there. Nearly gave me a heart attack with the way he looked. But he apologised for scaring me and carried my luggage all the way up to the house,” she sat down at the table as you poured the boiling water into the teapot. 

“He’s not a wholly disagreeable man, even though he’s foreign,” she added as an afterthought, as she made sure you heated up the pot. 

“Do you know where he’s from?” you asked, “He had an accent I couldn’t place.” 

“Spain, I think. He mentioned it once when I asked why he didn’t drink tea. Apparently they prefer coffee there,” she shook her head as if the madness of not drinking tea was too much to imagine. 

You didn’t give the man any more thought, except to keep an eye out to avoid him when you were wandering the park, not wishing to be on the receiving end of one of his scowls again. The weather turned mild and soon daffodils and snowdrops were cropping up and you took the children outside to give them some lessons in botany. They were less than interested, and you soon gave up, letting them play in the stream flowing down towards the small lake while you brought out your sketchbook and began drawing the scene in front of you. The sun was warm, filtering down through the branches that were just starting to show the first hint of green again and you relished being out of doors, away from the house. The weather even felt warm, and you removed your heavy coat, before picking up the sketchbook again. 

The sound of footsteps crunching on last year’s dry leaves made you look up towards the path, only to be met by Mr Tovar’s dark eyes. He was all but marching towards you, a heavy looking tool bag in one hand and several long planks over his shoulder. Just as you thought he was about to scold you for some unknown trespass, he marched right by you with barely a nod, and made his way to the small wooden bridge crossing the stream. 

The bridge was really just a simple row of flat planks attached to logs long since hammered into the mud. The planks were beginning to rot and warp, and you’d kept the children away from it, it didn’t look safe. And Tovar proved you right when he knelt down and ripped the first plank away, the wood coming away in pieces in his hands. Soon he’d measured out the right length, and replaced the first plank with a fresh one, moving on to the next. 

You tried to return to your drawing or keep an eye on the children who were still playing further down the stream, but you kept glancing back at Tovar. Despite his intimidating appearance, or maybe because of it, you were drawn back to watching him as he worked. You weren’t unfamiliar with men, even though you’d grown up only with your mother. But this wasn’t the curious attraction you’d felt as a stable hand smiled at you. This was something else, something that made your eyes drift back to him, leaving your drawing unfinished as you watched him work. 

He had his back to you, a well worn black workman’s shirt stretching tight across his shoulders after he’d shed his jacket. It was mesmerising watching the broad back move and shift as he worked at the stubborn planks, the odd grunt reaching your ears. Hunched down as he was, he seemed to possess immense strength in his large hands, the planks groaning and protesting as he planted his feet wide and pulled. He always won the fight, tossing them behind himself in a careless pile. With an impatient movement he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve and straightened up. As you watched, he unbuttoned the cuff of his left hand and began rolling the shirt up over his forearms, exposing tanned skin dusted with dark hair. Done with one, he rolled up the other one before bending and grabbing the nearest loose plank, throwing it over his shoulder. 

As he turned he suddenly caught your eyes on him, and for a few seconds you were caught in his dark stare, unable to move. Slowly the scowl transformed into a smirk, and you dropped your gaze. From the corner of your eye you could see how he kept staring at you, his mouth pulled into a crooked grin as he seemed to study you in return. You felt your cheeks heat up and you turned away, looking down towards the children. From behind you, you heard him attack the planks again, another one tossed to the pile. 

Needing to remove yourself from the temptation to glance back at him again, you stood up and made your way down to the children. Albert was busy building a dam while Amelia threw rocks at it, he protested loudly while she laughed. 

“Amelia, don’t do that, let him build his dam,” you told her, knowing full well she would ignore you. She only sniggered and picked up another rock from the bottom of the stream, the hem of her dress soaked through. 

“Amelia! Stop that!” you snapped at her as she let the rock fly, narrowly missing her brother’s head as it went over him. 

“No!” she laughed, while Albert yelled at her, “I want to make him wet!”

“You’re ruining it! Albert hollered, as Amelia’s next rock hit the sticks and splintered his carefully constructed dam. With an angry roar he leaped for her but she easily jumped out of the way, laughing as she took off up the stream towards the bridge with Albert behind her. With a sigh you followed. You at least had to try to make them not kill each other. 

Pero stood up as the children came racing up the bank, Amelia laughing loudly as Albert yelled at her. When they spotted the tall man scowling at them, they both stumbled to a stop, looking up at him while you caught up behind them. Pero glanced over at you and then back at the children. 

“You should listen to your governess,” he said and gave Amelia a stern look, “And do not throw rocks at your brother.” 

But Amelia was not about to listen to the groundskeeper either. With an arrogant look on her face she put a hand on her hips and sniggered. 

“My father says you got that scar in prison. I think it makes you look like Quasimodo,” she smirked, pointing at Mr Tovar’s face as Albert started laughing. 

“Amelia!” you snapped, horrified at her behaviour. Mr Tovar’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline for a second before returning into a deep scowl. 

“Little girl,” he said, his voice low and serious, “you should not mock strangers.” 

“You’re not a stranger,” Amelia replied as Albert continued to giggle next to her, “you’re father’s groundskeeper, and you have to do as we say or he’ll send you back to prison with that ugly scar.” 

She was puffing her chest out as much as her scrawny ten year old frame would allow, and you could already see her mother’s haughty manners in the look she was giving Mr Tovar. He looked at her with a furrowed brow, his dark eyes almost hidden under his eyebrows, a dangerous sneer on his lips.  

“Amelia, that is enough,” you said, grabbing her arm and pulling her around, “you should be ashamed of yourself, apologise to Mr Tovar right now.” 

“No!” she yelled at you, struggling to pull free from your grip on her arm. 

“Amelia, you will apologise to Mr Tovar or I will tell your father how you have misbehaved.” 

“No!” she yelled again, and Albert joined in, yelling “No!” at the top of his lungs as Amelia continued to fight against your grip. Suddenly she lashed out and slapped you right across your cheek, and in shock you let go of her arm. The two children took off at a run, back towards the house, while you stood rooted to the spot, your left cheek stinging. 

Pero scoffed and came up to you, dropping the plank he’d been holding. 

“Delightful creatures,” he said, the sarcasm dripping from his voice as he looked down at you. With a surprisingly gentle touch, he took hold of your chin and tilted it to the light, examining the place where the slap had landed. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked and you nodded. 

“It stings,” you replied and he let go of your chin, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. 

“Come here,” he said, walking over to the stream and pointing at a flat rock just by the edge. He dipped the kerchief in the water and wrung it out as you sat down on the rock. His touch was gentle when he pressed the folded cloth to your cheek, the cool fabric soothing your skin. He held it to your face while he looked at you, and you realised his dark eyes weren’t really black, but a rich brown colour, much warmer than you’d first thought. And when he looked at you now, they even held some sympathy. 

“Why do you let them treat you like that?” he asked, the lilting accent in his voice less harsh now as he carefully refolded the kerchief, pressing another cool side to your skin.

“I have no power over them, and they know it. My aunt and uncle detest that I’m here, that they had to take me in. But I have nowhere else to go, so I put up with them until I can find some other family to work for.” 

“They will grow up into nasty adults,” he replied, “I hope you find a new family soon.” 

Pero dipped the kerchief in the water again and placed it back on your cheek, his hand still holding it in place and he was very close, closer than you’d ever been to any man that wasn’t in your family. You found you had to drop your eyes from his face, it was too intimidating to have him look at you like that. 

“Thank you, I can hold it myself,” you said, lifting your hand to take the kerchief. But he shook his head. 

“I’m keeping pressure on it so that it won’t swell up too much, although it will be tender for a few days.” 

He continued to keep his hand on your cheek, folding the cloth again and placing the cool side to your cheek. You glanced up at him, his face still close to yours, and found that he looked less scary now. The scar still added a grim element to his face, but despite the serious set of his mouth, his scowl had disappeared. 

“How do you know my name?” he asked, dipping the kerchief in the stream again. 

“Mrs Robertson told me, she told me you’ve recently returned as my uncle’s groundskeeper,” you replied, and his lips curled up in a small smile. 

“She is a good woman,” he said, “and she’s right. I returned a few weeks ago. I was away for the winter.” 

You wanted to ask where he’d been, if Amelia was right about him being in prison, but you didn’t want to break the spell of the moment. Instead you glanced down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes any longer. Tovar was crouched in front of you, and you saw how his trousers were worn and patched not only over the knees. His boots were mended and patched too, and the collar of his shirt was frayed. You realised as you took in the details of the man, that it looked as if he was living, or at least had lived, a hard and poor life. 

Pero dipped the cloth again, but this time he handed it to you. 

“Here, keep it pressed to your cheek while you go back to the house. And see if Mrs Robertson can give you some ice.” 

He stood up as you took the cloth, and then he held out his hand for you, to help you to your feet. You hesitated for a moment, looking up at him as he stood towering above you, with his hand out. He raised his eyebrows in question, and you found yourself again, putting your hand in his and letting him pull you up. He let go as soon as you were steady, but the warmth of his hand lingered in yours, the rough calluses of his palm imprinted on your skin and you realised it was not an unpleasant feeling. 

“Thank you, Mr Tovar,” you said, giving him a small smile, “I’ll make sure you get your kerchief back soon.” 

Tovar gave you a small nod, his dark eyes burning your cheeks as the corner of his mouth pulled up in smirk. 

“My pleasure, señorita.” 

You felt his hand in yours the whole way back to the house, it was a strange feeling. He was a coarse and angry man, he frightened you a little, although not as much as before. But yet the way his hand had felt on your chin, the way his eyes had been such a warm, brown colour up close, it seemed to linger in your mind. 

Mrs Robertson only rolled her eyes when you told her what had happened, giving you ice from the cold storage for your cheek. 

“And there’s no use telling your uncle about Miss Amelia’s behaviour,” she added, shaking her head, “She has him wrapped around her little finger.” 

You agreed with her, and said nothing to your aunt or uncle. But you didn’t take the children out into the garden any more. Instead you took refuge there yourself when you had time. More often than not, you went down to the bench by the small lake opposite his cottage. You hoped you’d see Mr Tovar, but he never seemed to be there. Instead you saw him from a distance as he went about various jobs in the park, always too far away to say something and he never looked in your direction. 

Until one day. 

Weeks had passed and summer had arrived and you had more time on your hands than what you knew what to do with. The family had left the house and travelled to the south of France for the summer. You had been told you would not be allowed to go, something that suited you well, even though your aunt expected you to be deeply upset by this. Both she and Amelia had hinted that you would be missing out on a world of amusements, but you didn’t have it in you to care. To be away from the family, to not have to deal with the children, that would be your holiday. 

Mrs Pluck had made it her mission to make your life in the house as miserable as possible and to escape her, you disappeared into the gardens for hours. On rainy days you asked Mrs Robinson to enlist you in the kitchen so that Mrs Pluck couldn’t accuse you of shying away from work. But it was a fine summer and most days you found a nook in the garden and read or drew. 

He found you down by the stream one day. The air was warm, especially for England, and you’d unlaced your boots and sat down on the bridge he’d repaired. With your feet in the cool, peaty, water you’d disappeared into your book, Mr Darcy declaring his love to Elisabeth for probably the twentieth time. 

Unbeknownst to you, Pero paused at the edge of the clearing as he spotted you, stopping in his stride to take in the peaceful scene you’d created in one of his favourite spots. The dappled sunlight danced across the stream, the gentle babble of the flowing water disguising the sound of his footsteps and he paused by the last tree of woods, the scene too tranquil to disturb. As he watched, you turned a page in the heavy book and pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling at whatever you were reading. 

Pero would be the last person to admit it, even to himself, but he’d spent too much time thinking about your smile in the past few weeks. He was a man used to being on his own and didn’t pay much attention to the world around him unless it was threatening him or presenting an opportunity. The smiles of pretty women was not something he lingered on, mainly because the only women who smiled at him were the kind he had to pay to get. He knew his appearance, not just the scar, but his darker skin and guarded face, put off the women he met, and not just the women. So he’d arranged his features into a scowl that kept them all at bay, unless they needed him for a job. 

And this governess, he’d seen how you’d been frightened by him when you nearly stumbled into the ditch, and he’d dismissed you as one of the many women who took one look at him and baulked. But then he’d sensed your eyes on him as he worked on the bridge, seen your shy, awkward gaze when he caught you looking at him, no fear in your eyes. And the children were as cruel to you as to him, but you had to put up with them to keep your place in the house, to keep a roof over your head. You were a better person then he was, he would’ve struck the girl and thrown her into the stream. Instead, you’d stood there in shock as the children ran off, your hand on your stinging cheek. And he’d suddenly found himself pitying you, a creature too gentle to fit into the family of vipers that ruled the house. 

Before he’d even really considered it, he’d taken out his handkerchief and taken upon himself to soothe your swollen cheek. Your eyes had looked up at him with surprise and trepidation, but like the lamb, you’d followed him to the edge of the stream and sat down when he told you to. You really were too gentle and trusting for this world he thought, too innocent. He would’ve, should’ve, dismissed you easily, you were not his responsibility, not someone he needed to consider at all.  

But then you’d taken his hand and smiled as you thanked him, and he found, painfully, that you were not easy to dismiss, no matter how hard he tried. Instead your smile lingered in his mind, the spark it brought to your eyes, and how soft it made your features, matched only by the way your hand felt in his for the brief moment you held it. He’d never felt the urge to protect anyone else but himself before, but like a wolf turned guard dog, he suddenly felt the need to shield you, stay by your side and keep you safe. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and he’d pushed it aside, burying it deep inside. 

The next day he’d found his kerchief wrapped in a brown paper package on his doorstep. Clean and ironed, with a small sprig of lavender tucked between its folds. It was somehow now the prettiest thing he owned, and he couldn’t bring himself to use it again. Instead it stayed on his dresser, the lavender spreading its delicate scent around the room where it rested on the neatly folded fabric. Whenever he walked past the lavender shrubs in the garden, he thought of you, your smile seemed to live on at the forefront of his mind. 

He didn’t like how you made him feel, he didn’t want to feel like he needed to protect anyone but himself. If you were that weak and feeble, let you fend for yourself like he always had. It had made him strong and hard, he had no need for anyone and no one would treat him like those children had treated you. He avoided the lavender shrubs, and the spots where you often sat, making sure to never acknowledge you when he saw you in the distance. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from glancing across the pond every morning when he left the cottage, only to find the bench empty. You never seemed to return to that spot.  

But now he stood at the edge of the woods, watching you turn another page, and smile again. He didn’t want to disturb you, didn’t want to see you smile at him again, didn’t want to see the softness of your eyes as they locked on to him and made his heart rage against anyone who hurt you. And at the same time, he knew he wanted you to notice him, to turn your head and smile at him instead of that book, to bring him to his knees and make him feel needed by you. He would be your guard dog for the rest of his miserable life if you only smiled at him. 

He felt it all battle inside him as he stood by the sturdy tree, a hand on its rough bark, one foot twitching to move forward, the jerk of the other to turn back. And maybe he made a twig snap, loud enough to make you lift your head from the book and turn, meeting his eyes as he tried to decide what to do. 

“Mr Tovar,” you said, and you’d made the decision for him. He felt his feet move, towards the bridge, before he’d decide anything. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I left the kerchief by your door,” you said, looking at him as he stopped by the edge of the bridge. 

“I found it,” Pero replied, his large hands twitching by his side, “You didn’t need to clean it, but thank you.” 

He shifted his weight, testing the new planks he’d laid down, pretending to inspect them while you continued to look up at him. 

“How’s the-” he started just as you spoke. 

“Thank you again fo-” 

“Sorry,” you immediately apologised, “you first, Mr Tovar.” 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he replied, “How is your cheek?” 

His voice was gruff, but his scowl was less this morning as he looked at your cheek. The skin had bruised but the swelling had disappeared after just a day. You put your hand on your cheek as if to feel the texture of the skin. 

“It’s fine, the bruise has disappeared and there is no pain, probably thanks to your quick thinking.” 

“I bet the little lady had no punishment for her actions,” he growled, bending his knees and dropping onto his haunches. He gently took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, just like had the day it happened, and tilted your head to the side, inspecting the flawless skin. 

“No, I never told her uncle anything,” you replied, “What would be the point? It would probably only get me into trouble instead.” 

Pero dropped his hand from your chin, your eyes weren’t on him anymore and he chided himself for acting on the impulse to touch you again. He could feel the guard dog in him bristle at your words, at the way you’d so easily let Miss Amelia get away with her actions. He would not have let her even speak to you the way she did, let alone strike you. 

You dropped your gaze back to the open book in your hands, your feet still dangling in the cool water. Pero knew he should stand up, go back to his cottage, and continue to stay away, to push any thought of you to the back of his mind. Tell the guard dog in his chest to ignore the woman in front of him, you were not his to protect. 

But instead he found his voice and spoke. 

“What are you reading, señorita?” 

You looked at him in surprise, why was he interested in your book? But the gaze that met yours was curious, despite the serious set his jaw still held. 

“Pride & Prejudice, by Jane Austen,” you replied, showing him the spine of the book. It was a well worn copy, a gift from your mother many years ago, “Have you read it?” 

“No,” came his swift reply, almost as if he was scoffing at the thought of reading such a book. 

“Well, it’s very good, it’s probably my favourite,” you said, looking back down at the book, stroking the front cover with a gentle touch, “I’ve read it many times."

“Why?” he asked and as you looked up at him, his eyebrows pulled together in a questioning look, incredulous even. 

“Why not?” you retorted, “It’s a good story, I enjoy the characters, and every time I read it I discover something new, a detail I hadn’t thought about. Have you never re-read a good book?” 

“Never,” he said, and this time he did scoff and you wrinkled your nose at him, looking back at your book and opening it up to the page you’d been on. 

“Well, maybe you should try it sometime, it’s a good experience to revisit things you like.” 

Pero could sense he’d offended you in some way, and yet again he was drawn in two directions by his mind, he should stand up, leave you to your book. 

“I never learnt how to read,” he said instead, regretting the words the second they came out of his treacherous mouth. He felt heat rise up his neck as he cursed himself. He’d never admitted to anyone that he couldn’t read, even though he’d learned a whole new language as an adult. Just repeat what others said, it was easy. Interpreting the little symbols on pages, whether in Spanish or in English, proved impossible in both languages. But so desperate was his mind to stay connected to you, that not even his deepest secrets seemed safe when he was in your presence. 

Now it was your turn to look surprised as you closed the book again. The scowl on his face was back, like he was expecting your mockery as his neck flushed a deep crimson. 

“That’s a shame,” you said, your voice small. You felt as if he would be very angry with you if you pitied him or accidentally made him feel inferior, his deep scowl still frightened you as he waited for your reaction to his confession. 

“Reading makes me very happy, and it opens up new worlds,” you continued carefully, “There are some great stories by incredible writers, they really make me see what they are describing and make me feel so much. I hope you can experience that some day, if you learn to read.” 

Pero dropped his gaze, down to his hands, and sank down onto the bridge, sitting down next to you as he shook his head. He saw the softness in you again, that gentleness that made the guard dog in him spring to life. He wanted to protect you, even against himself, didn’t want to frighten you. So he looked at his large hands, dirty from the soil and rough with callouses and tried to make his voice less harsh, his features less abrasive.

“I’m too old to learn how to read now, I was never able to do it in Spanish or English, what use is it to try now? Just tell me what your incredible book is about.” 

“I’m sure you could learn if you had a good teacher, Mr Tovar,” you said, but he just rubbed at the dirt on his hands and furrowed his brow as he shook his head in response. 

“Better you tell me what your book is about, then I don’t have to learn how to read,” he replied, keeping his voice low. What was he doing? He should not talk to you, he could already feel his heart pounding in an unfamiliar way, small tendrils reaching out towards you. 

“It’s…it’s about a woman called Elizabeth Bennet. Her family wants her to marry a man for his money, but she wants to marry only for love. But to her, all the men she meets are fools, none are worthy of her. Then she meets Mr Darcy, and she’s too prejudiced against men to see that he would be a good match for her. And he, on his end, is too proud to admit that a woman of a lower class than him could provide him with the kind of marriage that would make him happy. Both of them are bound by social expectations and restraints. But it has a happy ending,” you smiled at Mr Tovar who was watching you speak with curiosity, “I know it has a happy ending but I’m still nervous every time I read it.” 

“Do you wish to marry for love?” he asked, “Is that why it’s your favourite story?” 

His gaze made your cheeks heat up, it wasn’t the question you’d expected, and his deep brown eyes seemed to see through to your soul and see the true answer that lay there. 

You shrugged, looking down at the water rushing over your feet, to hide yourself from his eyes. 

“I very much doubt I’ll ever marry, for love or not. I’m a governess, I have no money and won’t inherit any either. If someone would want to marry me, they’d get nothing for it anyway. And what’s to say that he is someone I want to marry? Then I’d rather be like Lizzy and not marry at all, because I doubt there is a Mrd Darcy waiting for me.” 

Pero watched you, as you watched the water slip around your bare feet, the guard dog growling in his chest. 

“Any man would be fortunate to marry you, señorita,” he said, “just make sure you love him before you say yes to him.” 

He stood up suddenly, it almost made you jump it was so sudden, and was halfway across the small bridge before you had the sense to speak up. 

“Mr Tovar, will you let me teach you how to read?” 

He stopped in his tracks, turning back to you with a look that confused you and almost made you regret your spur of the moment question. His jaw ticked to the side, he glanced back down the path where he was heading, and his fingers twitched. But his eyes looked almost hopeful, like a light had been lit inside him. But then he sighed and closed his eyes, his head dropping down on his chest with a muttered string of words you didn’t understand, you knew he’d say no to your offer. 

“Señorita, if you want to waste your time on a hopeless case, who am I to say no?” 

“Really?” 

His reply surprised you so much that the book almost slipped from your hand, and you quickly placed it on the bridge behind you as he took a few steps back to you and nodded. 

“Who else is going to offer to teach me? I’d be a fool to turn you down, even though I doubt you can even teach this dog to read.” 

“Don’t say that about yourself, Mr Tovar,” you gently scolded him, “I’m sure we’ll get you reading in no time.” 

“Pero,” he said, a small smile softening his features as he held out his hand to you. “Don’t call me ‘Mr Tovar’ if you’re to teach me, señorita.” 

“Pero,” you replied, trying to roll the name around your tongue the way he did. It felt nice, unfamiliar in the way it sounded, but it suited him, and the way his harsh features changed when he smiled, was reward enough for your attempt. 

“Maybe I’ll teach you Spanish while you teach me to read,” he chuckled, a warm sound from him as you took his outstretched hand and shook it.

“Tomorrow at ten, at the bench by your cottage?” you asked and he nodded in agreement. 

“Tomorrow at ten.” 

Meeting Mr Tovar, no, Pero, you corrected yourself, quickly became the favourite part of your day. The summer was fine and most days dry, so you brought your books to the bench every morning at ten, and remained with him until you had to go back to the house for lunch and he had to take care of his groundskeeper duties. 

It quickly became clear to you that Pero’s biggest obstacle was his own belief that he wasn’t able to learn how to read. Once he’d cracked the code, he seemed to rehearse the alphabet every chance he got and soon he made his way through your easiest book. He read out loud, his finger following along in the text and he sounded out every letter before he put them into words, but he was reading for the first time. It was also the first time you saw him smile properly, a wide grin on his face as he correctly sounded out and deciphered his first word on the page without your help. 

Seeing Pero slowly gain confidence in his new found skill made you happy and satisfied and for a while you pretended that was the only reason you enjoyed your lessons with him. But you knew, because of the way your heart felt when you saw him, that that wasn’t the only reason you enjoyed teaching him. Far from it you had to admit. The lessons had been only an hour at first, you knew that it became hard for any pupil to focus after an hour. And at first you’d said your goodbyes and left when that hour was up. But then Pero offered to teach you some Spanish, and soon your hour had stretched into three while he asked you about your life, and he slowly told you about his. The man who had seemed so frightening at first, so angry and intimidating, was now the one thing that made your life at Yotes Castle bearable, even enjoyable. 

Little by little you saw more of the man behind the facade he’d held in place for so long. Carefully you asked questions about the things that seemed to shape the way he was now, and his eyes would go black, painful memories forcing themselves to the surface. But he always seemed to overcome it, choosing to share even the more grim parts of his life with you when it didn’t make you pull back from him in revulsion. 

“I was a good soldier,” he said, “but the only reward for a good soldier is to stay alive and be sent into battle again. I made as little money as the man driving carriages in the streets and less than the man who sold groceries to the army. So when I could, I left the army and sought work as a mercenary. There is no honour in it, but at least it kept my belly full and I could choose my own master and make a bit of money.” 

Pero shrugged, hunched over with his arms on his knees, his shoulders by his ears and looking out over the small lake in front of the bench, while you looked at his strong profile, the light hitting the scar across his face. It used to look nasty and mean to you, now it seemed to be a part of him as much as his dark brown eyes, just a mark of the hard life he’d lived before coming here. 

“I did things as a mercenary that I’m not proud of,” he said, his eyes still on the lake, “I’ve killed more men than I can remember. Most of them I just forget in the heat of the battle, others…they stay with me and I can see their faces sometimes. But I did it to stay alive, it was me or them, and someone was going to make that gold and it might as well be me. Better I kill the men who needed killing and let some poor boy from London keep his sanity and his life while I make the gold.” 

He turned his head and looked up at your face, half expecting you to be grimacing in distaste at his greed, but you just met his eyes with a concerned look. 

“You’ve seen so many terrible things, Pero. It makes me worry for you.” 

“Worry for how I sleep at night?” he asked, quirking his eyebrows at you with a slightly mocking tone. But you shook your head. 

“Maybe, but I worry about how you think the world always sees you. Those you meet here don’t know about your background, and don’t judge you for what they don’t know, yet you assume they do, and scowl at us all even when we-” 

“Even when you’re just a lonely governess trying to be polite?” Pero interrupted and you had to smile at him. 

“Yes, even when that. I was frightened of you after our first meeting, you looked so menacing and seemed very angry with me.” 

“Querida, I was never angry with you,” he said, his voice low and smiling as he sat up straight again and turned to you. 

“I know that now,” you smiled back at him, “but that’s what worries me about you. Maybe you are missing out on friendship when your past always makes you think that the world will judge you harshly.” 

“You became friends with me,” he replied, “maybe that’s all I need?” 

“You need only me as a friend? You’re settling for very little, Pero,” you scoffed, but still smiling at him. 

Pero shook his head, “Querida, you’re selling yourself for very little if you think that your friendship isn’t worth everything.” 

His words made your cheeks heat up, and for a few long moments you felt lost in the way he was still looking at you, his face serious and his dark eyes locked on yours. When you finally managed to pull yourself away, you looked down at your hands, rubbing at an ink stain on your thumb. Beside you Pero shifted, suddenly leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to your temple before he stood up. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, mi amorcita.” 

The kiss lingered long after he’d disappeared, your fingers finding the spot as you walked back to the house. You wished he’d continued, but you weren’t sure with what. 

“I was never in prison,” he told you one day, “well, not a real prison anyway,” he added with a smirk. “I was in China, working as a mercenary, and there was a misunderstanding. They put me in a cell but another mercenary got me out, he was good friends with the General, luckily.” 

“You’ve seen so much of the world, Pero, I’ve only ever been to London and here,” you replied, “What was China like?” 

“Interesting, and very different. Their language is very different from both English and Spanish. With English, I can recognise some of the words, with Chinese, nothing made sense,” he took the pencil from your hand and drew a strange symbol in the notebook. 

“That is the sign for gunpowder, I learnt it while I was there, important to know so that you don’t accidentally light a pipe next to it.” 

“That says ‘gunpowder’?” you asked incredulously as you looked at the seemingly disorganised lines he’d jotted on the page and Pero nodded. 

“They write words with pictures instead of letters, one of them explained it to me. And even I could tell the difference between our letters and their symbols. And my friend, who could read, couldn't interpret it at all, he said it looked nothing like anything he could read.” 

“I can see why,” you said, tracing the lines with your finger, “I see no similarity with our letters at all.” 

“I hope you get the opportunity to see more of the world one day, señorita, there is a lot more to it than just London and this miserable castle,” Pero huffed. The more you’d told him about your life, the more his anger had grown at the way your uncle was treating you, and letting his children and wife treat you. It made no difference of course, Pero was just the groundskeeper, and a foreigner at that. But it was nice to have someone on your side, someone as strong and intimidating looking as Pero, to tell you that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

“Maybe you can show me some day, Pero,” you said, the words slipping out before you’d fully considered them and you felt your cheeks heat up in a flash. Pero gave you a quick grin. 

“You wish to travel with the ill-famed Spaniard, a mercenary and dirty foreigner?” he laughed, “What would your uncle say?” 

“To hell with my uncle,” you giggled, it felt deliciously reckless to say it out loud, “To hell with him!”

Pero smiled at your glee, it was good to see you happy and dreaming of something other than your life at Yotes Castle. 

Two fat drops of water suddenly splashed down onto the page and you both looked up at the sky. Dark clouds had gathered above and now it was starting to come down hard, the first two drops quickly joined by many others. With a groan you realised you’d be soaked by the time you got back to the house, you had no umbrella with you, and your thin summer coat would not withstand this downpour. But Pero had already sprung into action with other plans, with a few quick movements he gathered up the books and notes from your lesson and held his hand out to you. 

“Come, quickly, we’ll run to my cottage until this is over.”

Without thinking, you took his warm hand and it closed around yours as he pulled you along at a brisk pace around the small lake. He kicked the door open and ushered you inside just as the downpour really started. Standing together at the entrance of his cottage, you watched the world turn liquid and grey in seconds. 

“Well, I guess that’s the end of summer then,” you said, peering into the gloom. 

“It will clear soon,” Pero replied, “but it will be wet for a while. Let me hang your coat up to dry, querida.” 

You’d told Pero your name, but he rarely used it, instead he’d continued to call you ‘señorita’ and explained what it meant. But as your lessons continued, he’d slipped into calling you ‘querida’ instead and you hadn’t yet had the bravery to ask him what it meant. It felt more intimate than miss, his choice to use it seemed to correlate with the deepening of your friendship, when reading lessons turned into longer conversations about your lives. Just giving him lessons, spending time alone with an unmarried man in secluded corners of the park, felt exhilaratingly dangerous. You hadn’t even told Mrs Robertson about it. But to acknowledge that you had more than just cordial feelings towards him, or that he might even have them too, that was an even more frightening thought that you shoved to the back of your mind and refused to entertain. It was an impossible scenario, your uncle would never allow his groundskeeper to court his niece.  

It was hard to keep that thought at bay here though. When he helped you shrug out of your coat, his fingertips brushed over the back of your neck as he took your scarf too, the gentle touch burning your skin. His touch seemed to linger a few more moments than needed, but you thought you’d happily stand still in his small hallway for days, if it meant you could continue to feel the warmth from his hands on your skin.

And Pero felt it too, the velvety smoothness of your skin, the warmth of your body as he stood just a little bit too close for just a little bit too long. He inhaled quietly, catching the scent of your soap, and took a reluctant step back, taking the coat with him. 

He hadn’t lit the fire this morning, but now he hung your coat over a rack and busied himself with the kindling while you looked around the modest house. The cottage was old, the stone walls thick, and you could tell not many of the items here belonged to Pero. You moved among the few items as the fire came to life, its crackling filling the room. You let your fingers brush over the sprig of lavender that lay on top of the still neatly folded handkerchief, a comb lying next to it along with a small sharp knife that you guessed he used to trim his hair and beard. 

A photograph caught your attention and you moved to stand in front of it. It stood propped up against the wall on the dresser, a simple portrait of two men. They were dressed in uniforms and looked with serious faces into the camera. You recognised a much younger Pero, his face smooth but still covered by his patchy beard, and no scar across his eye. The other man looked older and was light haired and as tall as Pero. 

“My friend William,” Pero said, coming up behind you and seeing what had caught your attention, “We were friends and mercenaries together, he’s the one who saved me in China.” 

“Where is he now?” you asked, picking up the photograph and studying the fair haired man.

“He met a woman and settled down, took a job with her father, helping them run the farm,” Pero replied, and yet again he was standing so close behind you that you felt the heat from his body through the layers of your own clothes. 

“It’s a good job for an old mercenary, he seemed very happy when I last saw him.” 

“Would you rather be a farmer than a groundskeeper?” you asked and Pero nodded. 

“Yes, if I found a woman who had a farm I could help run. But like your Elizabeth Bennett, I wouldn’t want to marry just for convenience.” 

“You want to marry for love?” you turned around surprised, looking up at him. He’d never struck you as a romantic. His demeanour towards you may have softened slightly, but his outer layer was still very much that of the scowling, dark minded man who’d rather the world just left him alone. Seeing him as someone who wished to marry a woman for love made you see him in a new light, maybe another crack in the facade he was slowly letting you through. 

Pero gave you a shrug and shook his head. 

“I don’t know, I don’t think I’d ever be fortunate to marry for love so I never considered marrying at all.” 

“But if you fell in love, you’d want to marry?” you asked and Pero gave you a humourless laugh. 

“Señorita, does it even matter if I’d want to marry at all? For love or for convenience, no one will marry an old mercenary, a piss poor old soldier, who thoroughly dislikes and distrusts the world.”

His face pulled up in a twisted grimace of a smile as he turned away from you and picked up the kettle on the clean scrubbed table. 

“Do you dislike me too?” you asked, placing the photo of Pero and his friend back on the dresser and moving over to the fire, “And distrust me?”

“Querida, no, of course not,” he replied, his eyebrows shooting up in concern, “I didn’t mean you, I’m sorry if you thought that.” 

He came to stand next to you by the fire, his dark eyes suddenly more concerned than you’d seen them before, searching yours to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently made you regret the friendship that the two of you had built up over the past few weeks. 

“I’d hate for you to think that I don’t trust you,” he said, “I’m glad you’re my friend and I hope you don’t regret the time you’ve spent teaching this old soldier to read.” 

You shook your head and without thinking, put your hand out and took his, stroking your thumb over the rough knuckles. 

“I don’t regret it at all, and I’m glad you trust me. You’re the first friend I’ve made since I came here and you’ve made this summer much better than I could ever have hoped. How could I regret the time I’ve spent with you?” 

Relief seemed to flood his features, his dark eyes turning warm in the glow of the fire light as he smiled and wrapped his fingers around yours. 

“I’m pleased to hear it, querida, our lessons are the best part of my day.” 

You smiled back at him, his hand, calloused and rough as it was, sent a delighted shiver through your limbs, fighting back the urge to step closer to him, to envelop more of yourself in the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. 

“Can I confess something, Pero?” you asked with a small smile and Pero nodded in reply, one eyebrow lifted in question, “My favourite part isn’t the lesson, but the time we spend talking about everything else afterwards. All your stories make me feel like I’ve seen more of the world because of you.” 

“I wish I could show you all of it,” he smiled in response, “maybe one day I’ll come back with a fortune and be able to take you with me on my travels,” he was smiling and he didn’t let go of your hand, still holding on, and now he was the one stroking your fingers, letting his thumb trace your knuckles, gliding up so that he felt the faint thrum of your pulse under the thin skin of your wrist. 

But you felt your heart twist at his words, you hadn’t even considered that he would leave. 

“You’re leaving?” you asked, the small moment of standing close to him, alone in his cottage shattered, and you pulled your hand from his. He had no obligation to you, no commitment, but it suddenly felt like he was breaking a promise. 

“After the summer, yes,” he said, the smile falling from his face when you let go of his hand, he reached out for yours for a split second, as if he wanted to stop you from pulling away, but thought better of it, “There’s not enough work for me through the winter so your uncle won’t pay to keep me on. I go south and find what work I can.” 

“Do you always come back in the spring?” you asked, the very thought of spending winter here without Pero making your heart sink into the pit of your stomach. Last winter had been torturous, the only thing making you not dread the coming winter was the thought of Pero and continuing to meet him. 

“I come back if I have to,” Pero replied, regret lacing his voice, “If I can’t find better work over the warm season, I come up here. Your uncle prefers hiring someone he already knows, and he’s prepared to pay a bit extra for it, so the wage is decent.” 

“But you might not come back next spring? And you’ll be away all winter?” 

Pero felt his treasonous heart clench when he saw the disappointment in your eyes. He’d tried very hard to see you as the teacher, a teacher who’d become his friend. Convincing himself that the guard dog that growled in his chest was only raising its hackles because a friend was being treated badly by the family that employed you both. Not because he had any deeper feelings for you, any feeling of love, he did not fall in love he told himself, he kept his heart from feeling anything more than friendship. 

But now his heart ached at the dismay he saw in your eyes, and he clenched his fists, digging his broken, dirty, nails in to his palms to stop himself from pulling you back to him, pulling you into his arms and telling you he wouldn’t leave, not without taking you with him. 

“Querida…” he mumbled, “I simply don’t know if I’ll be back next spring. But I promise, if you’re still here, I will do my best to return.” 

“I’ll miss you,” you said quietly as Pero carefully reached out and took your hand in his again, a small gesture of consolation, “Last winter was dreary and miserable but it will be worse now when this summer has been so nice.” 

You looked down at your hand in his, his golden, tanned fingers wrapping around yours, the back of his hand criss crossed by small scars. You’d seen them before and asked him about them, he’d let you trace your fingertips over them, seeing the evidence of the hard life he’d lived as a mercenary, while he’d kept his eyes on you. Now you did the same again, memorising each line, committing to memory how his skin felt under your fingers, the warmth, the sparse dark hairs that made his hands look so different to your own. 

Pero watched how you caressed his rough hands, hands he knew had been covered by more blood and grime that he wished to remember. So many lives ended by the movements they could perform. You knew about it all, you’d made him speak openly about the darkest memories his mind held, you knew these hands were capable of unimaginable violence. Yet you ran your soft fingers over the scars again, not pulling back from the man he was, no longer frightened by his violence, his scowl, the facade he knew he kept between himself and everyone. The way you looked at him, open, smiling, it made his heart do things he didn’t think were possible, feel light and buoyant, a small crack opening up. 

His hand moved without his consent, carefully coming up to your face, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing across it as you lifted your head and looked at him. 

“I’ll miss you too,” he whispered, barely recognising his own voice, his hand still softly caressing your cheek as you leaned your head against his palm, your eyes closing with a soft exhale. 

His heart soared in his chest.  

He thinks he moved first, but the warmth of your body was pressed against him before the thought had crossed his mind, your mouth so close and turned up towards him. When his lips touched yours, a small sigh escaped you, the warm air brushing over his bristly moustache. Your hand closed tight around his, holding onto him as if to stop him from leaving, but Pero knew nothing could make him step back now. He pulled you closer instead and pressed himself to you, a low, satisfied growl coming from deep inside his tight chest.

His lips were warm and tender against yours, the sensation so much softer than you’d ever imagined. He gently caressed your cheek, moving his lips against yours as you took in the sensation of being pressed so close to him. With your eyes closed, every movement and sound seemed heightened to your senses; the light scratch of Pero’s moustache, the calluses on his hand rough against your cheek, his other hand moving, wrapping around your waist, warm and firm against the small of your back as he held you close, the small gasp of breath from you when he left your lips for a moment to angle his head and capture them again, deepening the kiss.

You’d never been kissed like this, only experiencing chaste, dry kisses pressed to your cheek by your mother. Now Pero moved his lips against yours, gentle and firm, in ways you’d never felt before. He held you close, your whole body pressed against him as he took your bottom lip between his, giving it a gentle tug. It pulled a whimper from you, heat shooting through your body, and you felt your knees buckle as the sensation overwhelmed your senses. Pero tightened his grip on you, but pulled back a little, looking down at your closed eyes, your lips parted as you caught your breath. 

“Mi vida…” he breathed softly, “open your eyes.” 

You looked up at him, his dark brown gaze so permissive, more tender and open than you’d ever seen him before. 

“The rain has stopped,” he said, his voice still low, “you should go before they send someone to find you.” He didn’t think anyone would come looking for you for hours yet, but his grip on propriety was weakening.

You nodded, but neither of you made a move to break apart, Pero’s arm was still holding you firmly pressed to his solid body, his hand on your cheek. Your hands had entwined in his shirt, holding it as if it kept you from falling. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” you murmured, your eyes slipping to his lips, wanting to feel him on you again. 

“I’m not leaving for many weeks yet, querida,” he  replied, his hand leaving your cheek to push a strand of hair away from your face, “And many things can happen between now and next spring.” 

“Please kiss me again,” you asked, “Just in case,” and your cheeks heated up at your boldness, as he smiled at you, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a grin. 

“Anytime, mi amorcita.” 

He sent you on your way after another long, lingering kiss. He’d parted his lips, let his tongue come out to carefully taste you, his hand on your jaw prompting you to slowly open your mouth and taste him in return. The sensation was strange, almost too intimate, your already burning cheeks heated up even more and it made you shy, stilling your kiss. Pero had pulled back, pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth and smiled at you again. 

“Your kisses are like the sweetest wine, querida,” he said, slowly letting you go, “and a hundred times more addictive.”  

Your heart beat a new rhythm as you walked back to the house, thrumming in your chest, as your lips felt hot and tender, still imprinted by Pero’s kisses. Whatever measures you’d taken to protect your heart had proven worthless, the man who only a few weeks ago had seemed so intimidating and frightening, had become your friend through the lessons. After the afternoon’s events...your heart seemed to both ache and soar when you thought of him. This was an impossible situation, an impossible man to fall for, yet you knew it was too late to pretend, to hide the truth from yourself. 

You were hopelessly in love with Pero. 

But Pero felt fear grip his heart as he watched you walk away from his cottage. The guard dog in his chest growled and clawed at his innards, making them sting with guilt and dread. This was foolish, the most foolish idea, why had he let it go this far? Why had he kissed you, not once, but twice? Why had he not tempered his heart to this weeks ago? But your presence in his cottage, your upset when realised he’d be leaving and may not return, confessing that you’d miss him, it had broken down all of his carefully laid plans to only be your friend. It was reckless to kiss you, a severe lapse in judgement. To let himself taste your lips, feel you so close to him, the softness under his hands, to feel for just a few minutes how it would be if you were his. But he had nothing to offer, and even if he did, you were impossibly out of his reach. This would only end with heartbreak if he let it continue. And he knew his heart would recover and harden when told you it couldn’t continue, but he might break yours for good. 

Pero was already by the bench when you came there the next day, but he wasn’t sitting on it as he usually did. Instead he stood next to it, his large hands twitching with nerves as they hung by his thighs. 

You smiled at him, but it faded when you saw the serious set of his face, and he didn’t return your smile. 

“Señorita,” he said, his voice low and heavy as he nodded to you, “I apologise for my behaviour yesterday, I shouldn’t have kissed you. I wish to remain your friend and continue our lessons, but no more, I will not let myself go any further.” 

Your heart plummeted into the pit of your stomach, the fantasy you’d been nursing since yesterday afternoon shattering as Pero kept his eyes off you, looking at a spot on the ground between the two of you. You knew it was a silly dream, imagining a life where you and Pero could marry, be together and create a life for the two of you. But you’d held on to it, bolstered by Pero’s words that a lot could happen between now and next spring. 

But now here he stood, not meeting your eyes, his hands seemingly trying to keep something at bay with the way they kept moving, never stilling. He must know what he was doing to you, the pain his words caused, and you could see the struggle in him. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark under his deeply furrowed brows and you felt yourself breaking. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and quickly you turned and sat down on the bench, opening your bag to take out the books while you shook your head. 

“It was nothing, Mr Tovar, and you’re right, we shouldn’t have done it. Let’s continue our lessons as friends.” 

You didn’t look at him, but you felt the bench shift as he sat down at the other end, and you handed him the book he’d been reading from. 

“From page ten, Mr Tovar, please.” 

“Señorita…” he replied, his voice doing a bad job at hiding the pain he felt at your cold demeanour, even though he’d been the one to break your heart, he knows it, he can see it in the way your eyes are filled to the brim with tears, “please call me Pero, you are still my friend.” 

“I think it might be best if we continue with titles, Mr Tovar. Please, page ten if you wish to continue our lessons.” 

He opened the book to the page, biting back all the things he would rather say, but he’s made a decision. He knew he’d hurt you, he knew this would hurt, but what he was foolish enough to start yesterday, has to end as quickly as possible. So he focused on the first word of the page, and tried to remember how to interpret the illegible markings that face him. 

He read from the book, you corrected him and helped him when he got stuck, just as you’ve done through all the lessons. But you don’t smile at him, and you don’t sit close to him. When the hour is up, you told him to practise a passage tonight, and then gathered your things and stood up. 

“Same time tomorrow, Mr Tovar,” you said, a statement rather than a question, and he can only nod in agreement. You gave him a short nod too, and walked away, quickly disappearing into the woods. 

The tears began to flow as soon as your back was turned to him, silently, holding back the sob that had been lodged in your throat for the past hour. You rushed through the small woods, not towards the house, but towards the winding maze of rhododendrons that offered a thicket of sheltered pathways under their heavy boughs. There, in the centre of the labyrinth, you sank down on the worn stone bench under the thickest trunks. Their season was long gone, a reminder how late the summer was getting, their bright petals turning brown on the forest floor. Covering your face with your hands, you gave into the grief that was squeezing your heart, whimpering as tears began to flow in earnest. It was so much worse than if he simply didn’t love you in return, you know he does, he couldn’t hide the pain on his own face as he told you it could go no further. But he pushed you away anyway because he realised it was a hopeless dream and it crushed you under the weight of how bleak it was. 

“I wish I’d never met him,” you whimpered, gripping the cool stone, digging your nails into the unyielding surface, “I wish I’d never met him.” 

Pero held onto the branch of the rhododendron bush so hard it might break under his iron grip. The guard dog in his chest was threatening to spring forward, to wrap itself around your broken form on the stone bench, to hold you, tell you it would all be fine, he’d find a way, protect you from everything, even himself. It was a mistake to follow you when you left, but his determination to not let the love between you go any further did not stand a chance against the urge in his chest to protect you from the world. Even if he would not let himself come close to you again, the guard dog still pushed him to follow you, the despondent shape of your shoulders, the quiet sobs pulling him just as much. 

When you whimpered, your wish to never have met him, he felt as if you’d slid a blade into his heart, and he only deserved it. He deserved as much pain as what he could hear in your voice, more even, he’d take it all from you if it wasn’t for the fact that he was the one causing it. 

You didn’t hear the careful crunch of his boots as he turned and walked away. 

Even though your heart was breaking, and sat in the pit of your stomach like a heavy weight every morning when you woke up, you still continued to see Pero almost every day. You both knew it probably would’ve been wisest to not continue the lessons, that it would make it all that much harder, keeping the pain fresh every day. But it wasn’t something either of you were prepared to give up, so you met on the bench by his cottage and you kept Pero at a distance, and he did the same with you. Always sitting at the far end of the bench, reading the passage you assigned him diligently, but never moving closer. 

Your one concession, the thing you found you couldn’t be without, was to extend the hour and stay even though the lesson was over. Listening to Pero’s stories of his life before he came to England, his childhood in Spain, his adventures as he travelled the world as a mercenary. But he kept his facade up, never letting it fall the way it had before, never letting you in again like he had.

He does teach you some Spanish though, teaching you how to pronounce his name the way he does and smiling when you greet him in Spanish every morning, telling him what a beautiful day it is, no matter how dreary the weather is. He tells himself he can live like this, have you as a friend in this place, someone who will make him come back next spring. He might even believe it. 

You count down the days to the end of the summer with growing dread, the ache in your heart doesn’t lessen. Rather it grows, rips through you when he smiles at your successful attempt at asking him how old he is. The Spanish he’s teaching you becomes your link to him, the one thing you’ll have left when he leaves, and you hoard the words in your mind, asking him to translate every word you can think of. 

But he never calls you mi amorcita again, and you never ask what it means. 

No summer is endless, and one day you returned from the lesson to find the house in uproar. Rooms being opened up, aired out, sheets pulled from the furniture as Yotes Castle was prepared for the return of the family. 

You saw their carriage coming up the drive as you left the house the next morning, and you hurried away, ducking out of sight. The horrid day of the children returning to their lessons is already here, and you wish to keep it at bay as long as possible. 

When you arrived at the bench by the cottage, Pero wasn't there yet. He’s usually first, he only walks over from his cottage, but now you sit and wait for him for what feels like an age. Finally he arrived, coming down the path from the big house, not his cottage.

“Buenas días, Señor Tovar, qué lindo día,” you greeted him and he nodded but didn’t smile. 

“The family is back at the house,” he said, stopping by the bench, but didn't sit down as usual. 

“I know, the house was turned upside down for their return yesterday and I saw their carriage as I walked down here,” you replied, taking in his face, a deep scowl pulling at his eyebrows, “Did something happen?” 

“I spoke with your uncle, my contract will run out in four weeks, I’m to leave at the end of the month.” 

“Oh.” 

It was all you could say, a small puff of air escaping you as you looked at each other, so much unspoken over the past few weeks, the events of the afternoon in the cottage suddenly sitting between you as if it had just happened.  

“I…I’ll miss you,” Pero said eventually, the silence stretching out for too long, “I’ll come back next spring, I promise.” 

You didn't reply, dropping your gaze to your hands, a lump in your throat had formed at his words. The very thought of him leaving, of spending the long dark winter without him…it clawed at your heart, forced tears into your eyes as the reality that you’d been trying to push back made itself known. 

“Querida…” he said, his voice low, pleading, “I’ll come back. But we still can’t…” he trailed off as you inhaled deeply, your shoulders shaking as you bit your lip. 

“Querida…” he tried again, stepping closer to you, his hand hovering over your shoulder, but pulling back before his hand reached you, “If things were different, but a man like me shouldn’t court a woman like you, it’s not right. I’m…I’m not….” 

He didn’t finish his sentence, instead he just stood next to you, his fingers trembling as he watched your shoulders heave in another deep inhale. 

“Pero…” you mumbled, your voice watery and his heart ached, you hadn’t called him Pero since the day you kissed and he’d never gotten used to you calling him Mr Tovar again. 

“Don’t come back next year if that’s all you see for us,” you forced out, your jaw clenched tight to hold back tears, “Don’t tell me who I should let court me. If I didn’t want it to be you, do you think I would’ve continued our lessons?” 

You looked up at him, your lashes heavy with tears and Pero sighed, dropping his head rather than to see the pain so clear on your face. 

“Querida…” he breathed out, a third time, and you let out a hollow laugh, a wretched snort with no mirth at all. 

“Is that all you have to say, Pero? ‘Querida’? What does that even mean, just an empty word when you’re too much of a coward to actually mean it?” 

You didn’t see the frustration that flashed across Pero’s face as you stood up, rubbing your hands over your face to wipe at the hot, angry tears that were slipping over your cheeks, turning to leave him. But Pero growled, a low noise coming from him as his hand shot out to grab your arm, closing tight around the fabric of your coat. When you looked back at him, his face was set in hard lines, his dark eyes boring into you under the sharp demarcation of his eyebrows pulled tight together.

“I’m no coward, I mean it when I call you ‘querida”, he scowled,  “But I know what I am, and that I have nothing to offer you but a life fighting to keep poverty at bay as I drift from job to job. Don’t call me a coward when you have seen nothing of the life outside of this house and your mother’s household. I’ve slept in hedgerows, I’ve gone hungry for days, walked my shoes to threads. It is not the life I want for you.” 

“I didn’t realise we were already married,” you spat out, your eyes as dark as his, as anger coursed through you at his presumption, “You’re not my husband, you do not decide over my life. Unfortunately, that privilege still lies with my uncle. And I never thought you and him would like to lock me up in the same cage.” 

“I don’t want you locked up, I hate seeing the way you’re treated by them!” Pero raised his voice, stepping closer to you, his hand tight around your arm as he pulled you in, “I would pull down every brick in this place to set you free if I could. Do you really think I don’t know how painful it will be to spend this winter apart? Away from you? All I want is to take you away from here and protect you from them, from anyone who’s not as good to you as you deserve. Hay un puto perro guardián dentro de mí! Carajo, cómo te amo!”

He shouted the last words, rage flaring up inside him as frustration burned through his body, your eyes wide as he gripped both your arms and almost pushed you away from him, but not letting go. 

“Don’t you understand? If I loved you less, I might be able to speak about it more, but I love you too much and I can’t let you live the way I do!”  

His face suddenly fell, the air seeming to escape him as he deflated, his fingers digging into your flesh loosened their grip and he sighed deeply as the rage that had flared in him died down.

“I…We…have no choice. Stay here this winter, only one winter, and I will come for you next spring and we’ll leave together,” he moved his hand, cupping your cheek gently, his face pleading, begging you to understand. It was ripping his heart in two, the very thought of leaving you here to suffer through another winter of the children’s abuse, your uncle’s neglect and your aunt’s disdain. But the option was to risk everything if he couldn’t find a job for the winter down south, “Please, mi querida, I promise I’ll come back and I’ll have money for us to leave and be together.” 

His face was pained as he looked at you, waiting for your answer, his hand still cupping your cheek as his thumb softly wiped at the tears that still trickled down from your eyes. 

“I…I love you too, Pero…” you stammered, the words sinking in as his tirade of words ebbed out, “I was scared you didn’t.” 

“Mi amorcita,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, “my little love, I tried not to, but it’s impossible not to love you.” 

You closed the last small gap between you, kissing him without hesitation, his warm mouth opening in surprise as you pressed your lips to his. His hand left your arm and wrapped around your back as you moved together, your body pressed against his, his strong arm holding you very close to him just like he had the last time. A whimper escaped you as you felt him deepen the kiss, curling himself around you, caressing your cheek as all the pieces seemed to slot into place. Your hips against his, your arms around his body, the tickle of his moustache against your lips and his fingers tugging on the back of your coat, lifting you to your toes as he pulled you impossibly closer. 

The lack of oxygen at length made you both pull back just a little, Pero mumbling softly under his breath as he caressed your cheeks, cupping your face in both his hands and kissing your lips, the tip of your nose, and then your forehead before he looked down at you. 

“I promise, just one winter, mi vida. Can we survive that if we spend the next four weeks just like this?” 

“You’ll really come back?” you whispered into his neck, the steady thrum of his pulse just under your lips as he gently caressed the back of your neck, you could feel his fingers in the strands of hair that had slipped from your bun. 

“I promise, I promise,” he assured you, his lips pressing against your head between each word, ”I was always going to come back, no matter what you said.” 

“I should’ve taught you how to write too,” you said, “a whole winter with no word from you will be torture, but if I know you’re coming back, I can bear it. But I’ll miss you every minute.” 

“We have four weeks, teach me how to write too, la maestra,” he chuckled, leaning back a little so that he could see your face, still tear streaked and red eyed, his thumbs coming back to stroke your cheeks, “Mi amorcita, don’t cry any more. It won’t be easy, but if you really want this old soldier with no prospects, you can have him.” 

“I really do, Pero,” you said, closing the short distance between you again and finding his warm lips.

There wasn’t much of a lesson that day, Pero pulled you down onto his lap, sitting on the bench, making up for lost weeks. Your lips were swollen and red by the time you had to pull yourself away and return to the house, Pero to the duties he still had left as groundskeeper. Your heart was still heavy with the knowledge that he would soon leave, but you held on to the light that was his love, his promise to return so that you could leave together next spring. 

So wrapped up in your thoughts of Pero were you, that you didn’t notice the smug smile of Mrs Pluck, the housekeeper, as you approached the kitchen door. 

“There you are,” she greeted you, her self satisfied smirk stretching her jowls as she grinned like a cat that had caught a particularly juicy mouse. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs Pluck,” you replied, moving to the side to pass her, but she held up her hand and grabbed your jaw, pinching it painfully as she pulled your face around to peer at your lips. You yelped in surprise at her harsh treatment.

“Enjoyed your time with the groundskeeper did you?” she asked, malice dripping from her question, “I can see he did his best to bruise those rosy lips, making you look like a whore with a lip stain on.” 

Nausea forced its way up through your throat, almost making you choke as you tried to pull away from her sharp grip, panic gripping your heart as you saw her glee. The fear in your eyes was showing and her face pulled into an even wider grin as she let go of your jaw, only to grip your arm, her fingers closing like a vice around you. 

“You think you’re so clever, sneaking around with him every day, thinking no one would notice? Well, you’re a fool, girl. I’ve known for weeks and now I’m going to tell your uncle and have you thrown out. I’ve been waiting for this day, I only hope that swarthy tinkerer got you up the pole while he was at it, would serve you just right.”   

“Please, Mrs Pluck, don’t tell my uncle, we haven’t done anything, we’ve just kissed!” you pleaded, “He’s leaving in four weeks either way.” 

“And have a hussy like you stay on and teach Miss Amelia?” the housekeeper spat out, now dragging you past Mrs Robinson’s kitchen. She poked her head out from the pantry and watched in concern as the two of you passed. “You’re a fool if you think I would allow that while I’m housekeeper here, maybe that’s the kind of behaviour your mother allowed you to get away with, the Lord alone knows what goes on in those London houses.” 

Your heart was beating out of your chest as Mrs Pluck continued to pull you up the stairs towards your uncle's study. You could feel your legs shaking as the panic at what was about to happen to you, and to Pero, when your uncle found out. Pero would lose his job, there was no doubt about it. You might too, or he would lock you up, keep you from ever seeing Pero again. The very thought forced a sob up through your tight throat, the sound making Mrs Pluck snort again and dig her bony fingers deeper into your arm. 

The rap of Mrs Pluck’s knuckles on the study door felt like the bells of doom to your reeling mind. You had no excuse, no explanation, no way to plead for his mercy, and you stumbled as the doors opened and the housekeeper pushed you through them. 

“M’lord, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have discovered something that needs your immediate attention,” Mrs Pluck simpered, her countenance suddenly all meek and apologetic. The change would be laughable to you if not for the panic that’s still coursed through you. 

“What is it?” your uncle asked, looking up from his large dark wood desk. 

“Your niece and the groundskeeper, Mr Tovar. I’ve discovered that they’ve been having an affair. It seems they’ve been meeting in secret all summer. And only just this morning I saw them together, they were very…intimate.” 

Mrs Pluck clasped her hands in front of her and looked the very image of piety as she pursed her lips in disapproval. 

“Is this true?” your uncle directed the question to you, but he didn’t seem to feel the need to meet your eye. Instead his gaze dropped back down to the letter he was composing, continuing to scrape his pen over the paper. 

“Yes, but we only-” you replied, your voice unsteady with nerves and panic, and your uncle cut you off. 

“Mrs Pluck, you saw them being intimate? How?” 

“I saw her sneak away from the house most mornings, so I followed. They met by the bench down by the groundskeeper’s cottage. I couldn’t tell you how many times they met but this morning they were kissing, and I saw her sitting on his lap for quite some time.” 

“This is unacceptable behaviour for anyone living under my roof, I do not care that you are my sister’s daughter. I know she raised you to be a lady but she clearly failed,” your uncle said, looking up at you and placing his pen next to the inkwell, “You are dismissed immediately, I cannot have you tarnish the reputation of this family with this kind of loose behaviour. You will pack your bags and leave first thing in the morning, you will have no reference. You’ll be paid what you’re owed.” 

It felt as if the ground opened up underneath you, your breath caught in your throat, and from the corner of your eye you saw Mrs Pluck smirk while she studied your reaction. Without a reference you would not be able to find a new position as a governess, not even as a house maid, finding any kind of work would be all but impossible. 

“Please, uncle, I accept that I have to leave, but at least give me a reference, we did nothing wrong, I just love him. And I’m not with child!”

Your uncle sneered as he returned to his letter, “Love? Foolish child, what other nonsense has he filled your brain with? No, this harsh lesson will be good for you. I'm sure you can find some occupation once you’re back in London where you can’t corrupt any young ladies, and certainly not my daughter.” 

“And the groundskeeper, sir?” Mrs Pluck asked, clearly keen to make sure he wasn’t forgotten. 

“Send one of the footmen for him, I’ll dismiss him immediately. He’s broken my trust and defiled my family, he cannot stay on another day.” 

He looked up at you and Mrs Pluck and waved his hand. 

“That will be all, and make sure she is confined to her room, Mrs Pluck. We don’t want her running off to that Spaniard.” 

Mrs Pluck had a lot to say as she escorted you to your room, her fingers once again digging into your arm. It seemed to be a steady stream of gleeful insults that buzzed in your ears like wasps, your mind too numb to take in what she was saying. The door of your room snapped shut and you heard the key turn as the lock clicked, leaving you standing frozen just inside. Your insides felt like hot lead, the buzzing in your ears was still deafening and it was starting to cloud your brain. Stumbling to the bed, you sank to your knees, grabbing the bed frame before you toppled over onto the scratchy rug. 

You weren’t sure how long you remained on the floor, your head reeling. It felt like you fainted, but you could still see the lurid Persian pattern on the rug in front of your eyes when you pried them open. The room was dark though, hours must’ve passed and you hadn’t even noticed. The buzzing had subsided, replaced by a tight knot of fear and worry in your stomach, your heart still racing. Pushing yourself up, carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed, you managed to light the candle on the bedside table, casting a faint light around the room. There was a tray just inside the door, and the two carpet bags you’d arrived with. Someone, probably Mrs Pluck, had left dinner on the floor, but clearly not cared enough to make sure your still form on the floor was alright. The sight of the congealed stew made your stomach turn and you scrambled for the chamber pot. 

On shaky legs, moving slowly, you made your way around the room to light the rest of the candles, coming to a stop in front of the small closet that held your clothes. You had no way of contacting Pero until morning, your only hope was that once you’d left the house, you could make your way to the cottage and find him, if he was still there. Your uncle seemed intent on throwing him out immediately, what if he had already left? 

The thought made panic rise in you again, bile forcing its way up, making you bend double with a whimper. A few hours ago the prospect of spending the winter here without Pero seemed like torture, now you wished that was all you had to face. At least he’d promised to come back next spring. Now he’d been forced to leave and you had no way of finding him if he wasn’t at the cottage. And you’d soon be out in the world on your own with no means and no other plan than getting back to London. How you’d survive, you had no idea. 

The next morning, after a night of very little sleep, you waited sitting on the bed with your two packed bags. You refused to be sad about leaving this house, but you were trembling with nerves at the prospect of soon being outed from the only family you’d known and left to your own devices. Pero was right, you knew nothing of the world outside of this house and your mother’s household. When the lock in the door clicked, you forced your head up high, at least you wouldn’t give Mrs Pluck the satisfaction of seeing you broken. 

The smug smile on the housekeeper’s face made you grit your teeth and straighten your back even more, gripping the handles of your two bags tightly. 

“Time to go,” Mrs Pluck smirked, opening the door wide and ushering you out. She didn’t grab your arm this time, but she followed close behind you, making sure to lead you through the crowded servant’s hall downstairs so that all could see you leave in disgrace. Mrs Robinson gave you a sympathetic smile, and you gave her a weak one in return. 

Out in the courtyard one of the stable hands was waiting with the wagon. Not looking back, you climbed onto the seat next to him and put your bags in the back. You had no intention of saying goodbye to Mrs Pluck, so you turned your back on her while she instructed the driver. 

“Drop her at the station, and make sure the groundskeeper isn’t anywhere around. He’s not allowed back here, do you understand?” 

“Yes, Mrs Pluck,” he replied, gathering the reins and preparing to leave. 

“He was sent off yesterday afternoon, he’s halfway to London by now, good riddance,” she huffed. You could hear the contempt in her voice and you were glad you couldn’t see her face, evil, vicious woman. 

With a jerk the wagon began moving, the driver clicking his tongue at the horse. You held on to the side of the seat as the wagon left the big house behind, rolling out onto the long drive down towards the main gate. The young stable hand said nothing as you stared straight ahead, but from the corner of your eye you could see him cast curious glances at you. 

“Whatcha do?” he asked eventually, “Get knocked up?” 

“No,” you said between tight lips, “Not at all.” 

“Steal summit then?” 

“Absolutely not!” you exclaimed and he shook his head. 

“No, you don’t look like the thieving kind, too fancy for that.” 

The wagon rolled down between the trees of the drive in silence for a while before he spoke up again, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

“So what did you do?”��

“Not that it’s any of your business, but you might as well tell the rest of the servants as they’ll be gossiping either way; I fell in love with the groundskeeper, we kissed, and Mrs Pluck saw us and ratted us out to the lord.” 

“You kissed?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “That’s it and you got booted? Mean ol’ bitch,” he shook his head, “Only ‘cause she’s an ugly old bat who no one wanted to marry. She’s always making life miserable for the housemaids, she had one of ‘em dismissed for just looking at the delivery boy from the village. Said she knew they’d been sneaking off together when everyone knew Jenny never would never do anything like that. And believe me, I tried with her and got nuttin’!” 

He suddenly went beet red and cleared his throat, “Sorry, probably shouldn’t have said that.” 

The end of the drive was near and you could see grand pillars on either side of the open gate. 

“Do you think you could drop me just outside the gate? I’ll walk the rest of the way, you can have a bit of free time before you go back to the house,” you said, Pero’s cottage was near the wall of the estate and not far from the gate. 

“You sure? It’s a fair way down to the station, take you an hour to walk with those bags,” the stable hand said, but you could see he was already eager at the prospect of some free time. 

“I’m certain, I’d rather be on my own for a bit too, got a lot of thinking to do,” you said and he pulled on the reins, the horse coming to a halt just outside the gate. 

“Alright, this is your stop then.” 

You thanked him and climbed down, retrieving your bags from the back, and then watched him disappear down the road. There was a pub in the nearby village and odds were he’d head there for a pint before returning to the house. As soon as he was out of sight, you doubled back, finding the small path that followed the wall towards the groundskeeper's cottage. Tucking your bags out of sight behind a shrub, you hurried down the small lane. After a few minutes, you came to the cottage from the back, the small lake on the other side. 

There was no smoke coming from the chimney and the shutters were closed, making your heart sink. The cottage looked closed and empty without any sign of life. As you stepped into the small garden at the front, you knew he was already gone and a sob forced its way up your throat as you saw what he’d left on the doorstep. Weighed down by a rock, was Pero’s handkerchief, the one he’d used to soothe your stinging cheek after Miss Amelia slapped you. Slowly you walked up to the door and picked it up, the soft fabric smelling of soap and faintly of lavender. The sight of the carefully folded kerchief in your hands brought tears to your eyes, welling up and falling down your cheeks as you realised Pero was gone, and with no means to leave you a message except the kerchief on the doorstep. You never had the time to teach him how to write, and now he’d been forced to leave while you were locked up in your room. Where would he have gone? He only ever said he went south, and found whatever work he could over the winter, but where? You had no idea, and even if he went to London, how would you find him there? The city was made to get lost and hide in. But you had to try, somehow you had to try and find him. 

Squaring your shoulders you wiped your cheeks and tucked Pero’s kerchief into your coat pocket. The cottage held nothing for you now, and you didn’t look back as you retraced your steps back to your bags, and then out through the big gate. You’d take the train to London, find a cheap, but respectable place to live, maybe you’d be able to find the housekeeper who had worked in your mother’s household, you knew where she’d moved to and she was always nice. 

With the big house behind you, you set out to walk the long road down to the station. Pero had said you knew nothing of the world, but you’d need to be a quick learner if you were to survive so that you could find him again. 

After what felt like an age, your feet swollen and aching, you reached the small town that was serviced by the train to London. It was a relief to put down the bags on a bench inside the station house and stretch your back. The station clerk regarded you with curiosity but was friendly enough when you brought out your small purse and counted the coins needed to purchase a one way ticket. 

“The next train to London is in forty minutes, miss,” he told you, “and there are no delays on the line.” 

“Thank you, I’ll wait on the platform,” you replied, turning to pick up your bags. 

“I’d wait in here if I were you, miss,” he said, a concerned look on his face, “there’s a vagrant hanging around the station house. He’s been here since yesterday evening and I think he’s sleeping on the benches. I was just about to send my boy for the constable so you best wait here until he’s gone.” 

“A vagrant?” you asked, a small burst of hope going off in your chest, “What does he look like?” 

“Frightful! Nasty scar right across his face,” the station clerk said, “Dark too and - miss!” 

The clerk called after you but you didn’t hear, you were out through the door in a flash, turning on the spot, searching up and down the platform. 

“Pero!” you called, spotting the sleeping man on a bench at one end, “Pero!” 

He jerked awake, on his feet in an instance before he’d even spotted you. You were already running towards him as his eyes widened, and with a few long strides, he was scooping you up, crushing you to him. 

“Mi amorcita,” he mumbled as you threw your arms around his neck, finding his lips, giving no thought to who might see. 

His arms were lifting you up, one hand cupping the back of your head, holding you tight to his warm mouth and you felt tears begin to stream down your cheeks. You sobbed against him and he pulled back, mumbling a stream of soft words in Spanish that you didn’t understand, his hand coming to wipe away the tears, caressing your cheek between kisses. 

“Don’t cry, mi vida, don’t cry,” he mumbled, placing another soft kiss on your mouth, “You found me, you found me.” 

“I-I went to the cottage, I found your handkerchief,” you stuttered, “I was going to look for you in London but I was so scared I wouldn’t find you.” 

“I’ve been waiting, I was hoping they’d put you on the train, I couldn’t leave without being sure,” he said, loosening his grip on your waist so that he could cup your face with both his hands, his brown eyes dark as he stroked your cheeks and pressed another long kiss to your lips. 

“Being sure of what?” you asked as the kiss ended and Pero shook his head. 

“Another plan of Mrs Pluck to ruin things for us,” he scowled, rage flashing across his face, “She told me she was the one that found us out and that she’d taken you to your uncle. She said you were locked up in your room and that you’d been allowed to stay at Yotes because you’d sworn to your uncle that you didn’t love me. That it had only been a foolish crush, that’s what she called it.” 

“Oh, Pero….” you breathed out, fear gripping your heart as you realised how Mrs Pluck had tried to make Pero leave you behind, “You know that was never true!”

“I know, amor, I know, of course. You’d only just left with my heart in your hands, I knew she was a lying witch,” he pressed another kiss to your lips, a soft moan escaping you as you felt his strong body wrap around you. 

“But what do we do now, Pero?” you asked, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking up at him, “We’re both out of work and I guess you got no reference from my uncle either?” 

“No, he didn’t, but I have plenty of references from the work I’ve done over the winters, I’ll find work there. But…” he hesitated as he frowned, lines of worry across his forehead, “I had a plan for next summer, when I came back for you. A plan for how we would start a life away from your uncle and Yotes Castle, but now…I might ask you already even though it is soon.” 

“What did you plan,” you asked as he let his hands slip from your cheeks, down to hold your hands in his. He paused, looking at his fingers as he entwined them with yours, so large and rough compared to your soft, ink stained ones, before he looked up at you, a small, nervous smile, a rare thing from him, on his face.  

“To ask you to marry me, to go to that place in Scotland, and jus-”

“Yes!” you cried, louder than you intended, “Yes, yes, yes, Pero!” 

You pulled your hands from his and wound them around his neck, making him stumble back as you kissed him hard. A surprised grunt came from him as he grabbed your waist to stop you from knocking him to the ground. The grunt soon turned to laughter as he tried to speak between your kisses, you hugged him tight, your body filling with light as you pressed your lips to his. 

“Cálmaté, mi amor,” he chuckled, taking your hands from around his neck and holding them between his own again, “It won’t be easy, we don’t even belong to the same church, but if you’ll have me, that is my plan.” 

“Yes, Pero,” you said, your voice suddenly unsteady as you felt tears starting to run down your cheeks, your emotions overflowing as you looked into the eyes of the man you thought you’d lost until only a few minutes ago, “I want to marry you, everything else, we’ll figure it out.” 

“I don’t even have a ring for you, mi amorcita,” he said, leaning forward to kiss first one tear stained cheek, and then the other, “I want to promise you everything, but I can’t give you anything.” 

“Pero, you’ve given me hope,” you whispered, “and love. That’s all I ever wanted, to marry for love. And then everything else will be easier.” 

“I can give you that at least, and I will keep you safe, no one will ever treat you the way they did again,” he said, his brow furrowing, the scowl creeping back onto his face as he shook his head, “Never again, amor.” 

You let your fingers caress his forehead, smoothing out the frown and tracing the line of the scar across his eye. You touched your lips to it as he closed his eyes, a feather light kiss to the feature so many feared him for. 

“My guard dog,” you smiled, “ ‘mi perro guardián’, wasn’t that what you called yourself yesterday?” 

He nodded, his eyes still closed as you continued to kiss his face, touching your lips to every mark as if to map it with your mouth. 

“Tú perro guardián,” he mumbled, “I will protect you, amor.” 

[yandere-sins]

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You are Astarion's favorite blood sacrifice. He decides to reward you for it.

Characters: Yandere!Ascended!Astarion x GN!Reader Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Warnings: Yandere, Vampires, Reader nearly dies, Blood being mentioned in all manners, Biting, Death mention, Minor sexual hints, Desperation, Possessiveness, Obsessiveness, Minor violent acts (not directed at reader except biting)

a/n: I don't have a big Halloween story for you guys, but I've been trying to get back into writing more and I've been working on this story the last couple of days, so I hope you enjoy it ♥ (I mean it's vampires so that's almost Halloween-themed right???)

Darkness is a vampire's best friend. 

It shields them, hides them, benefits them—all without expecting something in return. It's nature's way of making up for all the pain and suffering it put its less loved children of the night through, and they welcome it, moonlight glistening on their skin, their perception so much sharper without the fear of sunlight's burn. 

Like eager partners in crime, a vampire's gifts are amplified by what the darkness provides. They stalk in the shadowy coat of the night; see the prey that wants to stay unseen. Their voices, mellow and honeyed, sound even sweeter, whispered in the ears of those who wander into the vampire's hunting grounds as the creatures lure their prey with promises of grandeur. Fame, money, lust. It seems to be all that their food desires. What more could someone want who's unaware of being tricked? And so they follow wherever the masters of night command them. 

Deeper and deeper into the darkness.

"Hello, darling."

You came to hate it—all of it. The darkness, the night.

The whispers and touches, promises and the hunt. You knew he had many more like you, living blood banks stored in cold, dark cells. You heard them scream every night when the bell rang twelve, the darkest hour of the day. Sometimes, you recognized the cries as the ones from days before, but you never knew when would be the last time you'd hear the poor souls lost in the darkness. New ones came and went, but you were the only one that remained after every night. 

Somewhere between three and four months, you lost count of the days spent here. You tried to remember how many times you'd been visited, but one miscount, and now you didn't know if it had been one or ten years. You would have expected to get mad in the darkness, alone and aching from your shoulders to your ankles, with no place on your body unbitten. But Astarion was punctual—perhaps the only good quality about him. That was the only thing to keep you grounded down here.

He didn't miss a single day of feeding or, as he called it, spending time with you. 

Alongside your meal, he showed up at exactly midnight every night, someone always there to close the door behind him without fail. You had never seen his face, but you had felt it plenty of times beneath your fingertips, enough to know he was one of those handsome bloodsuckers who kidnapped and locked you here. At least for now, as long as you were pretty enough in his eyes as well. Eyes that you felt creeping over your body the moment the only door to the outside opened, only more darkness waiting behind it. They mustered you, devoured you perhaps, an appetizer before the main course. 

You knew nothing of your nightly visitor besides his punctuality and his name. There was no face to associate it with, just the feeling of his cold skin and the sharp pain of his fangs in your memory. And yet, something told you he was special even among his kind. Somewhat… superior. He still had the capability to be gentle if he wanted, never causing you to cry out in agony like the other sacrificial lambs did. And more importantly, after all this time, you were sure he was the one keeping you alive.

"Astarion," you greeted him, simply, calmly. Hiding the shiver in your voice despite the room growing colder ever since he stepped inside. It was hard to say if you were still afraid of death when it was a constant threat like a noose hanging above your head. Perhaps you dreaded surviving more than dying if you thought about it, your heart growing heavier with fear and loneliness every day. But at the same time, you grew more and more desensitized to the screams and pain and more used to the darkness.

Hugging your body with one arm, you used the other to walk along the wall to your chair, the wood creaking as you sat down, scooting it closer to the table. He liked it when you did what he wanted without him having to ask you to. Astarion's steps were non-existent, but you needn't wait for or invite him to join you. You could always count on his chest pressing against your back the moment you sat down as he leaned over you from behind. It was a familiar yet suppressive feeling. A reminder of your position. 

You were below him, prey to be consumed. Yet, he treated you more like a pet, almost beloved, but at best, you were well-cared for. You doubted he could feel anything towards you that wasn't belittling. You'd not thrive in the darkness on your own, but Astarion knew how to keep you alive. A waft of roasted chicken drifted into your nose, hearty and mouth-watering, and you had no doubts it would be accompanied by sides that would nourish the dire lack of vitamins you had. He had always insisted on you finishing your plate, feeding you himself if he had to. It couldn't go that you'd not eat what he graciously provided. But this was the only meal you were given every day, and the loss of blood made you too hungry to strike.

You tried once. For almost a week, you starved yourself until you could not do it anymore. Continuing not to eat when you were starving and food was served in masses to you cost too much willpower that you didn't have. Likewise, eating the food with the condition that you had to sit on his lap and thank him for every measly pea he fed you one after the other was enough humiliation to never try that again. And Astarion had been happy since with your plate wiped clean.

"You smell delightfully today," he mused as he drew back from the table. You felt his lips brush over your bare shoulder, your breath hitching when he pressed them to the nape of your neck. You'd not put it past him to eat before you, even though he seemed satisfied waiting for you to finish most of the time.

"Garbor gave me new soap today. Roses, I think," you breathed, reaching forward to the cutlery that, no doubt, laid beside the plate Astarion brought. It just appeared, almost magically. But you were pretty sure it was there all along, Garbor, the guard, probably cleaning and switching it out while you were asleep. You didn't even know if his name was Garbor; you merely decided to call him that. After all, no one would speak to you here aside from Astarion, even if you knew they existed in the shadows. 

"Sure, if that's what you want to believe," Astarion chuckled, his comment profoundly unsettling as you knew what he meant when he said you smelled nice. Your blood. To him, you must have smelled as mouth-wateringly as your meal did to you. You had always empathized with animals, wishing for them to live their lives as best as possible, even if they were destined to be slaughtered. Ironic, now that you were cattle to a vampire, likely being fed according to Astarion's tastes. 

"Next time, I think I'd like something citrusy again. The last soap was divine."

His hands driving up your arms made you nervous. They were unfettered by your movements as you aimlessly tried to pierce meat and vegetables onto your fork, your eyes never adjusting to the complete darkness of the basement cellar. You weren't a vampire, after all. Despite the time spent down here, the broken fear and authority between you two, he could still make you nervous. And you talked when you were anxious, to the point you wanted to bite your own tongue off.

A mix of a chuckle and a scoff escaped him as he wrapped his fingers around your neck, his nails resting softly against your throat while his thumbs ran up and down the sides of your spine in feathery touches. Slowly, reassuring you of his presence. And the ability to snap your neck with this formidable cut-throat necklace. He readjusted his touch a few times until his pointer fingers pressed against your pulse on one side, your gullet on the other. Enough for you to eat and breathe, but you didn't dare to move your head. 

"I shall tell… Garbor, to fetch that for you. Anything else? Another pillow? A new shirt? Would my darling fancy some earrings? We just so happen to have someone donate a wonderful pair of rubies that would look so beautifully dangling from your ears."

A shudder went through you; the word 'donate' was not one to take kindly. People donated to charities and beggars. Not to someone who could put meat on a plate every day for you and obviously had no saintly bone in his body. Gulping down the chicken that got stuck on your tongue as you listened to the sultry voice of your captor, you put down the fork for a moment to think, clearing your throat as best as you could with his hands still pretending to be a necklace. 

"A candle maybe, and a book. I feel like now's a great time to pick up a new hobby."

You heard the grin spread on Astarion's lips as he chuckled, his thumbs curling inwards until you felt his nails press against your skin. "I do so very like those entertaining ideas of yours, sweetling. But alas, I'm afraid I cannot give you that. You'd end up preferring the book over my company!"

"How could I ever, Sir? I wasn't planning on going on a paper diet."

This time, he actually burst out into laughter, hands disappearing into the darkness as you presumed he held his stomach from the ache of amusement. You wasted no time to stuff two more bites into your mouth as long as you had the freedom that was oh-so short-lived. His hands banging on the table in front of you created an explosive sound in the small confinement you called home. Compared to the cold body pressed against you, his breath skimmed your ear warmly, his voice like honey dripping right into your ear. 

"That's why you're my favorite. Those little witty comments of yours have saved you so many times, you know?"

The food you were so eager to sneak into your mouth now threatened to fall out of it as you couldn't find the strength to swallow. Some instinctual part of you waited for him to attack, exploit your vulnerable self. It readied you, muscles tense, body paying attention to everything it could perceive (which was shamefully little with your senses so inferior to the vampire). But then there was the rational part of your brain, currently occupied with the warmth of his breath gracing your ear and cheek, and his words. 

Favorite. You were his favorite.

You forced yourself to finish chewing, slowly, embarrassingly aware of Astarion waiting for another 'witty' remark from his favorite. Favorite late-night amusement? Favorite person to take care of? Favorite blood bag? You felt his eyes drilling into your jaw expectantly as you chewed your food properly before you leaned forward to reach for the cup of water that was unmistakably always on the table. Perhaps because of the darkness, you were so very aware of your hair brushing his nose and the deep inhale it caused Astarion to take before he pressed his face into it, gripping a bunch of it with one hand and forcing you to halt. 

"You're my undoing, pet."

"Really?" you said in your most convincing, surprised voice, trying your hardest to sound as fake as possible. Revealing his thoughts to you might have given you a chance to bargain with him, even though this cell and the darkness had long become much safer than anything he could offer. In reality, you knew better than to trust the words of a vampire, yet found yourself truly surprised about the reverence they were spoken with. "It's hard to imagine I could do such a thing. I'm just sitting here."

Astarion hummed, amused, satisfied with your remark once again. Another chance at life, how you noted duly. Perhaps he liked the challenge of you playing his game, neither of you ever speaking the whole truth and coating your words in sarcasm and fake friendliness. Or maybe vampires were accompanied by madness that made them prefer prey who didn't cave as easily into a begging, sobbing mess. Prey like you.

 "It's been years—no, decades since I last took a liking in someone, and you have no idea how much I longed for companionship like yours. It's exciting and a bit of a tease. I couldn't bring myself to kill you yet."

"How very gracious of you," you praised, hoping he didn't pay close attention to your face, a grimace edging into your features.

"You know, I might even be convinced to return you to the light. If you ask, nicely."

And suddenly, there it was. You gulped as you felt your stomach twist anxiously, suddenly attacked by something you had long abandoned. Hope. A glimmer of it, at least. You remembered the days when you had still banged at the door, demanding and reasoning with anyone who'd hear you to release and let you go home. The early nights when you dreamed about the sun and the warmth of being surrounded by people. And now the time had finally come to reclaim those wishes, almost bringing you down to your knees. 

You knew you couldn't be so foolish as to retort to being a boring, begging nobody. You had to be his favorite. Crawling over the dirty floor and clinging to him for dear life wasn't going to cut it, no matter how much you wanted to. Because yes! Yes to the surface, yes to leaving all of this behind. Escaping him would be much easier when you weren't locked in the darkness. You had waited so long for the sweet embrace of death and endured so much pain when you were forced to survive pitifully like this. You even became his favorite. And now it was paying off—if you played your cards right.

"Ah… I don't know," you sighed. You could hear your own voice, thin and nervous. Excited. Your mouth was dry, but your heart was banging against your rips. Undoubtedly, he knew that, but you hoped Astarion would forgive your very appropriate reaction. Maybe even fancy it.

Every flinch of your muscles and every word carefully uttered was driven by a hope that Astarion could easily crush if he disapproved. You never saw yourself as exceptionally talented with words, but if that was what he wanted, he should have it. Your mom would scold you for being a brat, but this vampire here favored your attitude enough to keep you alive, so it had to be good for something. "I was just starting to get comfortable here. It's so… cozy."

"Well, I have it cozy up there as well. Cushioned chairs and silk sheets—only the best for my best."

It was strange to hear his voice in the same tone as his usual banter, even though you could detect another tone swinging in the background. It was but an insignificant waver, one of uncertainty and doubt. Desperation. Maybe not as much as you, but he wanted you to agree, his reasons unclear. And yet, your heart setting out a beat must have given away that you recognized his wish since he added, "You were always a marvel. But imagine how good you'd look by my side up there. My consort. My favorite."

"W-Well, are the beds soft?" you pressed out quickly, trying to avoid the sensual allure of his voice being murmured into your ear. You didn't mean to stutter, biting your own tongue before deciding to calm yourself with deep, quiet breaths that you hoped he didn't notice. But you knew that everything he said went straight to the unreasonable part of your mind, the one a vampire knew to manipulate so well. But in your desire to get out of here, eagerness and giving in too easily could cost you everything. 

"Very," he mused, and you were relieved to hear him still in good spirits, his next words almost a lilt. "Soft and warm. Like you."

"And the food?" you asked, gulping. You didn't care for the beds or the food. 

"Oh, the food!" 

His exclamation caught you by surprise, as did the sudden disappearance of his body. For a moment, you thought you had ruined your chance. Had gone too far with your hesitance. But next you knew, you felt his hand fall to your shoulder again, running down your arm until he had your wrist in his palm, lifting it to his face. Astarion planted one kiss below your thumb, then moved on to kissing the pulse beneath it. 

"It's delightful! Delectable! The best you ever had. And me for dessert. You won't lack anything,  I promise."

His promise meant very little to you, and yet, as he littered your wrist with kisses, you couldn't help but cave. It was everything about this situation, the hope, the reverent kisses, the empty promises, that blinded you from the danger. You hadn't questioned his intentions or the price you'd have to pay. Not when he spoke to you as if he was laying the world at your feet, promising you the moon, the stars, and everything beyond.

"Ask me, pet, and you can have it all. The luxuries, the world, me. All you have to do is ask, darling."

There they were, the simple, honeyed words every human wanted to hear. All feeding into your own desperation so perfectly as if they were made just for you. As if you were the only suffering fool in this world, and perhaps to Astarion, you were. The grin curling his lips upwards against your wrist revealed just how much of a fool he took you for when you opened your mouth again.

"I…" you hesitated. But not long enough. You had too much to lose, despite not knowing what you were going to lose agreeing to this. "I want to go to the surface."

"Do you now?" he smirked, and you felt the hard edge of his teeth as his lips parted in a wide grin. 

"I want to, Sir. I want to be your favorite. I want to be by your side. Please take me with you."

For a moment, there was silence, then Astarion let out a hum of satisfaction followed by a deep breath.

"Oh, you are, darling. You are my favorite. I've longed for this moment for so long, yearned for it every damned day and night, and finally, it's here. Let's be together forever, alright? It'll hurt only a little, and then we'll always be together."

"What will hurt?" you asked before you felt the sharp pain of his teeth sinking into your arm. You knew this pain, the searing burn of his fangs piercing your skin. You had felt it a hundred times, no, a thousand. But this one was short-lived, blood dripping from your hand as you bit your lip, holding back the tears. No one liked tears, and you were too close to your goal to ruin it now. 

"Endure it," he purred, and it was almost a shame that he noticed, considering how much you fought yourself to keep your composure. "You'll have to bare this beautiful neck of yours if you want to be mine, darling."

There was another moment of hesitation, the taut skin of your neck always hurting the most if he bit it. But why even did he have to bite you? What good were two more bites of you in this dark cell when he could assume you'd be at his beck and call upstairs as well? Astarion couldn't know of your feeble escape plans yet, so he had no reason to doubt your devotion. And even if he did, wouldn't he enjoy feeding from you in one of the more comfortable beds he mentioned?

But pondering was of no use to you. You had to comply if you wanted your dreams to come true. Turning towards him and laying your head to the side, you could feel your hair fall out of the way, baring your neck so beautifully. "Yes, Sir," was your short, meager reply, and yet your arm immediately fell to your side, one of Astarion's hands wrapping around the back of your head while the other weighed down on your shoulder, keeping you in place. 

 "That's a good pet," he mumbled, face inching closer to your body with every spoken word. You braced yourself for the pain, the burning, the mess it would make, and you took it like a champ, which you probably were after all those bites—at first. However, all the bites before eventually ended. They never lasted more than a few minutes at worst. But not this one, and that's when you realized your mistake. 

You gasped as you reached for him, grabbing his clothes like a lifeline to hold onto. Tears fell freely as the pain didn't stop, your body growing lighter while Astarion had little problems keeping you in place. "It hurts!" you sobbed as your thoughts became less reasonable, less controlled. Everything began to swim, and though you were sitting, you felt like you were going to fall. But even as you struggled to stay conscious, Astarion didn't stop, didn't care. 

By the time you realized you were going to die, it was already much too late. Your life was drained out of you with all of your blood. At least you didn't have to feel the pain of your crushed hope or the desperation of, once again, being stuck in this cold and lonely darkness. If you were honest, you looked forward to escaping all of this, as had been your destiny for so long. At least this way, you'd be free, too. Differently than you thought, but free nonetheless.

"Mhm, darling. Even now, you're ravishingly beautiful."

You could hear the voice, but your body had no blood left to supply your brain, so it could understand anything. You didn't even feel his uncharacteristically warm fingers smear a thick fluid to your lips, slipping in to coat your tongue, reflexes working even when you were as good as dead. 

"And you're mine. All mine."

At least you wouldn't have to die in this dark cell, though you had no strength left to think about what shithole you'd be thrown into instead. Your body was but a sack of skin and bones in his arms as he carried you outside, your head empty like your blood vessels. But even as you lay dying in Astarion's arms, getting carried away, you knew one thing for sure: You hated it. The pain and the blood. The cold and this evil man that had held you like a cattle for so long only to kill you just like everyone else in the end. You hated him. You hated everything.

And most, you hated the darkness that continued to surround you, enveloping you mercilessly as it cooperated with your murderer. Unaware that you, too, were meant to succumb to it. That your dying body was changing into that of a child of the night, a spawn to the very same lonely vampire you so willingly promised eternity to in exchange for what you believed had been your path to 'freedom'. The same freedom you'd never have now.

Because you were his favorite.

And he'd never let his favorite spawn leave.

[whimsyfinny]

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Charlie discovers the Winchester boys to be struggling with keeping the bunker tidy, looking after themselves and being able to do their job simultaneously. Luckily she has a friend who’s from a Hunter family that is in need of work and can help them with research. Or so she thought that’s what her job would be. When Dean sees your more domesticated side, his head won’t stop swimming with all the wrong ideas.

Slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut

Warnings: SMUT, the forbidden quickie

Chapter Word Count: 3548

—-MDNI—-

A/N: ahhhhhhhh I finally wrote some spice! Sorry it took a while. This is a little tame I guess but we can work up to the extra lewd stuff

——————————————————————

Please read the below first:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

I’m Not Your F*cking Maid

Chapter 6

The following day rolled around quickly and before we knew it there was only an hour remaining until the auction house charity event. The disturbing events of yesterday were pushed to the back of my mind, the boys respecting my wishes on not wanting to talk about it. Sam told us over breakfast that he’d managed to access the auction house database and add our names to the guest list for the party, making it easy for us to attend without getting caught out as uninvited visitors. Now back in my room, I was rummaging through my duffel and pulling out my evening attire: a long black dress made of soft satin that had a slit up to the hip on one side. The neckline was a deep v-plunge and the dress was entirely backless.

“I guess no bra for me tonight then,” I mumbled to myself, also pulling out a clean pair of black lace panties and a pair of closed toe, VERY high black satin heels that had a neat little buckle on the ankle strap. I was already showered and my makeup was already done so I dropped my towel and slipped into the dress, pulling the thin straps over my shoulders. I followed by pulling on my panties, stretching the lace over my hips so it wasn’t visible through the slit in the dress. If you didn’t know any better, it would look like I wasn’t wearing anything at all. I sat on the edge of the bed and put on the heels, securing them in place before standing up and doing a few practice laps of the room - wearing shoes this high was not a common occurrence for me. I finished up by dusting my skin with the same perfume I wore yesterday, breathing in the pleasant smell before tucking the bottle along with my rouge lipstick into my little black clutch. I fussed over myself in the mirror for a few minutes when I heard a knock at the door. Pacing over I flung it open to greet the Winchester boys, and when I did I couldn’t help but do a double take over the oldest brother. I hated to admit it but he looked good. REALLY good. He was dressed head to toe in black: a slim fitted suit, shirt and tie, all of which seemed to flick something on in my brain. His suit jacket hung open and beneath it the shirt was clinging to his well defined torso, the top two buttons straining a little.

“You scrub up well, Dean,” I said to him, trying to sound pleasantly surprised. Instead, I think I sounded incredibly flirtatious. Dean didn’t seem to notice though as I watched his jaw slacken and his eyes flit over my body.

“Uhhh-um yeah, thanks,” he said, clearing his throat a little as he stepped aside to let me out.

“You look great, (Y/n),” Sam said, making such intense eye contact with me like he didn’t know where else to look, his cheeks glowing a little.

“Thanks Sam,” I smiled up at him before locking the motel room door and trying to ignore the fact that Dean didn’t say anything. Back to being an ass I see.

“So (Y/n), you’re with Dean. It should be pretty simple: get in, get the hair pain, get out. With that many people at the event, we don’t want to risk anyone getting hurt so I'll be ready and waiting outside with everything we need to destroy it and put the ghost to rest,” Sam briefed us before carrying on, “I’ll head back to our room to get everything and I’ll meet you there - you guys get going,” he nodded his head to Deans car which was parked out front. Dean said a quick farewell and headed out and I did the same, giving Sam a wave as he turned to leave.

I climbed into the front of the Impala, running my hands over the plush leather seat.

“You really do have great taste in cars Dean,” I said, looking around at the immaculate interior. He hummed in agreement, putting his arm over the back of my seat as he reversed out of the parking spot. Those top two buttons on his shirt were not going to last all night. I crossed my legs, getting comfortable for the short journey into town - the satin of my dress falling open and completely exposing my thigh to Dean. I watched him take his eyes off the road and fixate on my bare skin, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. Returning his eyes to the road I saw his chest rise as he took a deep breath, a small but deep groan emitting from his chest.

“You ok?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“Ok… you’re acting strange though,” I said, leaning on the passenger side door to watch the street lamps turn on.

“Can you blame me?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

There was a few seconds of silence before he flicked on his cassette player and classic rock filled the car, bringing a smile to my ruby lips.

“Good taste in music too? I’ll be damned, you’ve got more of a personality than I thought.”

He scoffed a little before smirking, “there’s more to me than meets the eye sweetheart.” He looked over at me, green eyes piercing into mine with such intensity I suddenly felt a little warm. I looked away, quickly counting my lucky stars when I noticed we’d arrived.

Dean parked up and I reached for the door, however Dean stopped me from opening it.

“Wait,” his tone was authoritative as he reached a hand out to stop me, his rough fingers lightly grazing the soft skin of my thigh. Before I could even respond, he’d hopped out, slamming his door shut before striding around the front of the car to open mine for me. He held his hand out, which I grasped delicately and he pulled me to my feet.

“What was that for?” I asked, puzzled as he closed the passenger side door behind me.

“Just trying to keep up appearances for this shit-show,” he stated bluntly before he walked off ahead of me towards the front door whilst he left me to navigate the uneven cobbles in these death-trap shoes.

“Jerk,” I muttered under my breath, but he must’ve heard me because he turned around, sighed and held out his arm for me to take.

“Just ask if you need help,” he leaned in and said quietly, his face close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin. I sucked in a breath, which was a mistake as he smelt positively divine. He was filling my senses and I didn’t want him to.

We made it into the building with no trouble at all thanks to Sam’s hard work. The inside of the auction house was a grand spectacle indeed; with high ceilings, a chandelier made up of thousands of tiny pieces of crystal and two symmetrical mahogany staircases at the end of the entrance hall. It was busy, lots of people in expensive attire milling about and drinking equally expensive sparkly wine.

“Shall we get some champagne?” I turned and asked Dean, who chuckled slightly.

“You’re already more fun than Sam,” he said before whisking two flute glasses off a passing waiter and handing me one. We chinked glasses, laughing a little at how awkward all of this pomp and ceremony was for us before we both downed the expensive alcohol like shots. Dean winced slightly, handing his now empty flute back to the same waiter who gave him a concerned look.

“Aw damn, those bubbles - that shits wrong.”

“That’s because you’re supposed to sip it,” I laughed at him, placing my empty glass on an old polished oak sideboard.

“Then why did you neck it too if you knew?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows at me. I shrugged.

“To be honest I don’t know - I guess I wanted to lighten the old-money mood in here.” He nodded, seeming to understand where I was coming from. After that fiasco we made our way towards the immense curved staircases at the end of the room, Deans hand occasionally touching my exposed back as he guided me in front of him, making me shiver involuntarily. We ascended, making our way up and past people who were at the top of the stairs, idly chatting and leaning on the bannister - not paying us any mind as we turned down a quiet corridor. We walked quietly, the hum of chatting remaining behind us as we made our way down the dim corridor, looking out for the room number Sam had given us.

“Room 19, room 19, room 19…” I chanted to myself searching every door until we found the right one. Coming to a stop, Dean quickly knelt down and pulled a lockpick from his pocket. I watched in fascination as he inserted the device, ever so gently manoeuvring it with a look of pure concentration on his face. I couldn’t stop myself from looking over at him whilst he was unaware; looking at those focused and hooded dark green eyes, slightly parted lips that he wet with his tongue and large muscled shoulders that were almost as wide as the doorway. I didn’t want to admit it, but God damn he was attractive. There was a click and he stood up quickly, pocketing the lockpick and opening the door, hurrying me inside. I walked gingerly into the room which looked like a mixture between a study and a museum. There were large bookcases spanning the walls, sideboards boasting an array of intriguing items, all contained in secure glass cabinets, and finally a large leather-topped mahogany desk in the centre of the room. This place smelt old.

I heard Dean close the door behind him as he paced in after me, immediately scanning the room.

“Right,” he said, his tone stern and authoritative, “you take that side and I’ll take this side.” I nodded, immediately scouring every surface for our haunted item.

We must’ve been looking for around ten minutes when Dean called me over.

“Do you think that’s it?” He almost whispered, pointing to an item that I would definitely have described as a jade hairpin.

“Yup,” I whispered back, leaning slightly closer to him so I could get a better look. I felt him draw a sharp breath in before sighing slightly. “Can you pick this lock?” I asked, ignoring his antics and sticking to the business at hand.

“Yeah give me a second and I’ll get it open,” he stepped in front of me. Not wanting to get in his way, I walked into the centre of the room to where the desk was and leant against it, looking around at all of the bizarre items. Surely there are some other haunted things in here other than what we came for. My eyes eventually landed on an old gramophone.

“Oh that bitch is definitely haunted,” I mumbled to myself right as I heard Dean pop the lock on the glass cabinet. I watched as he wrapped the hairpin in a square of fabric before shoving it into his pocket and clicking the cabinet closed.

“Mission complete,” he said, a slight grin on his lips as he walked to stand in front of me. That grin fell from his face though when suddenly there were voices outside the door and keys rattling in the lock. We hadn’t planned for this. He looked at me in a panic.

“Kiss me,” I blurted.

“What?”

“I have a plan: Dean just fucking kiss m-” it was like I didn’t have to tell him twice before he had a hand in my hair and his lips were on mine. My heart started pounding and his mouth was hot against my cool skin. I hummed, sliding my fingers up his chest to grip the lapels on his jacket, pulling him further in towards me. Before I could get sucked into whatever it was that I was feeling, the study door flew open and two older gentlemen in brown tweed suits walked in, stopping in their tracks at the sight of us.

“Good heavens! What are you doing in here?” One of them exclaimed. Dean turned his head to look at the men, a smirk on his face and I couldn’t help but blush furiously at the sight of my lipstick that was now smeared on the corner of his lips.

“So sorry gentlemen, the door was unlocked so we just let ourselves in. I hope you don’t mind…” I watched, my eyes widening a little as he lifted his jacket slightly, showing the gun that was tucked into his belt. The men’s eyes also widened and they backed up towards the door.

“Yes, yes! Of course you did! Please, take your time. Just…” the man paused, his eyes darting to the precious items on his desk, “please try not to make a mess - it’s all I ask.” And with that they both left as quickly as they arrived, closing the door behind them. I let out a sigh of relief, looking up at Dean.

“Thank fuck… Dean I’m so sor-” I didn’t have a chance to think as Deans mouth was back on mine; rough and needy. I sat in shock for a second before being pulled back to reality when Dean held the side of my face, his fingers sliding up to tangle with my hair. I couldn’t stop myself from kissing him back, my mind racing and going blank simultaneously. His free hand ghosted up my exposed leg, touching so gently I could barely feel him. He soon decided though that gentle wasn’t working for him, and he gripped my thigh, his fingers digging into my soft flesh and making me gasp - his hands on my body were already working their magic as I couldn’t stop his name from leaving my lips.

“Dean…” I moaned. I can’t believe it - I had actually moaned his fucking name. He groaned into my mouth, obviously liking the sound of his name rolling off my tongue. Tearing his hand from my hair and gripping my other thigh, without warning and with rushed movements, he lifted me with ease so I was sat atop the desk.

“Wrap your legs around me darlin,” he said with a deep lustful tone against my lips. I whimpered involuntarily as I did as he said. He pried his mouth from mine and started to kiss elsewhere; my cheek, behind my ear… my neck. I ran my hands over his shoulders and up the back of his neck, running my nails over his scalp and making him shiver. I gripped his hair and yanked, forcing his head up. I locked eyes with him, his eyes no longer that brilliant green but now blown and black with lust. My own eyes were probably no different. His gaze fluttered from my eyes to my lips, and before I let him kiss me again I leant forward and pressed my lips to his throat, my tongue on his skin. It was his turn to moan as I reached a hand down and traced a finger up the hard weapon growing in his pants. His large hands moving from my thighs to my ass, gripping tighter than ever before as I seemed to be pushing all the right buttons. He slid me to the edge of the desk so my lace-covered intimates were pressing right against him, friction and pleasure commencing. I pulled my lips from his throat before tugging his face down to mine, instigating the finale. I spoke breathlessly over his lips, already craving the taste of him again.

“Are you gonna fuck me or what, Winchester?”

Dean practically growled, frantically fumbling with moving my dress aside. He hooked a shaky but skilled finger into my underwear, trying to pull it aside but the elastic wouldn’t allow for it. I began to tremble as his digits kept ghosting over my most sensitive area. He soon gave up with his first plan, and his second plan made my eyes roll into the back of my head. Dean pulled a large hunting blade from inside his jacket and slid the flat side against my skin and up my thigh until it was under the lace fabric. The ice cold metal made me shiver before he swiftly sliced the blade up towards him, cutting my panties to shreds as he repeated the motion on the other side.

“Fuck that was hot,” I panted as he put the blade away and captured my lips again, running his tongue over mine. I gasped suddenly when he dipped a finger inside me, curling it and caressing that soft, sensual cushion that was hidden away. When I moaned, he added a second finger, leaning away from me slightly so he could see what a mess I was beneath him. After a few moments of utter bliss, he pulled his fingers out, sticking them straight in his mouth.

“You’re fucking delicious,” he groaned, standing up straight to shimmy out of his jacket. I leant forwards, grasping his belt buckle, undoing it and pulling down his zipper. Slowly I reached in and pulled him out of his boxers, his rock hard manhood hot and heavy in my palm. He closed his eyes as I ran my thumb over the tip, guiding my hand up and down, up and down, again and again until he grabbed my wrist.

“Let go so I can fuck you ‘til you can’t walk,” he practically growled, making me weak. I leant back on my palms, watching as he lined himself up and then disappeared inside me in one earth shattering motion. My eyes rolled back and my lips parted as I locked my ankles instinctively behind his back, my heels catching on the gun still tucked into his pants. He started to set a rhythm as he fucked me into the desk, the wooden structure sliding back with every thrust he made. He had both hands firmly planted on the desk beside me and I gripped his forearms tight, my head starting to spin from the overwhelming pleasure. It didn’t help that Deans head had dropped into the crook of my neck and his heavy breathing was like music to my ears. He kissed the skin there softly, drawing a moan from my lips with the sudden tenderness. The pounding was speeding up, and he suddenly wrapped an arm around my waist, desperately trying to get closer - to get deeper. The need for release was building and I’d lost control of my voice; Deans name tumbling from my lips like a prayer. I pressed his lips to mine feverishly, his breath ragged as he managed to pant out;

“Shit, (Y/n) I’m so close… I’m gonna need you to cum for me…”

I whimpered at the sound of my name on his breathless lips and he let go of my waist, placing his large palm on my stomach and sliding it down until his thumb connected with that bundle of nerves.

“Shit-Dean-,” whining against his mouth I started to feel the tension in the pit of my stomach build - the feeling of him pounding into me and stretching me more than ever before combined with his thumb on the magic button was a recipe for a quick release. And Dean knew that. He was fucking me so hard now that the sound of wet skin on skin echoed around the room and the banging of the desk could surely be heard from out in the corridor- maybe even downstairs. That knot was tightening, and tightening, and tightening until:

“Fuck- Dean I’m gonna cum!”

“Fuck,” was all he managed to groan before I shattered around him, that knot snapping and sending me into probably the best orgasm I’ve ever had. As I tensed up I pulled Dean over the edge with me and he buried his face into my neck, breathing heavily and cursing occasionally.

We stayed like that for a few moments, regaining some clarity and returning to earth. He took a few deep breaths before standing up and pulling out, tucking himself back into his pants and doing up his belt as his cum dripped down my thigh. He couldn't seem to look away, even when he reached for his jacket on the floor and put it back on.

“Stay there,” he said finally, disappearing behind some shelves for a second before returning with a box of tissues. He helped me clean myself up, tossing the tissues in the bin as we attempted to get rid of the evidence.

“Are you ok?” He asked sincerely, concern in his eyes as he offered me his hand. I smiled a little bashfully, placing my palm in his.

“I hate to admit it but I feel great.”

He helped me down off the table, placing a hand on my waist to help steady me on my still trembling legs. We both stood in a comfortable silence for a few moments before realisation hit us both and we looked at each other with wide eyes.

”Oh shit - Sam!”

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Up Next:

Chapter 7

[the-s1lly-corner]

This one request may be a little out there but can I request various creepypastas walking the reader home after they notice someone trailing behind them? They don't know the reader that well, maybe they've just entered the friend stage?

Various crps walking the reader home

Ooooo love this idea sm, sm sm might YOINK this for other characters in a different post

Characters: nina, hoodie, masky, toby

Notes: reader is GN, you and the crp arent dating but you guys are friends/friendly

CWs: stalking(? Does it count if it's an isolated instance of being followed?), implied violence

NINA THE KILLER

doesnt even wait to greet you when shes close by, she calls for you and says hi as she rushes up to you from... wherever she just was-

hooks her arm around yours, and keeps her hold on you firmly... perhaps out of concern... the risk that you might get snatched by someone else and taken?

though its not likely, given that shes twirling her knife around in the air in plain sight as she practically skips by your side- talking to you so casually as if there was nothing wrong

as soon as the person is gone shes asking if youre alright- do you need her to add someone on the chopping block? because she can probably track them down and-

fully understanding if you dont want her to do anything like that, but you can tell shes still... contemplating... insists she spends at least some time with you when you get home to make sure all is well- during the time shes there shes making sure youre alright as well as helping ease yourself after something like that

HOODIE

very tall, likely towers over whoever is making you feel threatened. unlike masky, he does look back at the other person... almost as if he is sizing them up

in the light you swear you catch a shine of something hidden away in his pocket- but the need to pull it out never arises as the person keeps their distance

its dead quiet between the two of you- as expected, and he does give you some breathing room... hes slightly behind you, almost like a barrier between you and the creep

immediately stomps out any attempts the person makes at getting closing the gap by blocking their way and glaring down at them until they either go the other way or pass ahead of the two of you... and even then hes going to continue moving to keep between you and them

will come inside if you offer him, he keeps an eye out long after the danger has passed

MASKY

you were already so caught up in making a plan for what to do, that you didn't even realize Masky taking his spot next to you. He nearly scared you just as much as the person behind you, at least.. until you realized it was just him

keeps close to you, and doesn't give the one following you a look.. to further push the point that the two of you are together he wraps an arm around you and tugs you closer

for someone who is usually so adverse to touch, and being interested in keeping his personal space- he was more than willing to toss all of that out of the window to bring you even an ounce of security

you eventually lose them, but thats not going to stop him from walking you the rest of the way home. he doesnt invite himself in, but you catch him stalking around the outside of your house- as if making sure there was no other unwanted visitors

TICCI TOBY

not as quiet as his fellow proxies, and in fact will spin around to make a conflict if the person isnt dropping it as you draw closer to your neighborhood

its... hard to say its the right choice, but making noise does add in the uncomfortable fact that it may draw attention- that in of itself isnt the best for toby given his record... you know, with arson and the like..

and if the person takes it as an opening to rush forward? toby goes no where without his weapons, and if the person didnt take that into account or didnt notice them then thats on them! anything that happens afterwards is just karma!

even if it doesnt escalate to that he talks with you, making it clear that the two of you are familiar with each other- he spares no volume as he catches up with you- will flash his hatchet and perhaps drop some recent work he was meant to do for his boss

gladly takes your invitation to stay, keeps you company and you both end up having a sleepover together

[chilling-seavey]

Lessons in Lust and Other Illicit Desires (gr63) —THIRTEEN

↳ A/N A little lunch and learning some more George lore ;)

↳ Series Summary: Sensible, wise, and a hopeless dreamer, Rosaline was used to men not giving her a second glance. She soon discovered it was merely those mundane college boys who were nothing more than simply intimidated by her intellect. What she needed was a man — someone who could impart knowledge beyond the Classics and guide her in discovering her own confidence as a woman. The thrill of sneaking around with the ever-so-charmingly handsome Professor Russell was certainly a bonus.

↳ Pairings: OxfordProfessor!George Russell x Innocent!Student!OC, Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc (background)

↳ Chapter Word Count: 5.5k

↳ Chapter Warnings: None

The weather was warmer than it had been all year that particular Saturday. Rosaline was comfortable in her skirt and blouse, her jacket folded over her arm, as she lingered in the well-kept grounds of Blenheim Palace, awaiting the arrival of her company. Despite her love for history, she had never had the chance to visit Britain’s historic treasure; an impressive 18th-century castle nestled in the countryside just a quarter-hour drive north-west of Oxford. She hadn’t even stepped foot in the Palace yet and she already had her breath taken by the impressive architecture, rendering it in her mind as the Versailles of England. 

Birdsong accompanied her waiting as she meandered down winding pathways lined with shrubbery and pristine gardens of blossoming flowers, gravel crunching under her feet with every step. Other visitors walked past her, sharing polite head-nods or ‘good morning’s, each dressed just as nicely for a morning stroll at such a location. Slacks, collared shirts, spring dresses—Rosaline felt right at home.

The buzz of her phone in her hand pulled her from her wandering mind and she peeked at the screen to reveal a text from George. 

G: You look beautiful today

Rosaline smiled at the message and then looked up from her phone and scanned the gardens to see if she could see him. Her free hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun as she turned towards the palace. There, George’s familiar figure stood atop the slight embankment along the side of the Water Terraces Garden where she had been exploring. When she spotted him, he grinned and raised his hand up for a modest wave. She waved right back.

George waited for her as she headed to join him and she tried not to rush as she climbed the few steps up to the main walkway. She couldn’t help but notice his striped collared shirt tucked into slacks—not an unlikely outfit to see him wear—but the addition of the white cashmere sweater draped over his shoulders and tied pristinely over his chest added an air of casual outside of his usual lecturing suits. For a moment, Rosaline thought he looked younger like that; but perhaps it was the combination of the light coloured fabric and the bright spring sun.

“Good morning,” he greeted her with a handsome smile. He set his hand on her arm and leaned in to press a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Good morning,” Rosaline echoed, trying not to let her words falter from the pleasant surprise of his kiss. 

His hand lingered on her arm even as he stepped back, his thumb caressing the soft skin of her bicep just under the sleeve of her blouse. In a gentle voice, he apologized, “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long, I forgot how far the parking lot is.”

Rosaline waved her hand as if to brush aside his concern, “No, you’re fine. It was nice to wander the gardens anyway.”

“I would have picked you up at your dorm but…you know how it is.”

The reminder of their risky relationship didn’t go unnoticed by Rosaline, but she shrugged with a casual smile, “It’s okay. I don’t mind the bus anyway.”

George’s eyebrows raised, “Oh, I don’t think anyone has ever said that before.”

They shared faint laughter for a fleeting moment. 

Then, he gestured towards the palace, “Shall we, then?”

She smiled at him, nudging her glasses up her nose with the back of her index finger, and agreed with a sweet, “We shall.”

The entirety of Blenheim Palace was a historic relic and most of the rooms could be explored either with a tour guide or individually and, since George was arguably a walking encyclopedia, they chose to explore on their own. With tickets purchased in the main hall, George then led the way into the first collection of ornately decorated rooms lined with expensive portraits and custom furniture pieces from centuries ago. 

It was quiet in the palace; other tour groups speaking in hushed tones and walking in slow, gentle steps to respect the delicateness of the space. Floorboards creaked here or there and the lofty ceilings carried even the slightest of whispers across the elaborately decorated rooms and the heaviness of a space weighed down by years of history lingered all around them. 

Meandering side by side through one of the rooms, George and Rosaline took in the grandeur of the gold trimmed furnishings in peaceful silence. She peered up at the intricate carvings on the crown moulding around the perimeter of the room, admiring every detail.

“For the grandeur of this place, it was built for relatively cheap,” George explained quietly. When Rosaline looked over at him, as if wanting to know more, he continued, “It only cost a total of roughly £300,000 back in the 18th century.”

Rosaline’s eyes widened in surprise and she gestured her hand around, “For all this?”

“It’s been renovated on and off since but, yes, the integrity of the palace and a majority of its design and architecture is the same.” George answered without hesitation, “It’s a World Historic Site too.”

“I didn’t know you knew history just as well as you knew literature.” Rosaline teased lightheartedly as they walked through to the next room. 

George shrugged modestly, his hands held behind his back as they took in the sights of the space around them, “Somewhat. History and classic literature often go hand in hand anyway.”

“Can’t know one without the other, really.” Rosaline added.

He glanced at her with a genuine smile, as if in awe of her, “Exactly.”

There was a momentary pause as they took in the new room they found themselves in. 

Then, George added, “I also just really love Blenheim. It’s not far from Oxford so it’s worth the drive up to sit in the gardens and read or grade papers.”

“You’re like a love interest in one of those lovely literary classics, you know?” Rosaline complemented as they wandered aimlessly through the rooms of the palace, “Well dressed, well read, likes to sit in palace gardens…”

George’s lips turned up into a bashful smile and he glanced at her, “That’s some high praise, Miss Kent.”

“Just the truth,” Rosaline shrugged and followed it up with a playful, “You know I’m the best literary analyst in the class.”

George chuckled, the sound low and warm and it made her heart skip a beat. She smiled at him shamelessly as if making him laugh was the pride of her existence, admiring the sight of his well crafted profile amongst the backdrop of golds and velvets. 

He nodded, humouring her with a light, “Yes, that is true.”

Rosaline stopped in the middle of the grand hall they had stepped foot in, surrounded by intricately carved stone columns that stretched up to the impressively high ceiling, supporting thick crown moulding around the trim of the arched ceiling. The emptiness of the vast space had their steps sounding like popping firecrackers over the marble floors, echoing upwards and to every corner of the hall. 

Directly above them, the domed ceiling donned a Renaissance style painting depicting flushing figures in well-preserved colours against a romantic backdrop. It was trimmed and circled in intricate gold, the ceiling arching upwards towards its frame to draw the eye to the composition. Rosaline found herself getting a slight ache in her neck from how long she stood there, staring at the ceiling and all the minute details of the grand hall. 

After a moment of appreciation, she followed George over to one section of the space where, along the wall, hung a collection of gold framed portraits, each depicting generations of the family that once resided in the palace walls. The two of them lingered in front of the small gallery, admiring the artistry of each brushstroke, side by side, silent. Rosaline’s attention was drawn to the nameplates, the name ‘Churchill’ standing out to her. 

“Is this the Churchill family?” she inquired in a whisper so as to not disrupt other visitors.

George, without taking his eyes away from the paintings, replied, “Yes, Sir Winston Churchill was born here in 1874; and back in the 18th century, it was gifted to his ancestors as a celebration of the Victory won over France in the Spanish Succession.”

Rosaline looked at him again, once again privy to the way his expression was relaxed in the presence of subjects he was passionate about, of things that brought his heart and mind satisfaction. His ease of recall in remembering all these facts had a smile pricking at her lips and she looked back at the paintings. She calmly replied, “I wish you could teach me every class. You make everything feel so interesting.”

“I think you’re a tad biased,” George glanced at her with a playful smirk. 

Rosaline scoffed and met his gaze, “Certainly not.”

“Well, I doubt I could make maths interesting.” he argued lightheartedly, “I reckon I’d put even myself to sleep with that one.”

“Oh, no,” Rosaline shook her head matter-of-factly as she looked back at the paintings like she was declaring nothing more than the evening news, “No one can make maths interesting. That would take a miracle worker.”

“I wouldn’t risk trying,” George replied.

When they naturally moved on from the Churchill family portraits, he set his hand on the small of her back to let her lead the way. Rosaline bit back her fond smile and kept her hands tucked under her light jacket she carried as if physically trying to stop herself from reaching out and touching him. Sure, they were safely away from Oxford but she still felt quite exposed exploring a museum with her professor on a Saturday. Forget that just earlier that week he had eaten her out to completion and then came all over her stomach. 

Rosaline’s instinctive clear of her throat to rid those thoughts from her head echoed through the grand hall. 

It was a given that George and Rosaline would inevitably find themselves in the library. Taking up almost a full length of the palace, the library stood just as grand as the rest of the interior, painted a nice calming yellow and accented with elaborate marble columns and trim. The ornate bookshelves were built out from the wall and stocked full of historic texts with gorgeous spines nestled behind dainty metallic mesh. At the far end of the library, all three walls were covered in bookshelves and a narrow ladder led to the mezzanine where another level of bookshelves lined the high walls. 

Rosaline and George stood in awe, peering up at the millions of words that surrounded them, bathed in the noonday sunshine streaking in through the arched windows at the top of the lofty space. The ornately painted and carved ceiling details towered above them, cocooning the centuries of books within those well preserved walls. 

They wandered closer to one of the shelves, knowing better than to touch the artifacts but desperately wanting to get a glimpse at any of the titles the library housed. As they peered through the thin metal mesh that protected the books, they both nearly held their breaths, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. 

Rosaline was so entranced that she didn’t notice the way George was staring at her more than the books. It wasn’t until his fingers brushed her hand that she was pulled back to reality with a hitch of her breath at his unexpected touch. She kept her focus on the books as if to play it off coolly that she wasn’t fazed by his sudden display of affection, even if she truly couldn’t focus on anything but. 

She relaxed her hand to welcome his into hers and she could feel the slight hesitation in his movements as he timidly intertwined his fingers with hers. Neither of them moved for a few long seconds as if what they were doing was horribly immoral and they would be stricken down at any moment. They kept their eyes forward, staring stupidly at the stocked bookshelves, hand in hand. Rosaline nibbled at her bottom lip. 

Then, George spoke, casually, “You know, this library holds more than ten-thousand books.”

Rosaline glanced at him when he spoke, his words cutting through their momentary uncertain tension. The familiarity of his fun facts had a relaxed smile pricking at the corner of her lips. Her hand eased into the comfort of his.

“I wonder how many we’ve read.”

Rosaline didn’t realize how clammy your palms could get after holding hands for so long. By the time they reached the Orangery Restaurant and the host showed them to their table, they had already finished an entire tour of the palace without separating their hands once. When they sat down across from each other, they separated, and Rosaline discreetly wiped her palm on her skirt under the table. 

George was peering out of the white trimmed windows overlooking the gardens as they settled at their table. The mid-day sun streaked in prettily through the glass and across the marble floors of the renovated orangery, the rays of light making George’s hair look almost blonde. Rosaline felt like she was dreaming. 

He had said this wasn’t necessarily a date but she figured it wouldn’t hurt anyone for her to silently pretend it was. Besides, he was a damn good option for her first ever date. 

A brief silence settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Rosaline took the opportunity to actually look at him, at the way the sunlight softened the usual sharpness of his features. He looked relaxed, like he was entirely at home. And so, so pretty. She captured her bottom lip between her teeth as she shamelessly admired him and his profile in the midday sunshine. 

After a moment, he turned his attention away from the gardens and back to her, “I still can’t believe you’ve never been here before. You’re the writer. I’d have thought a place like this would’ve called to you, especially with it being so close to Oxford.”

Rosaline picked up the menu in front of her but barely glanced at it, “I didn’t even know it existed. Clearly I need to get out of those dorms more.”

George smiled over at her, his own menu in hand, amusement flickering in his eyes, “I think we can work on that.”

“Mm,” Rosaline scrunched up her nose in playful doubt, replying with a sarcastic teasing, “I dunno, my Classic Literature professor is a real stickler with the assignments.”

George let out a breathy chuckle, “Oh, wow, he sounds like a right arse.”

“He’s okay,” she smiled back at him.

Their gazes lingered for a moment before they both looked down at their menus. Rosaline found herself rereading every item, unable to process what anything was saying; it was as if she was running so strongly on adrenaline and infatuation that her logical part of her brain was lagging behind. She reached for her water glass and took a sip to try and calm down for a moment. 

“See anything you fancy?” George asked her after a moment.

“Mm, it all looks great,” she answered as if any of the words actually processed in her brain. She nudged her glasses up her nose with the back of her index finger and turned it back on him, “What are you having?”

“Always the same thing,” said George with a smile, “Their fish and chips are the best I’ve had. And that’s saying something since I’ve sworn by the chip shop in my hometown for decades.”

Rosaline set her menu down, “I’ll have the same then.”

“A beautiful woman who has good taste; what a catch,” George praised.

She folded her arms on top of her menu, leaning towards him with playfully narrowed eyes, “Was that a fish pun?” 

George genuinely tossed his head back with a laugh, hand over his chest and everything, “Oh my gosh, not an intentional one.”

Laughter lingered between them, soft and easy, just as the waiter arrived to take their orders. When they were alone again and the menus were gone from in front of them and their drink orders had been quickly delivered, a momentary silence fell once again. George’s eyes drifted back out to the gardens, his arms folded calmly on the edge of the table. Rosaline lifted her glass of soda from the table and took a sip.

“So this chip shop in your hometown,” Rosaline started, swirling her straw around her glass absentmindedly, “Is it one of those mom-and-pop shops?”

As if thrilled by the chance to talk about his hometown, George turned back to her with a grin, “Yeah! Yeah, it is. My family got quite close with the owners over the years—this older couple with no kids of their own—and I frequented it often during secondary school. They always gave me a good discount. Saw me like a son, really.”

Rosaline smiled and set her glass back down to give him her undivided attention, “That’s sweet.”

George’s expression faltered for just a moment, his tone falling quieter, “I attended the husband’s funeral in the winter.”

“Oh,” Rosaline’s shoulders sank, “that’s heartbreaking.”

“Yeah, the wife sold the shop because she couldn’t keep it going on her own and she’s getting up there in age too. The new owners changed so much, it’s really not the same. But it will always exist in my memory; the crispy breading, thick-cut chips, the smell of grease on every surface.”

“The melancholy of growing older and being forced to accept that things are no longer what they used to be.”

George cocked his brow at her playfully to lighten the mood, “What do you know about getting older?” 

“Plenty,” she laughed lightly. 

“At the ripe age of, what, twenty-two?”

Rosaline folded her hands together under her chin, elbows on the table as she stared back at him, “Yes. I have my own life experiences.”

George just stared at her for a moment with a melancholy upturn to his lips and he spoke to her with a kindness that came with his twelve added years of experience, “You’ll have hundreds more and, someday, you’ll look back at yourself in this very moment and think about the million things you should have done differently.”

“No,” she insisted, “not this.”

He let out a soft breath as his face melted into a bit more of a smile. He unfolded his arms and reached across the table for two to take her hand from under her chin before guiding it by her fingers towards his mouth. Rosaline’s heart flipped in her chest as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her knuckles, his eyelashes closed gently atop his cheeks. 

When he looked at her again, he held her hand in both of his, thumbs gently rubbing over her skin. He didn’t offer a verbal reply, but she could see the honesty in his steadfast gaze. 

In that moment, Rosaline didn’t want to think of the possibility of a future without George in it. In all honesty, she had been so caught up in the ‘here and now’ of their agreement that she had forgotten to think ahead and what it would look like in the future…after graduation. She swallowed back those thoughts and kept staring back into his eyes, earning her another few gentle kisses to her knuckles by his soft lips. 

They separated by the time the waiter returned with their plates of crispy golden fish atop a heap of french fries and they passed the salt between them and took their time beginning to eat. Rosaline had to agree that it was arguably the best fish and chips she had in a while. 

She balanced eating with admiring her company, taking in every little detail down to the way he held his fork and knife and how he didn’t eat his chips with his fingers like almost everyone did. As he raised his fork with a spiered french fry on the end to his mouth, the sun caught the wristwatch peeking out from under his sleeve. He was always so put together, the perfect idealized man in her eyes. It made her wonder why he was still a bachelor in his mid-thirties. 

They ate in silence for a little while, Rosaline toying with whether or not it would be appropriate to ask such a question before, finally, she spoke, “Can I ask you something?”

George looked over at her as he lifted his glass from the table, “Of course.”

He kept his eyes on her as he took a sip.

“You don’t have to answer,” she assured.

“Try me,” he pressed. 

Rosaline dropped her hands to the side of her plate, willing herself to speak, “Do you…you’re single, right?”

She internally cringed at how awkward it came out. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip to hide her grimace. 

George’s face bent into an amused smile and he set his glass back down on the table with a dull clunk, “Yes, I’m very much single. I would not be taking you out to my favourite sights or partaking in our agreement if I wasn’t.”

“Okay,” Rosaline nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Did you think I wasn’t single?” George questioned, cutting another piece of fish casually. 

Rosaline shrugged, “Just…hard to believe that you are.”

He glanced over at her again, “Why’s that?”

Rosaline huffed a nervous laugh at his obvious pressing for her confession and she shifted in her chair, “You’re just so…wonderful so it’s strange to think that no one has laid claim on you yet.”

George visibly melted at her soft words and he set his fork down to give the conversation his full attention, “You’re sweet, Rose.”

“It’s true,” she insisted, “I keep waiting for something to happen…some twist to reveal to me that all is not as I’ve been led to believe.”

“Well, I can promise I am single. I have been for about a year now.” he told her, genuinely, “And anything you want to know, I will tell you. I’m an open book to you.”

Rosaline shifted in place for a moment, weighing the options of things she could ask now that he had given her the okay. She nudged her glasses up her nose and crossed her legs under the table and started with the first question that lingered at the forefront of her mind, “Why did the last relationship end?”

George settled back into his chair as his gaze dropped to the tabletop, “Starting with the deep questions now, are you?”

Rosaline flushed, “Sorry, I—”

He politely waved his hand between them as if to brush aside her apology before he answered her question, “We were engaged, actually, for about a year, but I was so focused on my career, my research, my publications, giving everything in me to Oxford, that it got between us. I couldn’t give her the kind of work-life balance she expected of me.

“My career is something I’ve poured everything into, something I’ve worked tirelessly for. I just can’t imagine giving any of it up—not now, not ever. And if a partner can’t understand that, then that’s not the person for me.” George explained so eloquently, so calmly, the truth heavy in his words.

“I’m sorry,” Rosaline exhaled softly. “It must hurt when someone you love doesn’t understand your priorities.”

“It’s fine—it was a mutual agreement,” George shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

A brief silence lingered.

Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, George added, “But she never read poetry.”

Rosaline smiled in dramatic shock, “Never? Maybe you dodged a bullet then.”

George laughed, “Perhaps so.”

He shared some more with her about his past, from his first little girlfriend in primary school to his awkward first kiss behind the aforementioned chip shop in his hometown. Although Rosaline enjoyed hearing his stories and learning about him, the evil glint of jealousy in knowing he had been with plenty of women in his past tugged at her heart.

So, once their plates were empty and cleared and they each dug their forks into the piece of pie to share, Rosaline turned the conversation to something lighter with a simple, “When’s your birthday?”

“My birthday?” George’s eyebrows raised in amused surprise at her question, his forkful of pie held in midair, “February 15th.”

“Oh, so it’s already passed.”

George smiled and took his bite of pie, “There will be another.”

After lunch, George insisted on paying, despite Rosaline’s protests to split the bill. She felt a twinge of discomfort, her desire to contribute stemming from her forced independence that she had grown accustomed to through her life, but his quiet insistence left no room for argument. The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering through the gardens of Blenheim Palace, hand in hand, discussing literature, their lives, and everything in between. It felt effortless, like something they’d been doing forever. Rosaline tried not to let herself get ahead of the moment.

They climbed into the front seat of George’s Mercedes together in anticipation to head back to Oxford. Rosaline glanced around the interior of the car with her hands folded on her lap, taking note of how pristine it all was, not even a speck of dust on the dashboard. It was something she hadn’t noticed before the last time he had driven her home, but perhaps, after the day they had just shared, she was starting to see more of who he was underneath his handsome exterior. 

As he turned the key in the ignition, George asked, “Should I drop you off at the dorms then?”

“Um,” Rosaline tucked her hair behind her ear as she tore her gaze away from admiring the car to look over at him. In reality, the concept of saying goodbye felt absolutely dreadful to her. She decided to try her luck, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

George’s eyes widened as if that was the last thing he had expected her to say. He blinked at her, processing, and she could almost see his brain hurriedly debating the pros and cons of such a situation. She opened her mouth to take it back, but he spoke first.

“Alright, if you’re sure.”

“Yeah,” she exhaled with a smile she tried to bite back to avoid looking absolutely psycho, “if that’s okay with you.”

“Should be,” George nodded as he buckled his seatbelt, “Just…no getting any ideas, okay? That’s not what I wanted out of today.”

“Fine with me,” Rosaline agreed. She’d give anything just to spend as much time with him as possible. 

They drove through the countryside back to Oxford to the soft sounds of radio. They didn’t talk—having done enough of that during their time at the Palace—but the calmness of the drive was relaxing. Rosaline kept stealing glances over at George as he drove, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the centre console. He looked so effortlessly handsome and suddenly the idea that she was going to be staying the night at his house had butterflies filling her stomach.

It helped that she had been to his house before, almost a sense of familiarity easing the slight nervousness inside her as he pulled into the narrow driveway and parked. She peered through the windshield up at the modest white paneled townhouse as they unbuckled and she followed him up the front steps to the jingling of his keys in hand. 

He apologized for the mess, not having expected to have company, but in reality, there didn’t look to be much mess at all. It simply looked homely, lived in, with items on the coffee table and mail stacked on the foyer console. 

She followed him into the kitchen and he offered her something to drink like a good host and, with her glass of water in hand, she stood with him as he made something simple for dinner. Their conversation flowed naturally, laughter filling the room with warmth and their voices carrying through the main floor when the topic got more exciting. 

Once the pan was in the oven, Rosaline found her way in front of him, trapping him against the counter as her hands helped themselves around his waist. He didn’t push her away—he never did—and, instead, his fingers stroked through the ends of her soft hair as he stared into her eyes. They shared a few slow, lingering kisses in the privacy of his kitchen after a long day of going without. 

His hands felt so good on her body, even in all the innocent places he touched over her hips and her back, and Rosaline’s arms draped around his shoulders until they were chest to chest. It was sweet and languid and yet it still had her heart absolutely racing with every small sound of their lips meeting and parting. She swore she could have kissed him forever. The timer on the oven broke them out of their reverie with a startle. 

They sat at the kitchen table and each had a serving of the shepherd’s pie he made; a family recipe that his mum used to always make when he was a kid. It was a little dry but Rosaline didn’t offer a single complaint, it was still overall quite tasty. Besides, she was his guest and it wasn’t like it was realistic for him to be good at everything. 

After eating, they shared the responsibility of washing the dishes (even if George insisted that she didn’t have to help) and then cuddled up together on the couch in the living room to watch a movie. Rosaline was impressed with herself at her ability to act normal and not let her hands go wandering. In fact, she was enjoying herself so much just being with him that there wasn’t even much of a need for anything more. 

When the film was over and the night was coming to a close, Rosaline followed him up to the second floor and he showed her where the bathroom was, right at the top of the stairs, and then the small guest room and, finally, his bedroom. Situated at the front of the house, his bedroom was painted a deep royal blue with matching trim to that of the main floor, housing gold framed paintings here and there along the walls. Dark furniture and an antique paisley rug filled the modest space with a matching masculine bedspread tucked neatly over the sizable queen size bed and topped with two throw pillows. Warm, elegant, homey, him. 

“It’s up to you if you want to stay in the guest room or in here with me,” George told her from the doorway, “No pressure.”

Rosaline turned to face him from the centre of his room, her cheeks dusted pink with the unfamiliar concept of sharing a bed with a man despite how much her heart yearned for it, “Can I stay in here?”

George smiled softly, “If you wish. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

He let her borrow some of his clothes for bed: sweats and a t-shirt that were only slightly too big on her. She changed in the bathroom and he, of course, didn’t bat an eye. Once they were both washed up, George took the responsibility of taking off the two decorative pillows from the bed and then moved to close the curtains. 

As he did so, Rosaline helped herself under the sheets and took off her glasses, folding them and setting them on the bedside table, and then snuggled down, pulling the covers up to her chin. After months of sleeping on a lumpy dorm mattress apart from the odd weekend at home, the feeling of a real bed was heavenly. She sighed dreamily, “Your bed is so cozy.”

George chuckled and pulled back the covers to join her on the other side of the bed, teasing lightly, “I’ve heard it’s even better with two people in it.”

She giggled, “Not that I’d know.”

George settled and turned his head to look at her with a smile, “Now you do.”

She met his gaze, illuminated only by the warm light of the bedside sconces and shadowed in some places. After a moment, she whispered, “Thank you for today. I loved it.”

George smiled genuinely, his eyes crinkling slightly in the corners, “My pleasure.”

Then, as if driven by instinct, Rosaline moved her body closer, the sheets rustling around them, and he lifted them up to welcome her against him. His arm settled around her waist and he let out a peaceful exhale against her head. 

“Are you a cuddler?” she asked with a small giggle. 

“Very much so,” he replied lightly. 

“Mm,” she shifted under his arm again, “show me how.”

George’s breathy chuckle fell against her temple, “Alright, face away from me. Hope you like being the little spoon.”

As Rosaline rolled over as per his instruction, she couldn’t help the leap of her heart at his words and the way he pulled her body back against his chest to mould to the shape of him. Once they settled, she replied with a simple yet cheeky,

“Guess we’ll see.”

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[pitviperofdoom]

I've said before that TAZ Balance is a great fandom for crossover AUs because you can have the Starblaster land in pretty much any fandom world at some point during the Stolen Century and it works out

And proof of this is that buried in my google docs is an outline of a crossover fic where the Starblaster touches down in Moominvalley.

Obviously I wasn't going to let the Hunger devour this particular world, so they do wind up finding the Light of Creation in time, but unfortunately they find it in the hands of the Groke, who doesn't want to give it up because it turns out their powers cancel each other out, allowing her to approach people without freezing them to death. (Obviously Magnus is the first to befriend her, and they eventually solve this by crafting her some stones of farspeech so she can at least talk to people even if she can't get close to them anymore)

Also the longer they stayed in Moominvalley the more it gets "infected" by D&D mechanics, to the point where Snufkin starts granting Bardic Inspiration and Moomintroll finds out he can Action Surge. (Sniff gets really good at the Disengage and Dodge actions.)

No clue if I'll ever go back to it but just for fun here's what I wrote for it:

Barely a week after the start of spring, a ship descended into the valley and landed far too close for comfort by Moominmamma’s flower beds.

Moominpappa was smoking on the porch when it happened, having woken up with the sun before anyone else in the house. It was a gray, overcast morning, with the sky still shaking off the winter weather, but all at once it seemed as though the clouds had parted. As he watched, pipe tumbling from his lips, the dense cloud cover split around the silvery hull of a sailing vessel.

And oh, how impressive it was! It rivalled even Hodgkins’ Amphibian in pure impressiveness. From one end to the other the ship shone like polished metal--perhaps that was what it was--and there seemed to be a faint shimmering bubble around it. At the stern, a large, glowing white ring rotated slowly, flashing in the sunlight that peeked through the now scattered clouds.

The air hummed as the ship touched down not far from where Pappa sat watching its arrival in speechless awe. It didn’t seem very loud to his ears, but a moment later Moominmamma opened the door and stepped outside, perplexed.

“Now what’s all this?” she asked. “You weren’t expecting visitors this morning, were you, Pappa?”

“I wasn’t,” Moominpappa admitted, getting up to retrieve his dropped pipe. “How strange. Has Hodgkins built something new?”

“Only one way to find out, I suppose,” Moominmamma said. “I’ll set a few more places at the table, just in case.”

Moominpappa squinted. HIs eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, but he could make out a number of figures standing on the deck. He counted five at first, but as he approached the silver ship and its spinning ring, he spotted two more.

“Hello!” he called up. “Hodgkins, I don’t suppose that’s you, is it?”

At first there was no answer, aside from the shimmery bubble flickering out. Moominpappa squinted. The ship’s crew appeared to be conferring with one another. After a moment, one of their number broke away from the rest. A small staircase lowered itself from the hull, and the individual descended the steps cautiously.

Moominpappa blinked, then tipped his head back a little. The person before him, who was quite tall and broad enough to resemble a bear, offered a friendly smile that was only slightly offset by his noticeable black eye. After a moment, he extended a thickly muscled arm for a handshake.

“Hail and well met!” the newcomer greeted.

---

As bizarre dimensions went, a world populated by talking white hippo creatures ranked pretty low compared to what they’d already seen. Still, there had been a terrifying moment in which Magnus wondered whether or not the creature he was greeting was even sentient.

But the moment passed, and the hippo(?) accepted his handshake with a cheerful, “Welcome to Moominvalley! That’s quite a ship you have there,” in a deep baritone voice that definitely sounded out of place coming from a vaguely marshmallow-shaped creature with a top hat and a pipe.

A response like that meant a lot of things. One, they were probably friendly. And two, a giant flying ship landing near their backyard apparently wasn’t that weird. It was good to set parameters like that. 

“Uh, thanks!” Turning, Magnus waved up to the others. “So anyway, we’re super sorry for landing right next to your house, if you want us to move we totally can, just give us a minute…” 

“You’re fine, as long as you don’t flatten the rosebushes by accident,” the creature chuckled, pausing to puff on his pipe. “If you’d like, you can tell us all about it over breakfast.”

“You know what, that sounds awesome,” Magnus said, sincerely. It was always nice to find a world that appreciated good old-fashioned Rustic Hospitality. “Quick question, though, just to get it out of the way… have you seen any bright lights, recently?”

“Bright lights…” The hippo’s round dark eyes squinted thoughtfully. “What sort of bright lights?”

“Oh, you couldn’t miss it,” Magnus replied. “White, sparkly, falling out of the sky, fills you with the overwhelming need to go out and get it… have you seen anything like that?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” the creature said, sounding genuinely regretful. 

It was Magnus’s turn to squint. In past worlds, the Light of Creation had been craveable enough for people to lie to keep them away from it, but after ninety-odd years Magnus was reasonably certain that he could tell one way or the other. Hippo Man seemed truthful. “Well, that’s all right. Thanks anyway.”

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out, just in case,” the creature offered. “In any case, the offer of breakfast still stands. Feel free to invite your friends; we don’t mind guests around here.”

“Oh, sweet. Uh, there’s like seven of us, if that’s okay.”

“The more the merrier! I’ll go and let Moominmamma know. It’s a lovely morning; we might as well set up the breakfast table outside today.” With that, the hippo tipped his top hat to Magnus and turned to walk back to the tall house.

Magnus watched him go. “Huh.”

It had been less than a week since they first slipped into this dimension with the Hunger snapping at their heels, and they had spent most of that time orbiting the planet to take stock of it from afar. First contact with the locals was always a gamble, so a friendly first impression was always a good sign.

“Magnus?” Davenport called down. “How does it look down there? Was that creature friendly?”

“Yeah, I’ll say!” Magnus answered. “We’re invited to breakfast!”

Davenport opened his mouth to reply, only to be shoved unceremoniously out of the way as Taako bypassed the stairs and vaulted over the railing. “Hell yeah, I’m starving!” Lup was close behind, taking the steps three at a time.

“Hey, wait a minute, we don’t know if what they’re serving is even safe!” Davenport shouted after them.

“We have spells for that, dingus!” Lup yelled back without looking over her shoulder.

Davenport sighed and let them go before turning to Magnus. “Any sign of the Light of Creation?”

“He said he hasn’t seen it,” Magnus answered. “I don’t think he was lying, but…”

Merle’s head poked over the railing. “Ooh, that’s my time to shine! Be right down!” 

Davenport sighed in resignation, threw his hands upward, and followed. From what Magnus could tell, Lucretia and Barry were close behind him.

By the time everyone had disembarked, and Magnus had gone up to the ship to check on Fisher, breakfast was just about ready. There was a long table set up out on the grass, covered in a clean white tablecloth and set with eleven places and plates piled high with pancakes and fresh fruit. There were three hippo-creatures now; aside from the original in the top hat, there was one in an apron and a smaller one with no adornments at all. Two parents and a kid, maybe? On the table--literally on the table--was a little girl nimbly dodging the dishes to put down silverware. She was tiny: small enough to fit in the palm of Magnus’s hand. Even the smallest gnomes and halflings would tower over her; Davenport certainly did.

As Magnus watched, fascinated by the idyllic little scene, the smallest hippo began laying out a twelfth place setting. The tiny girl rounded on him, hands on her hips.

“What are you doing, Moomintroll?” she demanded. “There are four of us and seven of them, we don’t need any more plates.”

“It’s just in case!” the hippo creature answered, a little defensively. 

The girl rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m bothering asking,” she said. “It’s not even a week into spring, you know.”

“Now, Little My,” the apron-wearer chided her gently. “It never hurts to be prepared, no matter who happens to show up.” She turned to the crew of the Starblaster with a warm smile. “Of course, you’re all very welcome. You look as if you’ve had a long journey.”

“You have nooo idea,” Lup muttered.

“I believe introductions are in order,” Top Hat said, clapping his hands together. “You may call me Moominpappa.”

“I am Moominmamma,” the apron-wearer said. “But please, feel free to call me Mamma if you like.”

“I’m Moomintroll,” the third creature piped up. “This is our friend LIttle My.”

“I can speak for myself,” Little My said pointedly.

“One of these things is not like the other,” Taako singsonged under his breath. Magnus dug his elbow into the elf’s ribs.

“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” Davenport said, puffing his chest out as he stepped up as the leader. “I am Captain Davenport of the Starblaster, and these are my crewmates and friends. Thank you very much for your hospitality.”

“Well, then, why don’t we all eat?” Moominmamma suggested, pressing her hands together. “We can all get to know each other over a good meal.”

---

Such interesting strangers, Moomintroll thought. They all wore such pretty red coats and came in all sizes, from Captain Davenport whose head barely reached the top of Moomintroll’s snout, to Mr. Magnus Burnsides who towered over everyone. Some of them were beautiful, like quiet Lucretia with her white hair, and Lup and Taako with their long pointed ears and matching faces. Others were more plain but still friendly-looking, like bespectacled Barry and stout Merle.

And the ship. Was this what the Oshun Oxtra of Pappa’s stories had looked like, after Hodgkins taught it to fly? Pappa never said anything about a spinning white ring.

In any case, there were a lot of names to learn, and Moomintroll did his best, though he wasn’t quite sure which one was Lup and which was Taako. At the moment one of them was chatting with Mamma, asking about her pancake recipe.

Somehow, Little My had ended up sitting right next to Magnus, whose name Moomintroll couldn’t possibly forget because of how incredibly big he was. He couldn’t help but think that if Little My were to fall from a great height and land on Magnus’s head, Magnus would hardly notice.

“So what sort of creature are you, to get so big?” Little My asked boldly.

“Oh, I’m just a human,” Magnus answered. “Er… do you guys have humans around here?”

“None in Moominvalley, that’s for sure,” Moomintroll answered.

“I’ve never heard of a human before,” Little My said.

“Yeah, that’s fine, wouldn’t be the first time,” Magnus said. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Little My asked suspiciously.

“It means we’re not from around here, darling,” the woman who was either Lup or Taako replied. Even their voices were similar, almost musical in the way they traveled through the octaves.

“I was wondering about that,” Mamma said. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”

“Yes, and what brings you here?” Pappa added eagerly. “I’m always eager to hear news from travelers.”

Their breakfast guests exchanged glances. They didn’t look suspicious about it; they looked to Moomintroll as if they simply didn’t know how to answer.

“How far did you travel to get here?” he tried. “It must have been far, if you have a ship that flies. Did you come from over the ocean?”

“We came from beyond the stars,” one of them, whose name Moomintroll had regrettably forgotten, said at last.

“Barold,” one of the twins warned.

“What?” Barold shrugged. “At this point, what do we really have to lose by telling the truth?”

“Yeah that’s a good idea, telling the truth,” Merle said with a grin.

“No, wait--!” Davenport protested. 

For a moment, Moomintroll felt lightheaded. Before he even had time to worry about it, the strange dizzy spell had already passed, leaving him none the worse for wear. He shook his head in confusion.

“So, any of you guys seen the Light of Creation in the past couple of weeks?” Merle asked.

“The Light of Creation?” Mamma echoed. “That sounds lovely. I haven’t the faintest idea what it is, I’m afraid.”

“It’s hard to explain exactly what it is or what it’s made of, in literal and scientific terms,” Barold replied. “Mostly because we still aren’t sure ourselves. But in appearance it manifests as a bright light, about so big.” He held his hands apart. “You would know it if you saw it. It would have been seen falling from the sky.”

Little My raised her hand in triumph. “I haven’t seen anything,” she said loftily. A look of confusion crossed her face. “I mean, I haven’t seen the light you’re talking about.” Her confusion turned to a frown, and then a scowl. “I haven’t seen it. I haven’t seen it.”

“What’s the matter?” Mamma asked. “It’s alright if you haven’t seen it. I don’t think any of us have.”

“I was trying to say I had so that I could play a trick on them!” Little My blurted out, then clapped her paws over her mouth. 

“Are you feeling alright, Little My?” Moomintroll asked.

“I keep saying things I don’t mean to—!” Little My stopped talking for a moment, still pressing her paws to her mouth. Her scowl deepened, more thoughtful than angry, before she finally lowered her paws and leveled a smirk at him. “Hey Moomintroll, who did you set the extra place at the table for?”

Moomintroll opened his mouth to say Sniff, or Too-Ticky, or Snorkmaiden, or even the Hemulen. What came out instead was, “It’s for Snufkin, if he comes back today.” He froze, wide-eyed, one paw flying to his mouth.

“Moominpappa, tell a lie!” Little My said.

Pappa looked confused for a moment before replying, “You’re behaving very oddly at the moment.” He blinked. “Oh, my. That’s not what I meant to say at all.”

Little My leapt up onto the table, sending Magnus’s glass of raspberry juice flying. “You!” she shouted, pointing across the table to Merle. “You said something about telling the truth, and now none of us can tell a lie!”

“Let me see,” Mamma said. “I find Ms. Fillyjonk to be excellent company. Sniff is fearless and selfless and a very good cook. It is currently raining. …No, I can still tell lies.”

Moomintroll looked to Merle, who had stuffed half a pancake into his mouth to keep from having to reply. Davenport and Lucretia had their heads in their paws.

One of the twins barely looked up from his food as he replied, “Merle cast a spell that makes you tell the truth.”

Merle almost choked on his mouthful. “Well don’t talk if you got caught up in it too!” 

“I didn’t. You’re just being an idiot.”

“Incredible,” Pappa murmured.

“Not really,” the other twin said, lazily lifting her paw. Before the eyes of everyone at the table, her slender paw burst into flame. Before Moomintroll could think of grabbing the juice pitcher, the fire went out without leaving a single scorch mark behind. “Most of us can do stuff like that. It’s whatever.”

Little My almost dove over the table. “Can you teach me to do that?”

“Maybe some other time, punkin.”

Barold cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said, “Sorry about Merle, that’s the only spell he knows.”

“Is not! Who healed your ass five times in the last cycle?”

“As I was saying,” Barold went on. “You were asking us where we came from?”

“Yes, you mentioned stars,” Mamma replied.

Moomintroll sat up straighter. Stars were always worth discussing. “You said beyond the stars,” he added.

“Yes,” Davenport said reluctantly. “I don’t suppose you know about other worlds, do you?”

“Other planets, maybe,” Moomintroll said. “And the Hobgoblin was up on the moon for a while, but he doesn’t really live there.”

[cottonlemonade]

Stargazing

word count: 972 || avg. reading time: 4 mins.

pairing: Sakusa x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff

warnings: none

request: watching Goosebumps with caramel popcorn while dressed as a shark with Sakusa || fluffy, camping with crush Sakusa

As summer drew to a close the newly graduated third years of the Itachiyama volleyball club, along with a select few classmate friends, decided to go spend a weekend outdoors - away from the city and the constant noise, away from the impending pressure of university, soaking up those last few pockets of warmth before fall took over and their days would undoubtedly be ruled by studying once more. However, after Sakusa‘s ice-cold glare at the word “camping”, it quickly turned to glamping.

The sun started to set when the shuttle rolled smoothly along the narrow road up to a small grouping of dome-shaped tents nestled neatly in a wide clearing on an otherwise densely vegetated hillside. Fall had already begun to dot the trees with golds and vermillion and although the weather was cooling down by the day, many visitors strolled across the lawn, playing badminton or throwing a frisbee accompanied by a lot of loud hollering and laughter, much to Sakusa’s dismay. One by one you hopped off the bus and looked around, taking deep breaths of the fresh mountain air. Mount Fuji, the bottom of which was surrounded by a cloud of gray mist, was clearly visible in the distance and its snowy top seemed to glow in the remaining sunlight.

Sleeping arrangements were somewhat quickly decided with only minor squabbling and the group headed to the nearby town center to grab fresh supplies for this night‘s BBQ.

While Komori was busy orchestrating the grilling, Sakusa beelined to the still empty showers to escape the incessant chatter of the group for a while. He let out a long sigh as the hot water ran down his back, massaging his shoulder. It still felt stiff after the last match. He replayed the game in his mind, every block, every spike, every failed attack. He cringed when he remembered how he messed up a serve because he heard you calling his name in encouragement through the crowd‘s cheers. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes for a moment, your voice still in his ears. You had stood with the reserves on the side of the court, the team jacket tied around your pudgy tummy, scribbling notes on your clipboard without looking at the paper so you didn’t miss anything. As the picture of your smile during the inevitable victory hug that followed became more vivid, he shut the water off.

When he rejoined the others, hair as curly as ever from the steam, they were already plating up.

“Hey captain, glad you could make it.”, Komori greeted him jokingly, “To be honest, we thought you might have called a taxi back to Tokyo.”

The group chuckled and his cousin nodded to the free seat next to you.

After dinner, it was voted that everyone would toss around a glow-in-the-dark volleyball that one of them bought just for the occasion. Sakusa didn’t feel the need to join and when he spotted you sitting outside your tent wrapped in a blanket he decided to push his bedtime back a little.

“Not in the mood?”, he asked, standing a bit awkwardly with his hands in his pockets in front of the wooden deck the tent was on.

“More so that I can trip on a well-lit court just fine. Invisible divots in the meadow would only make it worse.”

He nodded.

“Good point.”

“Hey!”, you laughed.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Uhm, no go ahead.”, you scooched over on the picnic blanket you had laid out and he sat down next to you.

“How come you’re here and not playing over there?”

“Not interested.”, Sakusa said simply, “But I don’t need Komori accusing me of being antisocial, so…”

“Ah, hiding in plain sight with the other introvert. I see I see.”

He smiled.

“So, what were you doing before I interrupted?”

“Just stargazing.”

He leaned back on his hands and followed your eyes. The night was strewn with stars, hanging like a thousand little lanterns on the inky sky. The crescent moon barely lit the campgrounds. Sakusa shivered when a breeze brushed past.

“Here.”, you said and tugged at the blanket around your shoulders, throwing part of it over his back. He had half a mind to shrug it off but it carried your warmth and scent, so instead, after a second thought, he pulled it closer.

“Look, there is Cygnus.”, he pointed to a cluster of stars somewhere to your right to distract you from possibly noticing the blush that crept onto his cheeks.

“Really?”

“No idea.”

You squinted at him and he chuckled.

For a while you were both quiet, just letting your eyes wander along the stars. The sounds of the fellow campers were more subdued now. People were talking over bonfires, toasting to the end of summer and someone was playing relatively pleasant music in the distance. The smell of roasted marshmallows wafted in your direction. Sakusa looked down and noticed that your hand was only inches away from his. If he moved his fingers a little further…

“I’m gonna miss being your manager.”, you sighed without taking your eyes off the sky.

“We’re going to the same university, aren’t we?”, he asked, still focused on slowly bringing his hand closer to yours.

“Oh, yeah but I meant, all of you guys. Not just you. Even though I’m gonna miss managing you more than - wait, not that I - uhm, I meant that-“

Your head snapped to the blanket where his large hand now covered your chubby fingers.

“I got it, don’t worry.”, he said, his voice sounding a lot raspier than he would have liked and so he attempted to covertly clear his throat.

Not even the night could hide his blush as he tried to look unbothered when you turned your hand up to lace your fingers with his.

art: @DcGhost_2710 on Twitter

a/n: request for @act-nat-ural

Thank you so much for this soft request! I hope you enjoyed it and thank you for your kind words! 🌟🫶🏻

for requests see here