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neilsbeloved · 16 days ago

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the alchemy

summary: clark’s always been adamant on being private with his personal life. few friends, low profile, and a hushed relationship. he can’t understand why people would want to publicize everything about their life. that is until he sees you talking to one of the school’s football players.

pairing: quarterback!clark x student body president!fem!reader

tags: tooth rotting FLUFF, legally aged students making out, established secret relationships, clark being Whipped with a capital W, slightly insecure clark, emotionally mature reader, football descriptions, no use of y/n

The faint smell of donuts and caramel coffee fill the council office as you hear the soft click of the door lock. You turn around and you're immediately met with your boyfriend, clad in his plaid blue button-up longsleeve shirt, worn-out bag slung over his shoulders, and lips immediately placing a soft kiss on your cheek.

"Woah, woah, hold it there farm boy," you laugh, placing a hand right in the middle of his chest as his kisses quickly descended to your neck. The thought of him not actually locking the door haunted your mind.

"What?" He breathes. Still continuing his attacks on the column of your neck while carefully placing your food and beverage on your table. "I missed you."

With a little more effort on your push—which was exceptionally hard considering how much Clark has improved in terms of making you lose your mind—he finally pulls away. A bummed-out pout shaping his lips.

You smile even wider. Who knew the big friendly farm boy everyone walks all over on is actually the biggest grump when he doesn't get kisses?

No one, of course. Not one soul in Smallville High School knows because your relationship with Clark isn't even out to the public. Not even your closest friend knows about it—and you're sure his closest friends don't know either.

But it's been like that for three out of the on-going four years you two have spent in Smallville High and so naturally neither of you wanted to break the streak.

You run your head through his soft brown locks, giving him a sweet kiss on the lips. Clark's face immediately lights up, already pulling you off of the table you were leaning on to exchange positions. This time, he has a better view of the blank canvas that is your collarbone.

"Missed you," he repeated. "Brought you donuts and coffee from the Talon."

"Didn't know they did deliveries again." You humor him, grabbing the brown bag and pulling a donut out. Clark watched as you point the donut at him, urging him to take a bite. With his eyes locked in yours, he takes a slow and relaxed bite. You wipe the side of his mouth with your finger before taking your own bite. Groaning when the sweet taste of the glazed donut touches your tongue.

"They allow it for certain people." Clark plays along, nodding at you. His eyes wander to the gigantic bulletin board you had in the council office, seeing almost ten listed items now struck-off with a bright red marker. "Specifically people that are overworking themselves again."

You roll your eyes, rolling to his side as you grab the cup of coffee. "Who says I was? I just did my job."

"Babe, you aren't the only one on the council. You can't just cover for everyone's jobs just 'cause they aren't doing theirs," Clark replies, watching you eat.

"Says the one that always takes on Chloe's extra load," You retort with a sly grin. "You do know that the reason most of Chloe's writers are bailing on her is because they don't like her way of gathering her news, right?" You place down the coffee, still eating your donut as you place a hand on the one Clark had resting on the table.

Clark chuckles, "Chloe's my friend, what can I say? She's been like that since fifth grade."

"At least she's passionate about it. It's so rare to see someone so committed in their craft that I can't even deny whenever Chloe asks me for an exclusive… which, mind you, is almost seven times a week." You sigh, head subtly shaking.

"Weren't you the one that wanted somebody aside from me to interview you?" Clark furrows his eyebrows, putting on a thinking face. His eyes squint, "Something along the lines of not getting work done."

Your eyes roll back, finishing the glazed donut in your hand. "Yeah, 'cause I clearly remember how we spent twenty-five minutes eating each other's faces and five minutes actually answering questions."

You throw the crumpled brown bag to the trash bin from afar. You miss, badly, but Clark's quick to distract you from your lack of shooting skills by kissing you. Again.

"Let's shorten that twenty-five minutes then," he smiles into the kiss. Snaking his arm around your waist as he could still taste the sugary taste of the donut on your tongue.

The kiss was anything but sweet. It was full of hunger, desire… and something you can't quite pinpoint. Usually Clark has his own rhythm of sucking the air out of you but this time it's messy—all over the place. Like you'd disappear any moment now if he didn't move faster.

He doesn't mistake the very subtle jingle of door handle. He hears it crystal clear and yet, he doesn't pull away. When the sound registers in your ear, you pull away without a second to think.

You immediately grab a spare folder on the other table. Clearing your throat as you looked down on it, pretending to flip through the papers. Clark on the other hand looked directly at the student who came in.

It was Adam. The same guy he saw you with earlier.

"Oh—is this a bad time? I can come by later?"

"Actually," Clark begins but you cut him off.

"No, it's fine. Do you have a concern?" You ask directly. Putting on your professional mask as you looked at Adam by the door. Ignoring how you can actually feel Clark glaring holes at the side of your face with his jaw clenched.

Adam stutters. Shifting from you to Clark, then back to you. "I, uh, I was wondering if there were any other tutors available? I'm kinda flunking Chemistry and I need to ace the upcoming test."

"Then study," you hear Clark mumble. It was a little louder than he had expected but who cares, obviously not him.

You inhale sharply, turning your head to the bulletin board for the tutoring sessions for the month. Your shoulders flunk when you see your name under the Chemistry border. The other one—Lana—was already done with her tutoring hours so it was only you left.

Your head turns to Clark. He had already seen the arrangement on the bulletin board, he was looking at you now to wait for your response to Adam's request.

"Uhm, you can take my slot. What time works for you?"

"Any time you're free." Adam smiles at you. Clark rolls his eyes.

You nod unenthusiastically. Taking the clipboard beside Clark and handing it to Adam. "You can write on the 4:30 PM row. I'll be at the library fifteen minutes prior to our schedule, and I can wait for you until quarter to five."

Adam happily writes his name, glancing up to see you and Clark exchanging looks. "Is he signing up for a tutoring class too?"

"No," the two of you say in unison.

Your eyebrows furrow slightly at Clark. The farm boy breathing deeply before he responds. "I'm asking about the, uh, football schedule," he looks at you for confirmation. When you nod approvingly, he does too. "Yeah, the football schedule."

"Oh… Well, shouldn't you be asking Coach Teague that?"

"How would you know?" Clark raises an eyebrow, sounding way sassier than you ever heard him speak. Adam looks at him with subtle surprise, masking it with a friendly smile. "Because I am in the football team?"

The air quickly shifts as Clark and Adam have a stare-down. Only broken off when you clear your throat. Adam reluctantly says goodbye, stepping out of the office with a wave directed to you.

When the door closes, you turn to Clark with your arms crossed. "What?" He groans. He knows that look all too well.

"Are you okay with me tutoring him?" You ask straightforwardly.

"Why wouldn't I be? You've tutored dozens of our classmates over the years." He shrugs. His hand slowly coming up to tug on the strap of his bag.

"You sure? 'Cause it's a yes or no question, Clark. I can have someone else cover for me if you don't want me to tutor him," you say genuinely. Brushing away the lock of hair that fell in front of his handsome face.

Clark's lips purse into a thin line as he nods, hands finding solace on your hips. "Yes, baby, I'm sure. Just… don't overwork yourself, okay? I don't want you gettin' tired from something that isn't even your job."

You bite back a smile, looking into his eyes with stars in yours while he pulls you in for a hug. Your head rests on his shoulder as you wonder to yourself—how exactly did I manage to score a man like this?

"Gotta go, handsome. I'll see you back home," you give him a chaste kiss. Using every self-control you have not to respond to Clark's obvious attempts of deepening the kiss.

The first tutoring session you had with Adam was a quick one. Adam had a pretty solid foundation, he understood the concepts clearly, his only flaw was in his application of said concepts. Usually, he'd do well on the conceptual-based questions while also failing the problems connected to it.

One session wasn't going to cut it and so he booked you for four other sessions. All of which had a longer time frame, extending thirty minutes more from the usual one and a half hour long session. That only meant that you had to spend two hours with him every Tuesday and Thursday for two whole weeks.

Now if Clark didn't find it bothersome the first time, he definitely did now.

"So, uh, we still up for six later?" Adam leans on the locker next to years, smiling.

"Yeah, uh, sure. Of course. I'll see you at the library." You smile back. You quickly turn back to your locker and grab your things fast. Adam wasted no time diving into another subject.

"Oh, by the way, I—y'know, I really appreciate you being my tutor. I know you're juggling a lot of responsibilities and still, you never come to a session late and…" your eyebrow arches, waiting for him to finish. Thankfully, he takes the look in your face as a hint. "I was wondering if you'd let me treat you to a coffee? Just something after our session to show my thanks."

Your response arrives fast, without any hesitation. "No, Adam."

Adam gets caught off-guard by the firmness in your voice. He didn't expect you to say yes right away but he didn't exactly expect you to deny it in a split second too. He thought you'd at least think it over for a minute.

"Oh! But, it's, uh, y'know, coffee as friends. I'm not asking you out on a date," he laughs awkwardly but you could see right through him.

"I appreciate the thought, Adam, but no. If you have any questions about the lessons we're discussing, you can reach out to me—but anything else besides that, please do not." You breathe deeply. Eyes catching on the tall figure at the end of the hall, watching your encounter with Adam. "I have to go. I'll see you at the library."

You don't give Adam a second to respond, immediately slipping out of his sight only to find the end of the hall empty. No plaid-wearing farm boy in sight. You swallow on nothing, beginning to feel a thump in your chest.

It takes you some time of walking around to finally catch a glimpse of him. He was standing beside Chloe, visibly talking about something as they had laughs on their faces. You walk over to them, locking eyes with Clark in the process.

Just as you were about to walk by them—and possibly strike up some small talk—your shoulder gets nudged by your friends.

"Hey! We were looking all over for you! Did you hear the news?" Janet, your friend, says.

"What news?"

"Not so fresh meat just made it onto the roster. Rumor says he's starting quarterback," another friend, Rose, says. Her tone held a bit of bite to it, as if she didn't want him on the spot in the first place.

"Now that's a nice headline," a bright voice speaks. All three of you turning to the shaggy-haired blonde. "What d'you think, Clark? Not so fresh senior meat now starting quarterback. Kinda has a ring to me."

You tried to act naturally, chuckling at Chloe's words despite your friends glaring at them. Since he is the topic, you look at Clark. Eyes round and awaiting a response from him.

He doesn't respond though. He simply shrugs, looking at you like your were nothing before pulling Chloe away from probably stirring up a fight.

"That guy has some problems," Rose rolls her eyes, checking her nails carelessly.

"Yeah. He's already senior and he's only just tried out for football now? Damn. Talk about a late bloomer," Janet says high-fiving Rose.

"At least he's cute… right?" Janet turns to you.

"Huh?"

"Clark Kent. He's cute, right?" When Janet repeats her question, you felt something inside of you twitch. Janet's calling your boyfriend cute, and Rose's agreeing with her too. They're checking your boyfriend out. Shamelessly.

But you can't even worry about that now—your mind is filled with the way Clark looked at you moments ago. Like you were nothing. Like he hasn't met you even once.

Of course, you two hide your relationship to the school but there's always something unspoken of each time you look into each other's eyes. It's a comfort and a pleasure at the same time. A cozy blanket in the cold air. Hot chocolate every Christmas. Donuts and caramel coffee in hidden rendezvouses.

There were none of those when Clark looked at you earlier. You can't help but feel there's something wrong.

"Hey Mr. and Mrs. K! I was wondering if Clark was around?" You ask with a smile.

Your relationship with Clark may be a secret to everyone in Smallville, but his parents are a definite exception. Yours, not so much.

Jonathan and Martha share a look you recognize to be an apologetic one. "He's, uh, he's at the barn. He's been there since he got home." Martha answers with a strained smile.

You feel even weirder because Clark's parents have been nothing short of supportive. You two may have hidden the relationship from them for four months but they definitely enjoyed the idea of their son going out with you.

When you nod determinedly, turning around to head to said barn, Jonathan calls you. "Clark's, uh… you may want to be careful approaching him. He's a bit pent-up, with the football and stuff."

You nod. "Oh, of course! I'll be careful. Maybe he just needs a little cheer up."

You head over to the barn in haste. Walking up the loft to see Clark with his head down, writing something in his notebook as a stack of textbooks sat beside it.

"Knock knock." You knock on the wooden rails, letting the sound resonate through the barn.

Clark looks up from his notebook, smiling the moment he registers it was you. But you notice his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Still, you set that aside.

"What a surprise," he replies, voice clipped. "I thought you'd be slumped up with your council work and tutoring."

"And miss out an awesome opportunity to spend time with the charming plaid-wearing farm boy? Pftt, never," you drop yourself beside him. Propping your elbow up on the backrest as you turned your body towards him.

Clark chuckles, looking back down on the coffee table as he began writing again. You felt an even stronger twitch in your body when he does that—ignore you.

He may be tired, drained, or pissed off—but he had never gone through a second of seeing you without kissing you the moment the coast was clear. He'd always sneak in the quickest of kisses even though you two would get caught if he was slower by a millisecond.

"Clark, hey," you touch his shoulder. "I missed you."

His head keeps itself in place, "Missed you too, baby. How was your day?"

"Clearly not as harsh as yours has been. Wanna talk about it? I can spend the night…" you pause. "Oh, also, I heard you're starting quarterback! How'd that happen?"

"Did you now?" He laughs dryly.

The smile on your face falters, his tone felt like a bucket of ice was dumped on your head without your knowledge. He drops his pen, leaning back on the couch as he actually looks at you for the first time this night.

"Well, the previous one was injured. I stepped in." His answer is short and direct. His voice lacking the enthusiasm you're used to. "How about your day?"

You blink. Once. Twice. Thrice.

"Clark, what's the problem?"

Clark's eyes flicker up towards yours, hurt and anxiety evident in your pupils. He feels a tinge of guilt in his chest. Licking his lips, he reaches out for you only for you to pull away.

"Did I do something wrong?" You question. Though no matter how firm your voice was, Clark knew it was close to breaking.

"No, no, baby, you did nothing wrong—" Clark's voice rises as he panics. Fully reaching out to you so he can pull you to his chest. "It's… it's me, okay? I… I just—" he takes in a deep breath. "Don't you think it's time we made our relationship public?"

It's clear that you were surprised with his question. The sharp inhale and your raised eyebrows gave it away no doubt. But why wouldn't you be? Not once has Clark ever thought about making your relationship public. In fact, he was the one that actually proposed it in the first place.

You tried your best to understand him though. "Is there a reason why you want to make our relationship public?"

"Babe, we've been hiding our relationship for three years. We started when we were sophomores, we're seniors now. No one can worry about us anymore. We're graduating in a few months—who cares by now?" This is the first time his voice actually held some energy to it. His hands intertwined with yours as he looks at you for approval.

"Clark, I know when you're lying," you say. Clark's throat bobbing up and down as he clenches his jaw. You place a hand on his cheek, your other hand running through his hair comfortingly, "You know you can tell me anything, Clark. Let's talk about this like adults."

It takes him a second to actually decide to speak, and another second to construct the words in his head. "I don't like how people still think you're single," he starts. "The guys talk about you, people in the hall talk about you… I hear so many promises from people that they'll ask you out either after the game or after graduation—regardless, I can't even respond. I can't tell them that you're my girlfriend because in the first place, no one knows about us—no one'd believe me." You feel his heart beat faster. The continuous thump underneath his chest makes your stomach flip as well.

"Call me selfish, but I can't take it when other people look at you and think that they can have you." His voice drops, hands tightening on yours.

"Like Adam?"

A scoff comes from him. "Yeah, like Adam. Have you even heard half of the stuff he says about you in the locker rooms?" Clark's voice raises. His sharp features straining furiously before he feels your hand tighten around his. It prompts him to raise your intertwined hands, kissing your knuckles. "It's nothing bad, baby, believe me. He wouldn't be walkin' straight if they were bad. It was just that he's so in his head that he actually thought he can take you out on a date."

"So this is about Adam?" You arch a brow, testing the waters. When Clark shakes his head, looking away to hide the smile on his face, you laugh. "Well, y'know, farm boy, he actually just asked me out earlier."

"I know. I heard."

"Then you also heard what I responded with?" Your lips widen slowly.

He sighs, turning his head back to you. "Yes, I did."

You smile at him. He returns it, ten times wider than yours. Your heart flips as the smile finally reaches his eyes—finally feeling right.

Quiet envelopes you both. A comfortable silence before you snuggle on his lap, resting your head on his muscular chest. "I understand how you feel, baby."

One of the things Clark loved about you was your ability to always have him heard and understood. Even the dozens of times he's missed your dates, suddenly cancelling unannounced; you've always been there for him with a patient mind, an awaiting ear… and probably a grumpy attitude when Clark specifically dipped on a day you were really looking forward to.

Now, one thing definitely changed; if before you had to trap him in the barn, force him to be honest and say his feelings, you were content that now all you had to do was talk to him sincerely and directly, no interruptions, and no hotheads.

"Does this mean we're going public?" Clark asks cautiously.

You lift your head, letting your chin rest on the center of his chest. "Just do good on the game tomorrow, 'kay farm boy? We'll see how the day goes."

It wasn't the answer Clark wanted, but he accepted it. It was better than giving him the hard no.

And so you laid there the whole night, trying your best to stay awake while Clark told you about his day. His hands running aimlessly through your hair and body until you fell asleep. When you did, he took you to his bedroom and let you sleep there.

A soft and tender kiss on your forehead to end the night.

Loud roars of the crowd could be heard from any side of the field.

The bleachers were packed with people, majority came from Smallville High while some were from the rival school playing. It's been quite some time since the game started and yet, it still feels like a win can be called any moment now.

You were there—since the very start—sitting at the very front row with Chloe by your side. Your friends Janet and Rose sitting away where the cheerleaders were sat. Each time you watched Clark fall short of a goal, you could feel your heart thump even harder.

Way before the game started, you had another little rendezvous with Clark. Giving him the best good luck charm in the form of red lace—which God knows where he kept—and a kiss on the cheek.

Clark's been training for this game for so long now. Weeks of hardworking and sweat come to this very day where he finally gets to earn his teammates' respect.

31-28, in favor of the opponent.

The air gets struck out of your system when you see the opposing team score another point. Slowly building on their lead against the Crows. Your teeth unconsciously nibbles on your lower lip, pulling and biting the soft tissue as you prayed for a plot twist.

"C'mon Clark, c'mon," you mumble under your breath. Glancing at Jonathan and Martha from a far as they too shared nervous and worried looks.

You hear a ring from somewhere, and suddenly they're all splitting into their respective teams. "The Crows asked for a time out," Chloe says. You nod, noting that on the pad of paper that Chloe gave you earlier. Both of you have been noting game highlights since the start of the game.

"Should we try interviewing them?" The blonde was already standing when she asks you that, eyes narrowed at the group of players bundled far from them.

"No." You shake your head. Chloe looks at you weirdly, you sounded way too energetic. "It's not really the best time, Chloe."

Seven seconds remain on the clock. All players head back to the center line as the game resumes back. Your eyes lock with Clark despite the distance. You could barely make out the expression on his face while he could clearly see yours—full of anxiety and hope, hands in a prayer position in the middle of your face.

With a new found drive to make you proud, he turns to the front to look at the opposing team.

You watch as all of the players scramble fast as soon as the clock began. Clark inhaled, clocking his arm back before throwing the football with all of his human force, every fiber in his being hoping that the other quarterback is able to catch it before the time ran out.

The football felt like it was on air for more than five minutes. Every head in the football grounds followed the brown ball as it made its way across the field, every person holding in their breaths as the second player reached up as the time hit two seconds.

On the last second, he lands a touchdown.

Happiness shoots through your body as you jump with Chloe on the stands. Lungs screaming Clark's name as thunderous cheers filled the space, loud enough to even make the ground shake. The players run over to Clark, crashing into him while he throws away his helmet, eyes immediately searching for you. Just you.

Your heart begins beating faster, the idea in your head being thrown away as your legs move on their own.

Clark watches as you rush down the bleachers, sliding past everyone and anyone in your way. Confusion hits him for a second until he finally understands what you're going to do. Shrugging off his teammates, he runs over to the bleachers' side, the amount of adrenaline running in his veins was almost enough to push him to super speed onto your side and lift you up—almost.

The moment you reach the ground, Clark's already jumping over the fence, catching you in his arms.

"Clark!" You yell out, feeling his strong arms tighten around your waist as he spins you around. Your hair moves with the wind as it splatters messily all over Clark's face, his lips stretched into the widest and biggest smile you've ever seen from him. "You did—"

Your words are cut off as Clark lifts you even higher, crashing his lips into yours. The outside world is anything but a figment of his imagination now that he has you in his arms just after winning his first game as a quarterback—and the best thing of it all, was that it was in front of the whole school.

The deafening sound of cheers and wolf whistles make you smile into the kiss, head subtly pulling back only for Clark to hungrily chase after you, not letting you up so easily. When he finally does, with his lips all puffy and swollen, he's staring at you with nothing but affection.

"A real quarterback now, huh?" You tease, smirking lightheartedly at him.

Clark rolls his eyes, lunging forward to give you another kiss on your lips. "Not really, just your boyfriend."

You lose yourself in his smile, only to be pulled away from it when your head moves to the side. You see Clark's parents looking at you two with proud smiles while beside them were his friends—all of which had a shocked look on their faces.

Clark squeezes your side to get your attention back. A contented look grows on his face as he keeps his hold around you, making the moment last just a little longer before you two face the outcome of whatever just happened.

"Ready to put me down, farm boy?"

"Never.”

hearts, reblogs, and comments are highly appreaciated if you loved the fic !

#clark kent x reader #clark kent fanfic #superman x reader #clark kent fluff #clark kent x reader fluff #smallville fanfic #smallville fluff #superman x reader fluff #dcu #tom welling x reader #clark kent fic #smallville fic

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chingyu1023vick · 11 months ago

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Patch 1.108

🧡 I finished checking my mods for the patch and the new Lovestruck pack. Today comes with many mod updates so please check my Google spreadsheet to ensure you get all necessary updates.

🧡In case you missed it, a new mod has already been available to the public this month! 😊

NEW: Activity Lot Challenges

July 28, 2024:

📌First Round of Mod Updates for patch 1.108:

Balanced Life {Merged Edition} V20

Updated for patch 1.108

Blue Fear V5

Updated to add Fears from EP16 Lovestruck Pack

Bye Bye Eye Ring (Better CAS Randomization) V3

Updated for patch 1.108

Custom Traits in Club Filter V25

Updated to include traits and turn on/ offs from EP16 Lovestruck Pack

Updated to include more traits from llazyneiph's Royalty mod

Higher CAS Story Skills V3

Updated to include Romance Skill from EP16 Lovestruck Pack

Introduction Hider / No Autonomy V6

Updated all introductions for patch 1.108

Added Romantic Introduction from EP16 Lovestruck Pack

Lot Traits Turned Challenges V2

Updated to include Singles Hangout from EP16 Lovestruck Pack

Massage Socials Fix V3

Updated for patch 1.108

More / Less Skill Boost from Moods V4

Updated for patch 1.108

Occult Fanatic Trait V4

Updated OccultInteractionsForFanaticOnly packages for patch 1.108

Walk Normally V5

Updated !chingyu_SleepyWalk and !chingyu_SleepyWalk_Dazed for patch 1.108

��All my Custom Preferences Sets now require Zerbu's The Custom Preferences Mod to work!!! 🚨Get this required mod by @zerbu or else you will stuck with the loading screen and can't see my custom preferences in the game!!!🚨

FYI: Preferences with custom categories after patch 1.108 must be added to a common list shared with modders just like the venue list. Therefore, chingyu_ExtraCharacteristics from Sim Characteristics Overhaul and chingyu_addon_HolidayPreferences from Holiday Tradition Override are unaffected by the patch because they are not in a custom category.

🔽 List of my Custom Preferences with this new mod requirement:

Age Group Custom Preferences

Character Value Custom Preferences

Instant CAS Story Preferences

Lunar Custom Preferences

Mood Custom Preferences

Motive Custom Preferences

Sims Qualities

Strength and Weakness Preferences

❌Broken Mods Not Yet Updated for Patch 1.108:

Less Obsession

Smarter Self-Care

I'm going to update them as soon as possible. 💪 So many of the tunings in these two mods were edited so I have to re-do the mods.

I tagged some mods as required updates for adding compatibilities to traits/ skills/ minor features of the new pack on my spreadsheet but they are safe to be used in the game. My other mods and traits are compatible with the current patch.

After fixing the rest of the broken mods, I will playtest with the pack more to see what extra features I can add to my mods with the new attraction system.

You may view the full changelog and patch note on my Mod Status on Google spreadsheet.

🔆 Changelog in July 2024 HERE

🔹 Links to ALL My Traits, Game Mods, and CCs

🔹List of IDs for creators who want to refer my traits to their own mods

🔹 List of Chingyu’s CC Traits Name and Descriptions for mod users

🔹 Check Mod Status after a patch & Compatibilities

👁‍🗨 Learn how to install a mod & FAQs

👁‍🗨 Terms of Use

👁‍🗨 Ask Questions/ Suggestions/ Bug Reports on Discord

▶ I need to see a screenshot or LE report to help you figure out what’s wrong!

👁‍🗨 Download on my Patreon

👁‍🗨 Follow me on Twitter

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jen-with-a-pen · 1 year ago

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𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.

parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader

word count: 6.5K

warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum

a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!" I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅 ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥ This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know! p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell? p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.

If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

𝙥𝙧𝙤��𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is.

Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter– to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day.

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week.

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together.

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival.

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A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door.

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger.

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder.

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit.

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip.

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing.

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink.

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it.

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time.

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell.

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear.

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below.

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost.

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape.

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully.

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

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The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium.

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form.

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?”

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.”

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan.

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear.

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours.

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.”

You wanted to take his finger and break it.

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.”

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion.

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance.

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles.

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike.

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The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own.

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously.

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side.

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?”

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward.

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard.

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body.

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!”

“No! Fuck– Get off me!”

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.”

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone.

“Is that all, Sergeant?”

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.”

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged.

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you.

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.”

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why.

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame.

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door.

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy.

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however.

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?”

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release.

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core.

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs.

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass.

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.”

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him.

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure.

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you.

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!”

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you.

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode.

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile.

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.

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savyindeepspace · 1 month ago

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Lunch Break with Dr. Zayne

Tags: fem reader x Zayne, dating, couple, cunnilingus, soft dom Zayne, praise, smut, praise, aftercare

Description: meeting Zayne at the hospital and bringing him lunch, but that isn’t all he’s hungry for. The take out you bring isn’t the only thing being eaten.

*MDNI* 🔞

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The soles of your boots echoed off the linoleum floor of Akso Hospital as you approached Zayne’s office. The two of you made a habit of spending your lunch breaks together during weeks where he was overwhelmed with surgeries and meetings, resulting in less date nights. Any time spent together was always worth it, especially when he was pent up from his lack of feeling you, tasting you, hearing your sweet sounds and cries of his name. You stopped outside the opaque glass door and knocked. The whole hospital knew you were dating and Zayne was always expecting you around this time, 12:30 sharp, but you didn’t want to draw too much attention.

“Come in, love,” his gentle voice seeped through the door. “I brought sushi and miso soup from that place we like, I hope you’re hungry.” You watched him adjust his glasses over the handsome hump in his nose, the blue light from his laptop illuminating his face. He sighed, tapping the keys with precision, “a little, I’ve been typing up reports all morning and didn’t have breakfast.” You gave him a pained, but concerned look, “well, stop working for a bit so you can eat.” Those hazel eyes peered over his laptop then fell to the bags of take out, making his stomach growl. “Are you concerned about my nutritional habits now?,” he asked coyly. “I could hear your stomach from a mile away, Doc-tor,” you quipped. A chuckle hummed from Zayne’s throat, he finally closed his laptop and reached for a pair of chopsticks. You rolled an extra chair to the end of his desk and ate beside him. He asked about your day, watching you with genuine interest as you described each mission. Zayne could listen to you talk for hours, your voice was the perfect background noise to quiet his busy mind. “What?,” you blushed. “Don’t stop talking, I was enjoying your story,” he replied, giving you a look that urged you to continue. “Well…anyway, we are getting close to finding out more about why Ever is so invested in Aethercores…possibly using Wanderers as weapons themselves.” Zayne nodded attentively, eyebrows stitching together at the sound of the word ‘Ever’. He had his own reservations about the organization and their motives but right now he was focused on you. “I’m sure you’ll get a lead soon enough,” he murmured, stirring his soup absentmindedly. “Mhmm. You okay? You’ve barely touched your food,” there was slight annoyance in your voice. “I’m sorry, I just–I missed you,” Zayne confessed, looking at you with needy eyes. “I’m having trouble focusing on eating…food right now.”

•••

The change in his tone sent a warm wave of arousal through you. Zayne always reserved his energy for you when he came home, but you hadn’t spent much time together and his patience was running thin. “I didn’t even properly say hello,” he whispered, pulling your chair closer to his. Lean arms wrapped around you, pulling you in to Zayne’s chest. Heat radiated of him and you could feel his rapid heartbeat through his clothes. “Hi, I missed you,” the doctor mumbled against your neck. His lips brushed your skin as he spoke and your thighs pressed together, trying to conceal how turned on you were. Your fingers curled into his ebony hair, “I–missed you too…” Sitting on his lap, breathing in his scent, feeling the weight of his body, this is what you’d been yearning for. Zayne’s hands slid down to your waist, fingertips anchoring you to his thighs. “I have to leave soon…,” you sighed. He pressed his lips to the shell of your ear, “we still have 45 minutes, I haven’t seen you in so long,” his voice poured over your ear drums like honey. The kisses began traversing down your neck and ghosting across your collarbone. Zayne quietly moaned as he inhaled the scent of your skin, your perfume, your shampoo. His grip became more and more possessive, large hands smoothing over your curves. You fisted the thick fabric of his lab coat, biting your lip to prevent pleasured noises from escaping your mouth, “Z-Zayne…,” you whined, eyes darting to the office door. “It’s locked, just relax…let me take care of you.” His voice was commanding but reassuring and you nodded, melting a deep kiss against his lips. The office chair beneath you creaked the more eagerly your bodies moved. Zayne scooped swiftly under your thighs with one arm, moving aside paperwork and your left over lunch to sit you on his desk.

•••

“So, you were hungry,” you teased breathlessly between kisses. “Mhmm,” he hummed, loosening his tie to escape the heat boiling inside him. His hands splayed over your thighs, squeezing the flesh before pushing them open. Lowering his body between your legs, Zayne’s long fingers curled into the waistband of your pants, looking into your eyes for approval. “Please,” you sighed, hands desperately clawing the edge of the desk. Lifting your hips, he pulled the garment to your ankles, admiring the wet stain growing on your panties. A yelp broke from your lips when you felt the slow drag of his tongue against the ruined fabric. “Mmn…Zayne..,” He didn’t stop there, pressing his fingers against your clothed pussy, he rubbed slow, torturous circles. “It appears she’s missed me as well,” he purred, moving your panties to the side, revealing your glistening folds. Zayne gently feathered through them, collecting your essence on his fingertips. His eyes squeezed shut when he tasted you, groaning roughly against the two fingers in his mouth. There wasn’t a dessert that compared to the sweetness of your arousal, how it crawled over his tastebuds, claiming them as yours. Finally his tongue dove inside and your head fell back, “mm–fuck..” He greedily nuzzled into your sex, coating the lower half of his face with moisture. His moans vibrated through your core, making your pulse thrum aggressively behind your ribs and thighs press firmly against his ears. “I’m getting close Zayne, ah—I can’t take it,” you whined, rolling your hips into his face. A harsh grunt ripped from him as he held you down, you could take it and you were going to finish on his tongue. Pulling away for a breath, Zayne admired his work, how open and bare you were for him, clenching around nothing. He pressed a wet kiss into your center, savoring the warmth on his lips. The slow, measured movements put an arch in your back, bringing you to the edge of climax. His fingers filled you, pumping in and out as his tongue flicked your clit. “Oh—god yes!,” you keened, hands flying to your mouth to muffle your cries. An orgasm tore through you violently, leaving your legs shaking and a dripping mess on Zayne’s chin. “Mm, good girl,” he whispered, kissing your inner thigh.

•••

Your chest heaved as you tried to calm your labored breathing. Zayne held your ankle that was resting on his shoulder and peppered chaste kisses down the top of your foot. He stood between your thighs, enveloping your lips in a deep, lingering kiss. You reached for his belt but he caught your wrist, “times up.” A frown pulled at the corners of your mouth, core still tingling, begging to be filled. “Just a few more minutes, please?,” you pleaded. “I won’t be the reason you’re late, come on.” Zayne kissed your cheek before lifting you off his desk and pulling your pants up. You grumbled, but he was right, there was a few hours left in your shift and you couldn’t afford to miss it. “At least finish your lunch,” you said, watching him wipe his face and slide his tie back in place. “Yes ma’am.”

•••

When Zayne got home, it was passed midnight and you were cocooned in his dark grey bedding. He swept loose hairs away from your face, gently cupping your cheek. You stirred from his touch and your eyes fluttered open. “I’m sorry, you should rest. I’ll join you as soon as I—,” before he could finish his sentence, you pulled him by the wrist. His arms caged your body when he broke his fall, palms sinking deep into the mattress. The look in your eyes could only be described as starved and Zayne had the means to satiate you. “Ah, I see. I did make you wait, poor girl,” he cooed, voice like velvet. You squirmed beneath him, pushing away the heavy comforter. His lips bared down on your shoulder, “you’ve been so patient,” kiss “you deserve more from me,” kiss “I’ll take care of you.” His praise made your heart warm and legs spread, inviting his body to press against yours. Zayne’s weight was grounding as he laid on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, nipping at your flushed skin. Your legs wrapped around his waist and you gasped when you finally felt it. He was throbbing, his erection fighting to break free from the confines of his dress pants. You grasped for his belt and the cool metal buckled clicked between your fingers. Zayne stripped down fully, his cock hung heavily between his legs and he groaned while giving it a few drowsy strokes. Pulling your satin nightgown up your torso, you revealed your pliant, nude form. “No panties? Bad girl…,” he murmured, lowering himself to your entrance. A mischievous smile tugged at the corners of your mouth then quickly fell into an O shape when he pushed his length through your soaked folds. “Zayne…please..,” you mewled, writhing impatiently, “need to…feel you.” Inch by inch he claimed you, leaving his signature along your walls. Zayne rolled into you deliberately, your knees were shoved to your ears. “You’re so warm,” thrust “so good for me,” thrust “I want to stay here forever.” His words dripped off his tongue like syrup, thick and sweet. Normally you’d beg for more, but his languid movements were divine, perfectly hitting your sweet spot repeatedly. You pulled his face to yours, capturing his lips and kissing him like you didn’t need oxygen. Your gut was tightly wound and you were at the precipice of orgasm. “Baby…I’m so close..,” you rasped, digging your heels into Zayne’s lower back. “I feel it…need you to cum for me, love,” his voice was low and vibrating in your ear, thrusts increasing in pace. You clenched around his cock, pulling him deeper into your core. “Yes, yes..please don’t stop,” you begged. His fingers found your clit, rubbing messily and making your nerves buzz. Broken moans tumbled from your mouth as waves of pleasure rippled across your body. Your back arched off the mattress and nails dug into Zayne’s muscular back, marking him with crescent shaped indentations. He hissed, jaw tightly clenched as your core throbbed around him, making his hips stutter erratically. “Open for me,” he commanded retrieving his cock from inside. You whimpered as the inches abandoned you, panting and sticking out your tongue. Zayne cradled the back of your head as he stroked himself rapidly, the remnants of your essence created the perfect lube for his ministrations. “Keep your eyes on me—nng you look so beautiful like this.” A guttural sound ripped from his chest as he came, ribbons of release landed on your lips and chin. Using the head of his cock, Zayne collected the excess and made sure you swallowed every drop. He bit his bottom lip as your mouth closed around his length, sucking the skin clean. His hips bucked and body slumped from exhaustion. He pulled you into an embrace, randomly planting kisses on your sweat dampened skin. You hummed softly, resting your head against his chest.

•••

Tangled in a knot made from your limbs, you grew sleepy again from Zayne’s warmth. His lips pressed against your forehead, “I’m going to shower…are you going to stay here?” You mumbled something under your breath, stubbornly rolling away from him. “Use your words, please,” his voice was firm but gentle. You faced him and nodded sleepily, “your bed is too comfortable, Doctor Zayne. I think you need to carry me.” He chuckled, tucking his arms under your legs and lifting you effortlessly off the bed. A victorious smile spread across your face as he took you to the bathroom. The tepid water trickled down your body, rinsing away the sweaty film from your skin. You closed your eyes and let the stream wash over you, reminiscing over the events of the day. New sheets and blankets were on the bed when you laid down with Zayne. He roped his arms around your waist and held you close, the rise and fall of his chest grew steady as sleep crept over him. Before you closed your eyes, you couldn’t help but tease him, “so, you finished your lunch today, right?” A genuine laugh rattled against your back, “yes of course, you’re very strict, Doc-tor.” You kissed the back of his hand, “sound familiar? I’m only mimicking you.” “Alright, now,” he murmured, pressing a finger to your lips “let’s get some rest. Doctor’s orders.”

*~*~*~*

End.

Writer’s Note: thank you so much for reading! :) please do not steal or repost. More Lads Fics are pinned to my profile.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfic #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #lads fic #lads fanfic #lads smut #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne fanfic #zayne x you #zayne x reader #zayne smut #zayne fic

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spencerreidenjoyer · 11 months ago

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smut where spencer gets the boyband haircut and reader gets VERY excited by it? love your work!! ❤️❤️

a change of pace | spencer reid x reader

wc: 765, rating: explicit/18+

tags/warnings: mention of spencer getting shot in the leg, vague descriptions of cunnilingus and vaginal sex, making out

a/n: thank you anon for requesting this!! u r too sweet. i am sorry for not writing too too much smut but i thought this idea was cute and couldn't help but write something quickly for it! please send me more requests as i would love to write more short and sweet ficlets like this!!

“Oh my God,” you say, when Spencer walks through the door.

He reaches for his hair, running his hand through it. “Is it that bad?”

“What? No, it’s not bad at all,” you stand up, meeting Spencer halfway as he walks over to you. You look up at him, running your own hand through his hair. It’s soft and fluffy after returning from the hairdresser, but inches shorter than it had been when he’d left home.

You liked his long hair, enjoyed combing your fingers through it while he laid his head in your lap, or in other less… innocent scenarios. He hadn't bothered to cut it after he’d gotten shot in the leg, a little too preoccupied with recovery to worry about the length of his hair. Lately, Spencer had been whining about his hair getting in the way when he was at work, or even making at-home tasks troublesome.

When you suggested he get a haircut, he was even worried as he asked, “But you like my hair long, no?” – as if your preference over the length of his hair would override his comfort. You’d booked him an appointment at the hairdresser instead, and Spencer had kissed you so sweetly it made you feel like your teeth would rot.

“What are you thinking about?” Spencer asks, quickly snapping you back to reality. You’re still mindlessly running your fingers through his hair, and Spencer had fully let you, without stopping you, for what must have been minutes.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, stepping back, but Spencer’s hands are on your waist, and he doesn’t let you get away that easily. He gives you a look, and you can’t help but say, “Was thinking about your long hair.”

“You miss it? I know I shouldn’t have gotten it cut, darling–” Spencer starts, but you stop him.

“No! No, I love this look on you,” you state firmly. “It makes you look extra boyish. Handsome.”

“I wasn’t handsome before?” Spencer teases you with a lilt in his voice. “Also, I don’t know if I should take boyish as a compliment here.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Spence,” you say, rolling your eyes. “What I was saying is, I might need some time to get used to this haircut.”

You’re completely lying. This haircut is so attractive on him, emphasising his sharp features, making it painfully obvious just how handsome he is. He looks like a different man, so chic and suave with the shorter haircut, but it’s still your Spencer, and that makes you feel a little crazy. You want to jump his bones.

Spencer tilts his head curiously. “How so?”

“You know, your long hair was really convenient for when we… y’know,” you hum, your hands coming around to cup his face. You think your voice sounds a little more… sultry.

Spencer cocks his brow. “I think you need to be more specific, love.”

You huff, “Your hair was particularly helpful when your head is between my thighs, Spence.”

Spencer smiles, thoroughly smug. “Well, I don’t think my… capabilities are diminished with my shorter hair.”

“I think we should test that theory out,” you say, looking up at him. “Don’t you think so?”

“We should,” Spencer nods, and you quickly lean forward to kiss him. He pulls you closer by your waist, your hands sliding down to his chest. The both of you fumble your way to the couch, Spencer caging you in as he gets on top of you.

He kisses you wildly, and all you can do is put your hands in his hair and kiss him, let him ravish you just like this. You moan, as his hands slide down your body, touching you all over – your tits, your waist, your thighs, down to your ass, his hands groping at you needily, eagerly.

When he gets his head between your thighs, you find that his hair is perfectly serviceable as a grip to rut against Spencer’s skillful tongue, Spencer only pulling you closer to get you off. You’re more turned on than usual, wetter as he fucks you on his fingers, thighs clamping around his head as you shake with your orgasm, riding out your high for longer.

Spencer, perceptive as he is, absolutely notices it. Wiping your release from his hand and face with a tissue, he quips, “I assume you like the haircut then?”

You grin lazily at Spencer. “Very much so.”

He leans in to kiss you and easily presses his cock into you. It doesn’t take long for you to orgasm again, and for him to follow suit.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid request #spencerreidenjoyer writes

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stuckinmymind22 · 4 months ago

Text

On The Run (part one)

🚨🚨🚨MARINEFORD AND FISHMAN ISLAND SPOILERS🚨🚨🚨

shanks x afab! reader (she/her)

tags: lovers (intimate) to lovers (romantic)

tw: swearing (dialogue and narratively), drinking, violence (you shoot people and they shoot back), you nearly kill a person (intentionally), injury, graphic descriptions of pain, ptsd, you’ve killed people, previous kidnapping, celestial dragons and all of that, lmk if i missed anything

wc: 10.5k

a/n: this idea had me in a chokehold this past month, there's gonna be at least a part 2 (prob 3 too) maybe more little things idk, there's also a prequel in the works that is literally just smut so stand by for that

summary:

You were a barmaid on a small island in the new world with a big secret lying dormant in your past. Your island had been under the protection of Whitebeard, and after his recent death it was only a matter of time before pirates showed up, but no one expected it to be another yonko.

The bar you worked at was a popular spot for the locals and became one of the primary hang out spots for the pirates while they were in town (they couldn't turn down free booze).

The captain, Shanks, ever the charmer, had set his sight on you and quickly you found yourself in his bed (not that you minded). You knew what it was, a temporary relationship to pass the time, and that was fine with you. You weren’t stupid enough to try and get involved with a Yonko (that would be a mess and just end badly for you).

Everything was going smoothly, until the marines showed up. But they weren’t after the Emperor, they were there for you.

It was around midday when a handful of Red Hair Pirates wandered into the bar you worked at. They had been following the same routine for roughly the past week, as they had stayed on the island to get their ship repaired after a storm. In a matter of hours, the crew were going to be setting sail, an inevitable conclusion to their stay. You had grown rather fond of the crew over their time there, especially to their captain, Red-Haired Shanks, who you had a special relationship with (one that often had involved a bed).

A part of you was sad to see you go, although you always had known they would leave, but you were grateful that they had stopped by once again so you could say your goodbyes to some of your favorite members of the crew. The night before, you had spent saying ‘goodbye’ to their captain over many hours, but it seemed that hadn’t been enough for the man.

“You’re looking extra beautiful today,” the captain greeted you with a wink. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the heat that rushed to your cheeks. “Let me guess, the usual?” You asked with a smile. "You know it, Doll," he said as he and his crew took their seats nearby.

Although there were fewer members than there historically had been, there were enough that you could not possibly carry all the pints over by yourself. You called over your coworkers from the other side of the bar for their help, while they did come over and help, they were very skittish around you. You thought that it was odd behavior, but you didn't push the matter; they’d been under a lot of stress lately, so you attributed it to that. They’d recently returned from another island where they had gone to get specialized treatment for their child’s illness, which put a lot of stress on their finances.

“Where’s the rest of the crew?” You questioned the group of pirates as you passed out the drinks. “Getting the ship ready,” Yasopp spoke up. “I see,” you hummed, “Tell them goodbye for me then.”

“You’re not gonna come see us off?” Shanks asked, feigning hurt. You rolled your eyes at the theatrics but grinned regardless. “Unless you’re gonna wait for me to get off, then I can’t.” You realized the accidental innuendo after you said it. “I could get you off right now if you want,” Shanks whispered huskily into your ear. The offer was tempting but would make the clean cut you were going for more difficult. In response, you slapped his arm but laughed, which made the man beam with pride.

You conversed with the group of pirates for a while before a large group came in, clearly celebrating. Your coworker was nowhere to be seen, so you knew you had to get back to work. “It was nice talking to you boys, but duty calls,” you said apologetically, “Please come say goodbye before you leave.”

“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else,” Shanks said with that damn charming smile. “Don’t worry ‘bout us, go do what you gotta do,” Benn Beckman, the first mate of the Red Hairs, spoke up. You nodded and went to the other group to get their orders before returning to the bar to get their drinks.

Suddenly, something felt off with the air, putting you on edge. With practiced precision, you maintained your composure as you discreetly scanned your surroundings, trying to find the cause of your unease. White uniforms caught your eye, and you faltered, nearly overfilling the tankard you were pouring. This wasn’t going to end well.

There looked to only be a dozen or so marines — nowhere near enough to take Shanks and his crew. If there had been many more soldiers, that would’ve been news on the island, and you would’ve heard about it at that point. The navy was still licking its wounds from the war, surely, they wouldn’t be so stupid as to go after another yonko so soon… right? They could’ve gotten cocky after the death of Whitebeard and were trying to ride that wave to take out the rest of the yonkos, but that seemed far-fetched.

No. There was no way in hell the Marines were here for him, you realized. Shit, they probably didn’t even know he was here. You looked at the man out of the corner of your eye, and he was as laid back as ever, head thrown back as he laughed at something you didn’t hear. The relief didn’t last for long, though, as you quickly realized that the only other person on this island that they could possibly be after was… you.

Shanks had chosen that exact moment to walk up to the bar, greeting you with his charming smile. You were only halfway paying attention to him as you stood on guard. Upon realizing that you were not listening to him, Shanks’ words teetered out, replaced by a curious look.

You were hoping that the unit had stumbled upon your little island on accident and were just going to restock and peacefully head out fast. That dream had been promptly crushed when you saw your coworker walk up to them. You pieced it together, and your coworker’s suspicious behavior around you started to make sense. You had, mistakenly, attributed the odd behavior to stress. They had a chronically ill child, which was a cause of significant emotional and financial strain for them. You watched the entire interaction, how they had tried to be discreet about it, but your fears were confirmed when you were pointed out. The person in charge looked your way and nodded. Shit, he’s a vice admiral

“Fuck,” you spoke your thoughts. Shanks raised an eyebrow, but you didn't look his way, so he followed your gaze and saw what the issue was. He saw the Marines and they saw him. If you weren’t busy trying to find a way out of the situation, you would’ve been really amused by the unit’s reaction to coming face to face with a yonko in the wild.

Shanks, ever the lil shit, waved at the group with a wiggle of his fingers. “Don’t draw their attention over here, dumbass,” you scolded him as you whipped him with a nearby towel. “What? I know him,” the red-haired man laughed. When that explanation hadn’t pacified you, he tried again, “You can relax, they aren’t gonna do anything—“ maybe not to you, you thought internally “—and if they do, we’ll get rid of them, it’ll be easy.” To him it was problem solved, so he was confused when you growled out “The fuck you will. You sit still and look pretty. Don’t get involved.”

The man was unsure what had prompted such a severe reaction from you, but he raised his hand in surrender. “Promise me,” you begged with a genuine fear you hadn’t been able to hide. His eyes softened. He felt that he had owed you at least some level of trust, so he agreed. If things were to go wrong, it wouldn’t be difficult to step in, but he’ll let it be for the time being.

The bar was unusually packed for the time of day — that wasn’t good. They all needed to leave.

If they had been there for you, as it seemed, you knew damn well that you wouldn’t be going down without a fight. However, the possibility of people getting caught in the crossfire was an issue for you. Never mind the fact that it had been instilled into you early on to minimize civilian casualties, you didn’t want to see these people getting hurt. When you had arrived at the town, years earlier, with no funds and very little to your name, the community had come together to help you. They had cared about you in a way you had forgotten people could. You would always be indebted to them. You had to ensure their safety at all costs.

With the Marines nearly at your door, time was running out. The building needed to be evacuated immediately. You hated doing it, but you had no other choice. “Leave. Now.” Your voice echoed in through the room, a powerful energy radiating off of you and your words — Conqueror’s Haki. It had been years since you had used it last, and it had been a little shaky as a result. But it worked. Right away, people had started to file out of the bar; you even had a Marine or two spinning on their heels at your command.

Confusion and shock followed in wake of your order. Wide-eyed patrons walked out, most of them clueless as to what was happening. Those who understood what you had done were taken aback. Conqueror’s Haki was rare enough on its own, but it was damn near unheard of for a random civilian to possess the skill.

There was clearly something Shanks had been missing about your story, no way were you just some barmaid on a sleepy island. The question of who you really were was front and center on the captain’s mind as he watched you on the sidelines. He was intrigued to say the least.

The Marines had gotten stuck navigating through the exiting crowd; you took the opportunity to examine them while they were still hung up. The unit was led by a man smoking not one, but two cigars, clad in an open bomber jacket and a Marine coat draped over his shoulders. His coat denoted his position as a vice admiral, which concerned you. While it wasn’t yet confirmed that they were there for you, you weren’t stupid; you knew. To the extent of your knowledge, the World Government had never sent such a high-ranking officer after you — even in the height of their search efforts.

Still hoping for the best, you feigned ignorance to the situation. Pretending to be drying a tankard, you gave the approaching soldiers an award-winning smile, “Fancy a drink, boys?”

The senior official ignored you entirely. Instead, he opted to address the emperor in the room, greeting him with a curt nod, “Red Hair.” That annoyed you, but you had to keep your cool.

“Smoker,” Shanks said with a laid-back smile, like he was greeting an old friend, not a high-ranking military official. The white-haired man pursed his lips in annoyance, bored he continued, “We aren’t here for you. Leave before we have to be.” While it was a clear threat, the man had seemed reluctant to give it, probably fully aware that his men and him were no match for the pirates.

“Nah. I’m good here,” Shanks said as he sat down at the bar stool as if to prove a point. His response roused some laughs from his crew. The vice admiral, Smoker, was obviously irritated by the response but didn’t push the matter any further. For the first time, the man set his sights towards you, addressing you by your birth name. You cringed when he called out your name in full (title and all); it had been years since you had gone by it. You had grown to resent the name. It reminded you of all that you had lost: your family, your friends, your freedom.

It had taken him a moment, but Shanks’ eyes widened when he finally placed the name. That was you? Your sudden disappearance many, many years ago had sparked a multinational search. Being the daughter of a powerful king, your apparent kidnapping had been a massive story at the time. If he could recall, the search for you had lasted for months, and, right when it had seemed like all hope was lost, you were spotted. You had reappeared suddenly to “commit acts of terrorism” then had dropped off the map entirely. Your poster had gone from “missing” to “wanted” overnight, but you were never seen again.

Under normal circumstances, this would be the part where you would cut your losses and run, but this wasn’t a normal circumstance. You had realized that the unit you were dealing with was a part of the G5 — a branch that was notorious even within the Marines for their recklessness and cruelty — there was little chance that they wouldn’t leave some level of collateral damage. If you were to run, they would follow you with reckless abandonment.

Although you had gotten people out of the building, that didn’t mean that they had left the vicinity. A crowd was gathered right outside, some were trying to stealthily watch the encounter with varying degrees of success — not that you could blame them, this was undoubtedly the most exciting thing to happen in this village in years (the Red-Haired Pirates included).

You needed to find a way to settle this then and there. There was also no telling what could happen if the pirates got involved. Just because they had connected with the community during their stay didn’t mean that they would be mindful of their surroundings (especially when they could just up and leave at any time). You prayed that the handsome, one-armed man would stay true to his word.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were going to do, but luckily you had always been quick on your feet. You had to stall for time while you tried to find the best way out of this.

“Are we really going to do this?” You asked. “You could always pretend you didn’t see me. I’m not going to cause trouble for the government ever again. Plus it’s been, what? Thirteen years?” Admittedly it had been a Hail Mary, but you didn’t want to fight and it would be a disservice to yourself not to try. “I’m a whole new person now,” you said, gesturing to your body, which had changed considerably from when you were taken as a teen.

“Time doesn’t absolve you from your crimes,” the marine, Smoker, said level headedly.

“But what crime did I really commit?” You questioned him. In the past you had managed to talk yourself out of being captured; however, most of those times you still had the youth of a child and the pity that came with it. “Outside of destruction of property, it was all done in self-defense. Actually, even the destruction of property thing was too.”

“You know that it is bigger than that,” Smoker countered, not batting an eye. His words made you realize he had more pieces to the story than what had been made public. That stoked a fire within you — his complacency in the matter made what you had to do easier.

“You got me there,” you admitted, face and facade dropping. You were tired. Tired of running. Tired of having to look behind your back at every step. But what choice did you have? Fighting your way out was the only thing you could do at that point. “Hey Yasopp, can I borrow your gun please?” You’d seen the pistol on his hip when he’d walked in

The only snag in your plan was the fickle nature of pirates. You had your part down, but if they didn’t help, you were fucked. Well, not fucked, but you would have to flee, endangering the lives of the nice people who welcomed you onto this island and cared about you, which you wanted to avoid at all costs.

The sniper was surprised by the request, to say the least. Did you even know how to use a gun? Unsure of what he should do, Yasopp looked to his captain with an unspoken question. Shanks had been a little taken aback at the request too; this was a very different side to you than the one he had been familiar with. But he was curious. The emperor signaled the go-ahead to Yasopp, who immediately tossed the weapon your way.

While the pirates communicated, the woman next to Smoker spoke up in an attempt to appeal to your sense of better reason: “You don’t have to do this.” You wished that she was right.

“Yes, I do,” you said firmly. The universe had incredible timing as that was the moment you caught the revolver. “I’m not letting you take me back. And I’m not letting you kill me,” your words came out desperate and definitive.

After you spoke, you raised the pistol, but held it with such unfamiliarity — as if that was the first time in your life you’d held one, which was odd because you had explicitly asked for a gun. Smoker ordered the troops to take aim at your movement. For someone who had the barrel of a dozen rifles pointed at you, you were remarkably calm. Despite the fearful expression that painted your face, your body was relaxed.

You fired the first shot. It missed. By a long shot.

Shanks remained confused by your actions. He’d been watching you closely and had noticed that something was off. The question was what. One would expect you to be embarrassed or something by that performance, but the corners of your mouth were upturned. Oh, you had meant to do that. You had something planned. However, wasting a round when you only had six shots and twelve targets seemed like a shit strategy. What exactly were you playing at?

It worked. Your plan had worked.

The shot had been so bad that the order to retaliate didn't even come like it should have. Multiple soldiers had faltered in their aim at you. After all, you were just a weak barmaid on a sleepy island. What damage could you really do? Underestimating you was their mistake, though. When they’d lowered their guard, you pounced. You moved before they could notice their mistake, targeting the soldiers that held firm while the others would be ever so slightly delayed in their reaction.

You emptied the revolver in quick succession, aiming for the shoulder of the arm on the trigger to disarm and incapacitate. The gun was more powerful than you had expected; one bullet aligned so perfectly that it had been able to take down two marines in one shot, shooting straight through both of them. After hitting five soldiers, the pistol had stopped firing. That wasn’t right.

Dodging a barrage of bullets, you checked the gun to find all of the chambers empty. Well, that was inconvenient, you sighed and tossed the pistol back to its owner. You needed a new weapon. In the process of hopping the counter to ‘borrow’ a rifle, a sharp pain erupted in your side. Fuck. But no injury was going to have you back down — they’d have to kill you for that — so you kept fighting.

The rifle had been helpful. It didn’t take long for there to be only one man left standing. The vice admiral. This time, however, you aimed for the heart. The man knew what had happened to you and still had decided you were the one in the wrong; the world would probably be better off without him. Not considering the consequences of shooting a high-ranking official, you fired the shot.

The man never dropped — it didn't even look like he was hit. You were certain you had aimed right at him. You tried shooting him again and the same thing happened. That time, you saw his body turn into... smoke? It was clear to Shanks that you didn't know about the vice admiral's devil fruit. He had sat back and watched for long enough. You had proven that you could do more than hold your own, but it was time to intervene.

“I think it might be time for you to cut your losses and go, Smoker. Don’t ya think?” Shanks said, making eye contact with the man. It hadn’t been a suggestion; it had been an order. Smoker ticked his jaw, but he knew a losing battle when he saw one. His men were injured, and so was Tashigi — none of the wounds were yet critical, but they required medical attention. He ordered a full retreat.

“You put on quite the show, Doll,” Shanks said, his charming personality making a full return. He couldn’t deny that he’d found the whole thing to be attractive and quite entertaining to watch. He’d never guessed you had it in you — it had made him realize that he didn’t know much about you.

A noncommittal grunt was the only indicator that you had heard the man at all. But his voice had brought you back down from fight mode, which allowed the anger to kick in. You were pissed. You were so fucking angry, unshed tears clogged your waterline as you vigorously wiped them away. You knew that you’d just lost everything.

Somewhere through the haze you heard the voice of Yasopp and, without thinking, you talked over it, "Do you always keep a chamber empty? You play reverse Russian roulette often?" Despite it being a joke, there was a bite to your words that the group had never heard before, regardless of that the quip garnered a hearty laugh. You started to get an explanation that likely boiled down to being drunk, but you weren't listening, you were spiraling.

Everything that you had built there was gone. You couldn't stay (you had a garden dammit). The government knew where you were and you were no longer safe — you could not go back at any cost, you could never let them catch you.

Staring aimlessly out the wide open door you recognized a familiar face, your coworker’s, and you saw red. Your feet carried you outside before you could second guess your actions, some marine's rifle still in your hand. Someone called out your name, but you spared them no mind. Steps followed behind you, who they belonged to didn't matter. You could only focus on the pounding in your ears and the anger in your heart.

As you approached your now ex-coworker, you raised the barrel, leveling it between their eyes. Your aim held steady as they collapsed on the ground in terror. You loaded the gun, ignoring the silent plea in their eyes. A crowd was still gathered in the street, watching your movements in disbelief.

A few steps behind you stood Shanks. He observed your actions, curious as to what you would do. He wasn't there to stop you from pulling the trigger; he would have already done it if it were him. Guns weren't for threats, but were you really going to shoot someone dead in the middle of the street? The only kill shot you had gone for was Smoker, who was a stranger trying to arrest you; this, however, was someone you had known. It was obvious that you had sent people out to minimize casualties, yet now you had a rifle to the head of a civilian.

Finger on the trigger, ready to pull it, but you hesitated. For the first time in a while, your father's voice echoed in your head. While a man of power, he had always stressed the importance of mercy, saying that you needed to really be sure of what you were doing when taking a life while yours was not at stake.

When you thought about it, you were more sad than anything. Just when you had started to really lay down some roots, it had been torn up entirely. You wanted to hate the person who had turned you in, but you knew why they did it. Your head had appeared to be easy money, and they were a desperate parent trying to help their child. The anger didn't subside, but you knew what you had to do.

“I should kill you. I want to kill you,” you seethed, “but I won’t.” Taking your finger off the trigger, you lowered the barrel. You were shaking in fury as you towered above them bestowing mercy. “Because I don’t like traumatizing kids. I’m not gonna make yours watch me blow your brains out. For your sake I hope this is the last time we see each other because next time I probably won’t be as forgiving. Now go comfort your child. They’re crying. Four buildings down across the street in that alley.”

When they made no move to get up, undoubtedly frozen in fear, you gently kicked their leg. “Go before I change my mind.” That had been all that it took; they scurried away in the direction you pointed out.

You were still fuming, but you would have time to be angry later; you needed to disappear. You had no idea where you would go. The island was far too small for you to hide on — you had to leave and soon.

A faint plan was developing in your mind. Being on the run required cash, much more than you had on hand. The bar was empty — bar the pirates — and you knew the code to the safe, which made it your best bet. You spun on your heel and headed back the way you had come.

The crew's attention had snapped to the door when you entered, but you paid them no mind, too focused on your objective. Their captain trailed behind you, sending them back to the ship with just a glance. The Red Haired Pirates had been together for so long that they had practically mastered the art of wordless communication; they all knew what that look had meant. The men were quick to exit, leaving in silence, which was surprising given how rowdy they liked to be.

Shanks, however, lingered. He took back his seat and watched you. He didn't speak while you moved around — no words of comfort, no judgment; he was just... there. You had waited for any sort of reaction to come from the man, constantly eyeing him out of the corner of your eye, but there never was one.

Halfway through clearing the place out, the pain had finally made its reappearance. You didn't have time to deal with the injury, so you powered through it, ignoring its existence. You stuffed your pockets full of money and shoved some down your shirt with urgency, getting more berries than you had originally calculated. But there was no telling when that stroke of luck would end.

------------

Shanks had been following you the entire walk to your home. His presence stood out, so it had been obvious who it was. Initially, you had wanted to tell him to fuck off, but you had thought the better of it. Even if it bothered you, his presence was more beneficial than harmful — he was a deterrent for the marines, and you weren't sure of the extent of your injuries, but you trusted that if you passed out or something, he would help you.

Standing outside the door, you took a moment to grieve — you had been there for five years and would never see it again. It was the first place that had felt safe, that had felt like home, since before you had been taken, and you were losing it all.

When you entered, you hadn't bothered to shut the door behind you, and Shanks took it as an open invitation. He followed you inside and looked around, as if he hadn't been there before.

You pulled out and opened a small trunk that you hadn't used in years — since you had arrived on that island. Even though you had been free for over a decade and settled for nearly half of that time, you didn't have a lot of things to your name. While you packed your belongings away, you brainstormed how you would get the hell off of the island.

There had never been a high-ranking ranking official to come after you. The government seemed to finally be putting resources into tracking you down, which must be because of the change in power, and so any commercial means were off the table. It would be hard to get out, unless…

You looked over at Shanks and held an internal debate. Initially, you had wanted to cut all ties with him, to make things easier, but you weren't sure if you had much of a choice anymore. He'd felt your eyes on him and turned around to look at you — there was nothing left to lose.

"Take me with you," you said, swallowing your pride, "Just to the next island, that is all I need." The longer he responded, the more worried you became. The smile that formed on his face calmed your fears. "That's why I'm here, Darlin," he truly had intended to anyways, and if you declined, he had been ready to find a way to talk you into it.

He had motives outside of altruism of course, he was a pirate after all. Curiosity definitely had been a big one, he had a lot of questions. You were also a competent fighter. It would be mutually beneficial if he could convince you to stay with his crew (he would get your skills, you get guaranteed protection from the government). Another reason he refused to admit was that he just liked you, in ways that were unfamiliar to him. What he could admit, however, was that he would miss the time you had spent alone together, that had always been something he'd enjoyed.

He saw it while he was lost in thought. A large red patch on your side. It looked like you hadn’t dodged every bullet that had come your way. Your shirt was dark and disguised it well, but the stain was still there. You had done a good job at hiding it too; you hadn’t limped or shown any outward signs of pain. What the hell have you gone through? Bullets hurt, that he could attest to.

Shanks had walked over to you and lifted up the hem of your shirt in a way he had many times before to assess the damage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You questioned, slapping his hand away. Instead of answering, he did it again, checking your back, and you held your breath in fear.

There was no exit wound, but he could not remember if that was good or bad; all he knew was that you were still bleeding. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he said, putting pressure on the wound.

“Didn’t know I had to, and I’ve been through worse,” you answered, continuing your task. He believed you. He thought back to your nights together and had recalled the feeling of scars littering your body (the lighting had always been awful, and details were all fuzzy).

“How long have you been bleeding?” He asked, trying to determine how much blood you had lost. “Since I got shot, I think,” you responded. “Now let me finish packing.” Normally, he would have laughed at your quip, but for some reason this time it wasn’t that funny. His hand had been painted with scarlet, and he scolded himself for not noticing earlier. Over the years, he had seen worse injuries, but he needed to get you to Hongo as soon as possible. “We gotta go, you need a doctor,” he said. When you attempted to pull back from him, he told you to stay still.

“You are not my captain. I am not gonna take orders from you. Let me go,” you looked him dead in the eyes as you spoke and he returned your gaze. “You might wanna start listening to me if you don’t want to bleed out,” Shanks was no longer playing around, he sounded serious in a way you had never heard from him before. Your will had faltered a little bit before it came back strong, “I’m gonna finish, then we can go.”

"Like hell you are," deep down he knew that you weren't going to cooperate if this didn't get done. "I'll do it," in his mind it had been that or picking you up and taking you kicking and screaming, which he would really prefer not doing. “Not with that bloody hand you’re not,” you said, looking at the red spilling between his fingers. “It’s your blood,” he was getting tired. “It’s still blood,” you argued. Shanks wiped your blood off on his shirt, “There, now what do you need?” Thankfully, your hands replaced his, keeping your bleeding under control as you pointed out the few items that had yet to be packed.

------------

After Shanks had uncovered the bullet wound in your side, you had stopped trying to suppress or hide the impact the injury was having on you. On your way to his ship, you had needed to sling an arm around his neck to keep yourself upright (getting more of your blood on him in the process) while you tried to control the bleeding with your other hand. The closer you had gotten to the dock, the more obvious it had become that you had lost a lot of blood. Your movements had started to slow down, and Shanks knew that you needed to hurry and get medical attention.

Yasopp had been the first to spot you and the captain approaching. Then he saw the crimson all over the man's white shirt. "Oi, Hongo, c'mere," the sharpshooter shouted back to the doctor, sounding more amused than concerned, "Captain's gonna need you soon."

Shanks glared up at the man, not amused. Only then had Yasopp noticed that you were using the tall man as a crutch and clutching your abdomen. It was your blood. You had been bleeding profusely. "Oh shit," he said before shouting back to the doctor to hurry. Yasopp jumped down onto the dock to help bring you on board. There was only a rope that provided a way up; there had been no need for anything more than that as the captain had been the only one still on the island, and he had expressed his desire to leave quickly.

The gunman rushed to greet the two of you and lend a hand. You refused to let anyone else see you in such an openly vulnerable state, so you brushed past him, refusing his help, and started to climb the rope by yourself. Some of your blood had transferred to the fibers of the rope as you climbed. Yasopp was taken aback by your sudden increase in strength, and while he was confused, Shanks shoved the trunk of your belongings that he'd been carrying into his arms. The one-armed man followed closely behind you.

It was a slow process for you, scaling the rope with one arm when you were so out of practice. Your struggle was clear, but you wouldn't let a little bit of blood loss stop you, so you powered through it, eventually reaching the top.

Hongo arrived out on deck just in time to witness you climb over the railing on your own. He had recognized you from the bar (and knew your relationship to the captain), but why were you onboard a pirate ship? The doctor, somehow, had yet to hear about the events that transpired less than an hour ago. As far as he was concerned, you were just an ordinary civilian, so why'd the hell had the captain brought you aboard the Red Force hurt and bleeding? Hold on, hurt and bleeding?

Shanks had followed quickly behind you. He scanned the crowd, looking for the doctor before his feet were planted on deck. When he found him, he made eye contact. "Hongo," he said with a faint nod and a glance your way. It was an order: to take care of you.

Immediately, Hongo rushed to your side to aid you, calling out for a stretcher upon seeing your condition. You, however, brushed him off, "I can walk. Where am I going?" You questioned, looking around. He had opened his mouth to insist otherwise when the captain gave him a look that boiled down to 'just do as the lady says'. Warily, Hongo led the way to the infirmary with a few men on standby, not entirely confident that you wouldn't collapse along the way.

You were much more conscious than you should've been, that was the first thing about you that gave the doctor pause. Based on the size of the stain on your shirt and the combined red on both you and Shanks, you had lost a lot of blood — almost too much blood to be conscious, but there you were, walking. He couldn't help but wonder what the hell you had been through to be capable of such a feat. Perhaps you were one of those rare people who didn't feel pain, he contemplated, but the way you had been gritting your teeth proved that was not the case. One thing had become clear to him at that point: you were not an ordinary civilian.

Along the way, you rattled off all of the information that he would need to know, unprompted: a gunshot wound to the abdomen (that much he could tell), you weren't sure if there was an exit wound, it happened around thirty minutes ago, even giving him your blood type.

The doctor knew you would need a transfusion. Blood transfusions weren’t a common occurrence on the Red Force; the crew rarely needed them, so only a small amount was kept on hand as a just-in-case. When the bleeding had been too much, there were enough people to get on-the-spot donations. He knew there wasn’t enough of your blood type on hand, so the doctor sent someone back to collect two or three people for donations.

Upon your arrival at the infirmary, you requested that as few people as possible were in the room. It was an odd request, but he obliged. He instructed an assistant to go draw blood in another room. The other one got you hooked up to a transfusion while Hongo got started on the gunshot wound. Initially, you had been very adamant about keeping your shirt on under the bright lighting, even if it would hinder any aid, only lifting it to the point of injury. You had also refused to let him check for an exit wound, but in a way that could be excused with modesty and would not have raised an eyebrow had he not already been suspicious about you.

Once only the two of you had remained in the room, you stripped yourself of your shirt, telling the doctor that he could do whatever he needed to. Sat there on the exam table, shirt in hand, you kicked your feet like a child, in a vain attempt to redirect your nerves. Hopefully, he doesn't see it, you thought. In such bright light, the scar on your back was harder to hide.

With full access to the area of the gunshot, Hongo checked for an exit wound, finding that there was none. After an assessment, he had decided that the best course of action would be to remove the bullet, and he told you as much. “Get it over with, please," you said, bunching up the fabric of your shirt to stuff into your mouth. "We have pain killers, do you want-“ you cut off the doctor's offer once again, asking him to get it over with. The man hesitated but proceeded anyway. He gathered the necessary tools and waited for your signal. After stuffing your balled-up shirt in your mouth, you gave him a nod.

You were not looking forward to the experience, but the faster you could get it over with, the faster you could cover up. A sharp, searing pain exploded in your abdomen as Hongo started his search for the bullet. No matter how hard you had bit down on your shirt, it hadn't been enough to muffle your screams, which, unfortunately, were heard as they echoed down the halls. The digging around your insides was not pleasant, and you started to wonder if it would be better just leaving the slug in there. Your screams, however, dimmed as he prodded deeper into the cavity of your abdomen. Even when the bullet had been retrieved, the process of disinfecting the wound was just as, if not more, grueling. By then, the only indicator of your pain was the tears welled up on your lash line — tears that never fell.

It had been while Hongo was finally bandaging you that he had noticed what you were trying to hide — the reason you hadn't wanted anyone in the room. He nearly had missed it too; the mark was faint, but it was there — the ghost of the hoof of the soaring dragon. A slave branding. The mark of a celestial dragon.

Oh, shit.

The doctor’s movements had faltered at the discovery. You knew that he had seen it, and that scared you. “Please don't tell him," you said, voice so faint it was practically like a child's. The plea had taken the doctor by surprise. He knew who you were talking about but was confused as to why you were begging him to keep it a secret from him of all people — surely he had seen it...right?

"I won't," he responded, the tension in your shoulders dissipating slightly. "Promise?" you asked in the same small voice. "I promise," he reaffirmed. The reassurance allowed you to finally relax; it was as if you had given your body the permission to show the extent of your injuries, and the world slipped into black quickly.

------------

Shanks had known that returning to the ship with you, an injured civilian, before departing from the island would raise some eyebrows from the crew, which is exactly what happened. The captain, however, ignored the surprised faces and questioning looks, not even sparing them a glance. They could wait, preferably for a time when you were not actively bleeding out.

He watched you leave, walking your damn self to the infirmary out of sheer willpower alone. At least your stubbornness from earlier hadn't been personal. You were limping and stumbling, but you were still upright, and that said a lot about you. Shanks felt someone walk up beside him; he didn't have to look to know who it was. His right-hand man, Benn Beckman, joined him in his observation. The gears in the yonko's mind were turning, trying to figure you out. Only when you had turned a corner did the first mate speak. "She coming with?" he asked. "Yes," the captain answered definitively, the decision already final. Beck took a drag from his lit cigarette and nodded, "She crew?" "No," at least not yet.

Shanks had been stiff since he arrived, which was noticed by people onboard. In attempt to lighten the mood, someone shouted, "We takin' fugitives now?" He cracked a smile and loosened up a little, a series of laughs also ringing out on deck. While the joke had helped to cut some of the tension he had been feeling, he was still worried about you, probably more than he should be. You’ll be fine. You’ve gotta be.

“Let’s get going, yeah?” the captain proclaimed, and the crew, like a well-oiled machine, quickly unmoored the ship and set off. Both Beckman and Yasopp had stayed by Shanks’ side; the first mate’s continued presence made sense, but the sniper’s didn’t. “Yassop, what ya doing? Don’t go deadbeat on your crew now too,” Shanks joked, the mirth in his voice was noticeably forced. “Haha, very funny Captain,” Yasopp deadpanned. The captain clapped his back to send the man off, but he didn’t move. “Now, where do you want this?” Yasopp asked, raising the trunk you had packed. Oh yeah, he had forgotten about that.

“Umm…” Shanks tried to think of a spot for you outside of the infirmary, where you would surely be staying for the foreseeable future, but he was drawing a blank. "Bring it to the guest quarters," Beckman said, the slightest twinkle of mischief in his eyes — which the captain was blind to as his back was towards the man, but Yasopp had caught it. He understood what Benn had been playing at and he smiled knowingly. The guest quarters were right next to the captain's. The sniper verified the option with the captain, who nodded in agreement before he walked away.

"Make sure you get someone to clean it, I don't know the last time we used it," the captain shouted over his shoulder. Yasopp and Beckman shared a knowing grin before dissipating.

One of the newer recruits (newer was a subjective term as he’d been on the ship for a couple of years) came running out on deck. He had been one of the people to follow you and Hongo to the medical bay, so when he had come rushing back with urgency, Shanks’ heart had dropped into his stomach. He felt nauseous, fearing the worst.

Instead of delivering the dreaded news, the man called out for any donors with your specific blood type. Shanks didn’t realize it, but there was something threatening in his eyes that signaled if anyone had your blood type, they better fucking go. The look on the captain’s face had several men following the first to the medical area despite the fact that he had only requested two or three.

After that, Shanks had tried to go back to his captainly duties and help get the ship out to sea, but he was doing a shit job at hiding his worry. He didn’t even understand why he was so worried about you; you’d likely be fine, but he felt sick to his stomach regardless.

------------

Shanks had been on his way to check on you in the infirmary when he heard screams echoing in the hallways — your screams. They were muffled, but they were still audible. He’d been around long enough to know that you were likely getting the bullet taken out. He thought about turning around, but the screams stopped before he could. The abruptness that the screams dropped off concerned him, and he picked up his pace.

He listened at the door just to make sure that you were alive without disrupting your privacy. Hearing your voice was a relief, but then he realized what you’d said: "Please don't tell him." He could put two and two together. He knew it was him you were talking about. What were you keeping from him? Oh no. You couldn’t be…? …right? But what else would you beg a doctor to keep from him? A part of him wanted to just barge into the room and find out for himself, but he had enough self-control not to. Instead, he would wait outside the door until he got word on your condition.

A few moments later, when Hongo opened the door, nearly running into the man he’d just promised to keep something from. Shanks had been stood at the door, staring blankly, eyebrows furrowed in thought, which he had been so lost in that it had taken him a moment to realize someone was in front of him.

Shanks couldn’t help himself, he asked point blank, “What aren’t you supposed to tell me?” The doctor sidestepped him, directing a nearby medic to make sure you rested and let him know if anything changed in your condition. “You know I can’t tell you that.” The captain didn’t like that answer; he was worried about you in general and feared that whatever you were keeping from him involved him somehow. “I can keep a secret,” he tried again, falling into step with the man.

Stopping in the middle of the hallway, Hongo looked his captain in the eyes. “Respectfully, Captain, it isn’t for me to say.” Hongo stood firm on his position, but threw the emperor a bone when he stayed tensed. “It’s got nothing to do with you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” The information brought Shanks a little bit of relief. Although he wanted to know what was being kept from him, he let the matter go and switched topics. “How’s she?”

“She lost a lot of blood. I don’t know how she was still walking — most of our men could not have done that,” Hongo admitted. Shanks had recognized how far your sheer willpower went, it had been impressive. “We are insanely lucky that it just missed her artery or else no amount of will could’ve gotten her here.” That was a fact Shanks wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It scared him more than it should have. “Nothing too major was damaged, but she’ll need to be on bedrest for several days, possibly more, the recovery in total will take a couple of weeks. Right now, infection is what we need to watch out for.”

Shanks nodded in understanding before a bell rang out in the halls. Several years back, Lucky Roux, the ship’s head chef, had gotten annoyed — for probably the first time in his life — at people complaining that food was cold multiple hours after it had been cooked, so he had a bell installed to signal meal time (also used for booze). After that it was your own fault if your food got cold or you missed a meal. The two men changed corse, making their way to the mess hall.

Hongo hadn’t been entirely convinced that the captain was unaware of the brand on your back, even if you had believed he was oblivious. It was a delicate situation to broach. “Do you know her history? There’s gotta be something there for her to be able to take a bullet like that.” He’d chosen his words carefully as to not break his promise, plus, it was an actual question he had. “You didn’t hear?” News had always seemed to spread like wildfire on board so it surprised Shanks that the doctor hadn’t heard what happened back on the island.

Down the hall, Yasopp, ever the story teller, could be heard telling the story animately. “—and that’s when everyone left the bar. She even got a few marines—” A sizable crowd had gathered around him listening to his tale. "Go sit in, you'll see what I'm talking about," Shanks said to Hongo, clapping him twice on the back before leaving him there.

He spotted Beckman, who stood nearby against a wall enjoying the story despite having had lived it. “Just the man I wanted to see,” Shanks said, approaching him. “Can I have you look into—“ “Her bounty? Yes,” the man cut him off, both spoke in hushed tones.

“It always freaks me out when you do that,” Shanks said faking a shiver. Benn smiled, his cigarette still in his mouth, and shrugged, "What can I say? I know you best."

“Just find out what you can and let me know. You’ll probably have to ask around ‘cause there’s no way in hell they shared what actually had happened.” The red-haired pirate went to leave before returning. Speaking once again in a quiet voice he said, “And I think this goes without saying, but don’t let her know you’re doing this.” He had realized that you would not be happy with everyone knowing your past after you had gone to such lengths to hide it. “And the others too,” he added. “Of course, Captain,” his first made responded. Feeling satisfied with the answer, Shanks walked off.

“—and then she, with out thinking, asked me if I had a habit of playing reverse Russian roulette,” Yasopp had found that quip really funny, laughing loudly just recounting it.

“She got you good with that one,” Shanks chimed in as he passed by. “Maybe it’ll teach ya to keep your gun full.” Yasopp’s justification was covered by the captain’s laugh.

------------

It had long been dark by the time you woke up. Pale moonlight streamed through the dark room; you blinked away the sleepiness and reoriented yourself. Memories from earlier streamed back into your mind as you recognized where you were and why. Lying in a hospital bed on a damn pirate ship. Oh god. One thing you knew for sure was that there was no way in hell you were going to let yourself be confined to a bed, injury be damned.

You sat upright, swinging your feet over the edge of the mattress; the motion sent off your pain receptors, and you winced. Your arm got tangled in the IV line in your arm that you hadn’t noticed, so you ripped the needle out before looking around the room for your bloodied shirt. There was no sign of the garment, but there was, however, a nicely folded (hopefully clean) shirt at your bedside. The shirt was much too big for you, but it was something, and you hated your back being exposed.

Exiting the confines of the stuffy infirmary, you set out to find people or just something to do. Truth be told, wandering around only worsened the pain, but it hadn’t stopped you. It didn’t take too long for you to stumble upon a small group of people gathered playing cards. Most of the players were people that you recognized, several of whom you actually knew the names of. Yasopp and Lucky Roux greeted you exaggeratively, an energy that you returned at a mere fraction. Unfortunately for you, Hongo, the doctor, had been one of the players with their back to you, and hearing your name, he turned around.

“You shouldn’t be walking,” he stated, rearranging his cards. “But I’m so good at it,” you joked, approaching the group. “Seriously, you could reopen your wound,” the doctor tried to reason. “Good thing you’re right here to help me then,” you said, patting him on the shoulder and taking an empty seat. “What’re we playing, boys?” You asked, rubbing your hands together, completely brushing off his concerns. Hongo recognized the signs that it would be a losing battle trying to get you to go rest, so he gave up trying to convince you.

“If you want something to drink, we’ve some sake and some rum over there,” Yasopp offered[slurring his words], pointing to some barrels with his glass. “Oh hell yeah,” you exclaimed, standing back up and waltzing over to the alcohol, your enthusiasm bringing about some laughs. You were glad to have something to undercut the pain of your wound and filled a cup practically to the brim before downing it. A large portion of the liquid had missed your mouth in your eagerness to down the drink. Then it was rinse and repeat for a couple of glasses.

The spectacle had one of the senior officials at the nearby table remarking how much your behavior mimicked a certain redhead they all knew, a consensus that was unilaterally agreed upon. You had heard them but just rolled your eyes, filling the cup a final time before returning to your seat. “Sorry ‘bout that, I wanted to catch up with everybody,” you joked, commenting on the varying degrees of intoxication.

“Want in?” The dealer asked, dealing you in before you nodded. “But what are we playing?” You asked, picking up your cards. Multiple people spoke on top of each other trying to answer your question or explain the rules. You laughed — it had felt good to laugh, other than the pain shooting through with the movements. “Ehh, I’ll figure it out,” you waved off the explanations.

You had, in fact, figured it out with no intervention, sweeping the floor with them. Your winning streak stopped after the third round, but playing was still fun. The good vibe had you forgetting the circumstances of why you were with the pirates in the first place — until your cup had run dry and your liver started putting work in. You needed more. Announcing you’d be back, you returned to the liquor only to run into someone along the way.

Shanks hadn’t thought of himself as a possessive man, but he had been momentarily distracted at seeing you in his shirt for the second time in twenty-four hours, and he had to remind himself that he was no longer allowed to think like that. Once his mind cleared, anxiety set in. “Whoah, where’d’ya think you’re going, sweetheart?” He questioned, wearing his signature grin, which was conflicted by the worry in his eyes.

You met his smile and raised the empty tankard, shaking it and said like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I need a refill.” {You were being cute.} “I like the spirit, but you should probably be lying down,” he countered, the extent of his concern for you was, well, concerning to him. “I’m fine,” you smiled up at him. “No bleeding, practically good as new,” you reassured him, giving him a 360 as if that would prove your point.

“You were shot,” he said, not buying it. “I’ve been shot before, I’ll be alright,” you tell him. Some bounty hunter years ago had taken the “dead” part of “dead or alive” a bit too seriously and had gotten you in the shoulder. It had been a bitch to heal, but you had lived through it once, you could do it again. Your reassurance hadn’t been reassuring for the man at all. You had a move to walk around him, but he blocked in your path, “Hongo said you need to rest, you should go lie down,”

“I tried to tell her, Captain,” the man in question piped up from the table nearby. It was clear that they had all been watching your exchange. “See? He said it’s okay,” you tried to justify. “Well, Captain’s right. You should be resting,” Hongo said, causing Shanks to give you the I-told-you-so look. “Whose side are you on?” You questioned the doctor, then returned your gaze to the man in front of you. “I am fine. You don’t need to worry your pretty little mind.”

Ignoring your words, he put his arm around you. “I’m afraid it’s the doctor’s orders, love,” he said, putting his arm around you. “Come on, Doll, I’ll walk you.” You shook his arm off you, stepping out from under him. “I told you I’m not doing it.” You looked him dead in the eyes with defiance. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “At least sit down,” he negotiated. “I will,” you said, and he smiled. “After I get a drink.” His temper was officially wearing thin. “I’ll do it,” he attempted a compromise. “I don’t need a man to get me a fucking drink, Shanks.” You stepped around the tall man, continuing your mission.

Shanks turned around and spoke with authority, stopping you in your tracks. “I am telling you, you need to rest.” His captain’s voice was much less sexy now that he had actually been trying to tell you what to do. “And I told you no,” you said with just as much authority and fire in your eyes. A silent battle flared between the two of you, neither side willing to back down. Deciding to be the one to end it, you walked off without a word, skipping out on the alcohol.

------------

After walking away, you had found a quiet corner of the deck. The stars were so unbelievably bright out in the deep darkness of the open waters. You had always found nights to be more beautiful on the sea, but it had been years since you had the luxury of such a view. It felt peaceful, but looks could be deceiving.

You leaned against the railing, staring blankly at the horizon. Waves crashed up against the ship, providing an ambient background noise as you lost yourself in thought.

The ordeal from earlier in the day, particularly being called by your birth name, had brought back a lot of memories. Some were good, like the ones of your family and your father teaching you how to fight, but others — the majority of them — were ugly.

The night you had been taken, the last time you had a true taste of freedom. You cursed your younger self for letting her guard down so far. Everything that had gone wrong in your life could all be traced back to that moment. You knew it was unfair to blame yourself for it. You had just been a kid, but you had been old enough to be smarter, and you weren't.

The thing that really haunted your mind as you stared out into the vastness of the sea was the night that earned you a bounty. The night that lived on in your nightmares. You could still hear the screams and smell the smoke. You had taken multiple lives that night. Some of them had deserved it, to be honest, but there were several who had been victims of both you and your captors. They hadn't deserved the death they received, but a sick part of you had always wondered if it would have been better than the alternative for them.

The Celestial Dragons had long been notorious for their sick and twisted ways. You had regretted how it had all played out, but you had never regretted what you did. But the blood still lived on your hands — no matter what you tried, it never washed off.

You were pulled out of your dark thoughts by the creaking of the floorboards. A quick glance to the side showed Beckman walking your way. He stopped a few feet away from you, leaning his back against the railing. You heard the click of a lighter as he lit up a cig. For a while, the two of you existed in silence. You knew that he knew that you should be resting or whatever, but he never said anything about your injury.

"You were impressive today, didn't know you had that in you," Beckman's deep voice piercing the stillness of the night. You chuckled, almost bitterly staring at the water, "I don't want to be impressive. I want to be safe." You heard him take a drag from his cigarette before he responded, "With the World Government after you, that might not be a choice." Admittedly, it was not what you wanted to hear at all, but you knew he spoke the truth. A new wave of silence overtook you both; it was hard to measure how much time went by until he broke the silence once again.

"You're a lot like him, you know," Benn said. That was the second time that night you heard someone say that. "What?" You knew who he was talking about, but you were confused as to why he was saying it. "I think that's why we all like you so much," he continued as if you hadn't spoken. "What do you mean?" you questioned him again, fully turning your body to face him. "Exactly what I said," he replied with a smile before he left, leaving you alone to figure out what the fuck he had meant.

end a/n: AAAAAHHHHHHHH i did it!!!!! very excited about this one, have a rough plan for what's next but idk when that'll happen.

thank you for reading!! i hope you enjoyed it 💕

part two | more from me

#shanks x reader #one piece x reader #x reader #canon post

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the-kr8tor · 6 months ago

Note

Hello! May I make a request of Hobie and the reader doing a long distance phone call during New Years (like different time zones) and Hobie is struggling to stay up until it becomes New Years for R? 🥹 Please take your time if you have a lot of requests already!

Thank you for the adorable request! I had so much fun writing it ❤️ I hope you like it!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, lovestruck! Hobie, one suggestive joke, fluff!

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The clock ticks in Hobie's ears relentlessly while he's all cozied up in bed. It's already four am on his side of the world, the fireworks are long gone, confettis scattered and left on his shag carpet, and the smell of champagne and beer he tried to scrub off lingers around the house boat. He's dead tired from the festivities, and the quiet snores from the band who are sleeping in his living room doesn't help his sleep deprived state. All he wants to do is close his eyes and wake up ten hours later for breakfast. But he'll be damned if he doesn't wait for the clock to strike midnight in your timezone.

“You can sleep, Hobie, I'll be fine.” Your voice bounces off around the tiled bathroom as you hide inside and away from the loud party happening just outside the door. You just can't seem to be in the mood for partying when he's not there with you. Missing him is the understatement of the century, all you want right now is to be cuddled up under the sheets with him.

“I know, lovie.” He's extra affectionate when sleep clings to him. Whispering into the phone so he doesn't wake up his band mates. “But I couldn't sleep and leave you in last year.” You chuckle, his deep crackly voice caused by his sleepiness earns a fond smile from you, reminding you of the times he'd whisper sweet words to you before bed. “‘sides, we always snogged at midnight.”

“How will we kiss at midnight, handsome?” Your tone is full of affection mixed with a touch of longing. “Are you gonna make out with your phone?”

Hobie muffles his laughter against his pillow, or your pillow for that matter, one he sprays with your perfume before bed to make himself less lonely.

“I could, I have you as my screensaver.” He sniffs, the cold January night nestling in his bones.

“And I have you as mine, but that doesn't mean I'm going to kiss my dirty ass phone.”

“Why not?” He jokes, practically seeing your smile in his mind's eye.

“Because!” You laugh, the sound echoing around the bathroom and out of his phone's speakers. “Phones are as nasty as a toilet seat, y’know.”

“That one of your facts?”

“Yeah, it's a true fact.”

“I miss your fun facts, love.” He sighs, turning around to face your empty side of the bed.

“And I miss you, Hobie.” You stare up at the ceiling, watching a moth fly around the moldy roof. “I'm counting down the days until my contract ends. And I promise you'll hear my annoying fun facts again soon.”

“They're not annoyin’. At least tell me that the blokes over there are treatin’ you well.” He hugs himself, pulling the fluffy blanket closer to him. “Yuri says she'll march over there if someone's an arse to you.”

“Yuri or you?” You chuckle, hearing cheering outside but when you check the time you're still five minutes away from midnight.

“Both, love. We'll all fly over there and rescue you.”

“You don't have to wait long, Hobie. In just one month and you don't have to miss me anymore—” A knock interrupts you, telling you to hurry up on the toilet. “In a second!”

“Someone needs to shite, love.” He laughs against the receiver as he hears you snort at his joke. And with a click of the door, you open it, only to be met by the loud partying.

“Sorry,” he doesn't know if you're apologizing to him or to the person. “I'll find a spot, Hobie. Give me a minute.”

“You've got all my minutes, lovie.” He fights a yawn, hearing some shuffling and booming music on the other end. A contrast to the quiet of his houseboat.

After a minute, the sound of the party fades into the background. “There, found an empty bedroom with a view of the fireworks. I got lucky.”

“A bedroom huh? Should I open my camera for a video call instead?” You can practically picture the smirk from his tone alone.

“If you want to get a bill with three digits then sure, Hobie.” You joke, sitting down on the squeaky bed just as he sits up on his own mattress.

“I could buy a bloody ticket with that.” He looks at the small porthole window, seeing the moon and the clear sky just outside. It fills him with comfort to know that you're also looking at the same moon and sky. “Three minutes till midnight, love, what's your wish?”

“To see you.” You don't miss a beat. “And to more years with you.”

“‘m not goin' anywhere.” His eyes grow heavy with every second that passes. “Consider your wish granted.”

You feign a gasp. “Are you outside right now?!”

“Yeah, ‘m the one settin’ up fireworks.”

Laughing, you start to hear the countdown. “Thirty seconds, Hobie. What was your wish?”

“For you to come home.” Your heart squeezes in your chest. “And for Osborne to kick the bucket.”

You smile, standing up to get closer to the window. “All good wishes.” The crowd outside counts from ten backwards. “It's a nice night out, Hobie. Just think that a month from now we'll be spending it together again.”

6, 5…

“Jus’ the night?” He teases.

4, 3…

“All day, 24/7, and all the fucking nights.” You giggle, eyes glimmering as the multi coloured fireworks go off in the distance.

2, 1!

“Happy New year, Hobie.”

“Happy new year, love.” He inhales, missing your warmth and the press of your lips against his own.

“Are you kissing your phone? Please don't kiss your phone.” You're alone in the dark room, but your heart feels full whenever you talk to him. You might be miles apart from him but you've never felt closer to him than ever.

“Snoggin’ it right now.” Joking, he smacks his lips together.

“I'm going to have to sanitize your lips when I get home.”

“Usin’ your own lips right?” He flirts, thinking that it wouldn't work and would just have you laughing. But with your yearning sigh on the other end, he knows he got you.

“I change my wish, my new wish is for you to fly your flat ass out here and grant my first wish.”

“Watch me swing over there, love.”

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wheeboo · 11 months ago

Text

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

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

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

part one | part two

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

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

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

“Why did you decide to hire me again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The vending machine swallowed his dollar. Literally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It means that it's okay

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pull out your phone again, typing:

The museum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, you reach the museum.

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

Thank you for walking with me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we heading to?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you finish totaling it up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you like to join me?”

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

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

Whatever it is, you want to trust it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you nod again, his heart flutters with victory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I've seen you do better than this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he looks... happy to see you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way you sign is funny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” You sign to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Café boy?” he mouths to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joshua groans. “Don't you say it𑁋”

“Under the weather of love𑁋”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can get used to that, he thinks.

The colours on your palette just look absolutely wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wanted to come

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did your performance go well?

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate for a moment before showing him.

You tried your best. That’s all that matters

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

You wouldn’t have disappointed me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is it still raining hard outside?

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

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

Your fingers dance along with your screen once more.

You can stay until it stops

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s beautiful. He’s… beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can always practice here, if you want

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

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

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

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

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

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

As long as you tell me about your songs

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

“It’s a deal,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all brings a smile to your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s like you’re invisible.

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

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

You aren’t meant for this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sight reminds you of Joshua.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, he points to you.

“I believe in you.”

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

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

“I missed you.”

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

“I missed you too.”

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

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

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

@phenomenalgirl9 @mirxzii @bookyeom @parkjennykim @melodicrabbit

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

@totomoshi @armycarat2612 @etherealyoungk @maesvtr0 @gigification

fic taglist (open) ʚɞ

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

@gaslysainz @intoanothermind @chariseiswriting @sarranghao @minvxq

@lullips

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anistarrose · 1 year ago

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I want to make my posts more accessible, but can't write IDs myself: a guide

[Plain text: "I want to make my posts more accessible, but can't write IDs myself: a guide." End plain text.]

While every image posted online should be accessible in an ideal world, we all know it 1) takes time to learn how to write image descriptions, and 2) is easy to run out of spoons with which to write IDs. And this says nothing of disabilities that make writing them more challenging, if not impossible — especially if you're a person who benefits from IDs yourself.

There are resources for learning how to write them (and if you already know the basics, I'd like to highlight this good advice for avoiding burnout) — but for anyone who cannot write IDs on their original posts at any current or future moment, for any reason, then there are two good options for posting on Tumblr.

1. Crowdsource IDs through the People's Accessibility Discord

[Plain text: "1. Crowdsource IDs through the People's Accessibility Discord". End plain text.]

The People's Accessibility Discord is a community that volunteers description-writing (and transcript-writing, translation, etc) for people who can't do so themselves, or feel overwhelmed trying to do so. Invite link here (please let me know if the link breaks!)

The way it works is simple: if you're planning to make an original post — posting art, for example — and don't know how to describe it, you can share the image there first with a request for a description, and someone will likely be able to volunteer one.

The clear upside here (other than being able to get multiple people's input, which is also nice) is that you can do this before making the Tumblr post. By having the description to include in your post from the start, you can guarantee that no inaccessible version of the post will be circulated.

You can also get opinions on whether a post needs to be tagged for flashing or eyestrain — just be able to spoiler tag the image or gif you're posting, if you think it might be a concern. (Also, refer here for info on how to word those tags.)

The server is very chill and focused on helping/answering questions, but if social anxiety is too much of a barrier to joining, or you can't use Discord for whatever reason, then you can instead do the following:

2. Ask for help on Tumblr, and update the post afterwards

[Plain text: "Ask for help on Tumblr, and update the post afterwards". End description.]

Myself and a lot of other people who describe posts on this site are extra happy to provide a description if OP asks for help with one! This does leave the post inaccessible at first, so to minimize the drawbacks, the best procedure for posting an image you can't fully describe would be as follows:

Create the tumblr post with the most bare-bones description you can manage, no matter how simple (something like "ID: fanart of X character from Y. End ID" or "ID: a watercolor painting. End ID," or literally whatever you can manage)

Use a tool like Google Lens or OCR to extract text if applicable and if you have the energy, even if the text isn't a full image description (ideally also double-check the transcriptions, because they're not always perfect)

Write in the body of the post that you'd appreciate a more detailed description in the notes!

Tag the post as "undescribed" and/or "no id" only if you feel your current, bare-bones description is missing out on a lot of important context

When you post it and someone provides an ID, edit the ID into the original post (don't use read mores, italics, or small text)

Remove the undescribed tag, if applicable. If you're posting original art, you can even replace it with a tag like "accessible art" for visibility!

And congrats! You now have a described post that more people will be able to appreciate, and you should certainly feel free to self-reblog to give a boost to the new version!

#accessibility #image descriptions

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rosewiltd · 2 months ago

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rpc trends i have lived through: a compendium

this is by no means hate to trends ( "trends" in this case being something a large majority of people have participated in at some point, whether they're good or bad - not for me to judge ) bc i am a slave to the aesthetic as much as the next person. i've just been in the trenches, is all.

no promos, no formatting, no icons, no tagging system. we live in the wild west and if you can find someone to write with? godspeed.

small text and that's it for formatting. maybe a little italics for flavour. the beginnings of "omg you're so elitist for this" surfaces.

themes by manatopia ( if you were in the anime rpc ) or octomoosey ( if you favoured the rl fcs ).

simple one-word straightforward tagging system with no fancy text or symbols. ( ie. appearance, musings, closet, etc )

more complex tagging system, with symbols and quotes/lyrics using a generated font the tumblr tagging system can't actually read

one-panel simple promos with full resumes in the description ( ie. 10+ years experience, literate, etc )

2-panel simple promos

3 and 4-panel promos of varying complexity

the signerica font

text promos with icons

big, unedited gifs of varying sizes and colorings used interchangably

smaller gifs, but same as above

no icons

simple icons with simple one-line borders and whatever the fuck that checker texture was that everyone and their grandmother used

triggers? and you tag them???? wild. never heard of. we stumble blindly through content like god intended.

follower milestone/giveaways - essentially your speech at the oscars and here's a little incentive to keep following me. usually for large milestones like 100, 500, 1k, and 3k followers. if you had more than that, you had killed god.

photoshopped replies - as in, we wrote up replies into a graphic

fancy image dividers, usually something small and ornate and centered, the precursor to the dividers we use today.

container themes, with the containers getting progressively smaller. if you didn't use agirlingrey's themes, were you even an rper? quickly followed by container themes with pop-ups. look out. don't forget the floating orbs. or the little banners on the side that told you who the blog was for and the writer's name.

which reminds me, if you weren't using the spark/fire overlay on promos/graphics/etc, you were excommunicated from the rpc and sent to the dungeons.

magic anons. usually of the sexual variety. no, my muse will not be horny for 24 hours straight and they sure won't have an orgasm every time someone says their name, thank you very much. sometimes it was fun though. your muse as a neko? like, nya.

y'all i haven't even gotten past 2015 yet.... the rest is under the cut. feel free to add your own. im sure im forgetting so much.

burn blogs. enough said.

positivity blogs to counteract the burn blogs, but ultimately became a breeding ground for jealousy because the same three people were endlessly complimented. it's the thought that counts though!

memes/sentence starters, but they were made on your own rp blog and if it garnered 20k notes, there was nothing you could do to stop it. rip your activity feed. we learned. boy, did we learn.

prompt/aesthetic sideblogs.

missing e, the predecessor to xkit.

xkit. then new xkit. then xkit rewritten. missing e let us down, but we won't let this fucker die.

url trends im lumping together: latin urls, "of___", urlisms, random 'x's tacked on before and/or after the url or in place of a vowel. 'c's tacked in place of e's and o's. numbers in place of letters. changing your url just for holidays/seasons.

graphics that were either desaturated or so vibrant they were crispy

themes by eternalworks

themes by hyruleshop, isaworks, or other major creators.

the rise of callouts, for better or worse

the rise of purity culture, for better or worse

receipt/callout blogs

purple prose

extra af formatting ( no hate ), coloured text, spacing, etc.

elaborate graphics.

mains. affiliates. people you should be following. the successor of 'follow friday' and milestone 'thank you' announcements.

dni lists, for better or worse.

multimuse blogs

rp sideblogs

the current trend of ripping a canon from their og universe and re-writing them as an oc bc shut up that's why

probably a whole heck of a lot more i cannot remember. i've blocked out the trauma.

#✧ ❬ 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 ❭ putting the fae in faeilure. ❜#did this need to be made? no. did i make it anyway? yes.#okay to rb.

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kirkwallguy · 9 days ago

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Idk if you've posted about it before and I missed it, but I saw ur tag mentioning you have a critique on datv's treatment of transness and I'd genuinely be interested in hearing about it :)

hi, yes i have but it's been a while since i last talked about it! i've been meaning to write a long essay on my issues for a while but it would require actually playing the game and i don't want to do that. here's a long rant that got away from me though:

i've complained sometimes about various stereotypes or missteps in the way specific trans characters are represented, but i'd be able to ignore that if it weren't for my main issue, which is that trans characters just aren't properly woven into the world, leaving them feeling alienated in a way queer characters in previous games never were.

it's very clear that the writers haven't broken down their own perceptions of gender and the various cultures surrounding it enough to say something insightful, which is fine because most people haven't, but when people defend the game on the sole basis that its depiction of transness is revolutionary i do have to take some issue. there are books from the 60s that take a more interesting approach to deconstructing gender lol. veilguard may feel progressive in the landscape of aaa video games but i don't think that means it should pass without critique and i don't think that we should have to settle for this when it's possible to do so much better.

the easiest and most frequently discussed example of not properly incorporating transness into thedas is the use of language in the game. you've probably seen the endless arguments about whether taash calling themself nonbinary is an anachronism, and though i'm sure some of the arguments are in bad faith i think people overestimate how many people (on here specifically) are arguing from that perspective. it's been extremely frustrating to be called transphobic by cis people over this when i'm coming at it from the perspective of someone who has actually studied shit like this.

this is a problem throughout the game but it's easier to examine codex entries for this post than go through entire scenes. i've talked about hating the language in this codex entry before, but it really annoys me so let me complain about it again lol.

acknowleding that trans as a prefix means "change" is actually a good start here and if wasn't for how this codex entry continues i'd just shrug and move on, but i really hate the absolutist way it uses the very modern "affirming" and "was always" narrative and language as though it's universally agreed upon. you can argue that this is subjective and what taash was told (though which shadow dragon is talking to them like a GIC psychologist lol?), but when the entire codex entry feels like an educational pamphlet for clueless cis people it just comes across as very odd.

and then the rest of the codex entry just abandons any attempt at making the words "work" etymologically and gives extremely bare-bones descriptions of them. some of these words are younger than me, i saw them being coined on various forums and corners of the internet. is it representation if you say the word and put absolutely no effort into representing or even discussing the agender/bigender/demigender/others experience? in another post i compared this to being like if they did a lord of the rings remake and confirmed legolas as being bisexual by making him wear a bi flag pin with no extra context - of course people TODAY use that flag to signal their experience with bisexuality and there's nothing wrong with that, but to link modern language/signals with an experience that has clearly existed since before either of those things were invented comes right back around to being oddly invalidating, as though these experiences wouldn't exist without modern english speaking understanding of them.

as for the argument about whether or not it's anachronistic: i don't personally think you need to adhere to a binary of modern / historically accurate language and culture to make queerness work in a medieval-ish fantasy setting. the previous games (for all their faults) managed a pretty established status quo where they didn't aim to portray a utopia with a widespread queer culture while also not being gratuitous with their homophobia. and as much as queer x-topias can be interesting when done well, i think this is a good thing for a big budget fantasy game - unless you're EXTREMELY in the know about gender roles and queer theory etc, how can you hope to portray a queer utopia? some people write books whose sole point is to portray a world without gender roles or homophobia and they still misstep, i don't think it's the casual inclusive background thing a lot of fantasy authors believe it to be. it would have gone the same way as origins' claim that men and women are treated the same; maybe you make queer people hold hands in the street without being questioned and nobody makes negative comments about your romance option, but do you subconsciously assign gender roles to jobs? do you portray the majority of npcs adhering to western cishet gender norms? what is the ratio of monogamous f/m relationships portrayed compared to other relationships? these are all things people just straight up don't think about when designing a world and they will accidentally create a society that is welcoming of queerness in THEORY while actually replicating our own cishet patriarchal values.

i don't think veilguard is attempting to be a utopia, i don't think it's attempting to be anything but a finished game, but i see people defending it on the BASIS of it being a utopia fairly often.

taash's arc is another pretty big example of this struggle to examine gender in real life beyond the writers' experiences, namely white canadian. it's a deeply racist attempt at a multucultural narrative where one culture (which has already been demonised throughout the series, including in veilguard) is portrayed as less welcoming of queer people while the other culture, which is still a society with binary gender roles despite being a matriarchy, is portrayed as being instantly and unquestionably accepting.

there's a LOT of potential in an arc for a character like taash if they'd been written by someone with actual interest (and probably experience) writing about the queer experience of existing within two very different cultures. the qunari ARE a culture who are fairly big on binaries but they have an established acceptance of transition that would make their understanding of gender fairly fluid, meanwhile the lords of fortune seem ideal on the surface but human/(our) culture has so many hidden binaries that you don't notice in everyday life unless you're the one being alienated by them.

this could have been a chance to slightly turn the racist Othering of the qunari on its head by showing our own society from the perspective of perhaps some aqun-athlok characters taash befriends, a codex entry about an aqun-athlok character from the past that taash finds and takes inspiration from (maybe they start out aqun-athlok then reject the gender binary entirely?), or even from shathann, perhaps as a character who has explored her gender in the past or decides to explore it as a result of taash. (imagine if shathann was actually aqun-athlok herself, having adopted taash, and some of her complicated feelings about the qun involved the fact that her identity was more accepted there. just SOMETHING to balance the scales a little.)

then again, not even rivain gets to be the fully "progressive" society and taash has to go to the shadow dragons for their gender education. i think it's funny that someone seemed to be projecting an ultra-progressive modern activist group image onto the shadow dragons, i think i've said before that they remind me of all the modern au fanfiction about les amis from les mis that i used to read as a teenager, when they're supposed to be a ruthless abolitionist group. i think this choice was largely to facilitate interaction between the factions but it does feel a little odd given the other racist elements in taash's arc.

there's also the issue of the actual topic of medical transition being avoided. we have tarquin and mae, two characters who have seemingly undergone some kind of medical transition. we have top surgery scars in cc. but there's no discussion of how this transition happens - is hrt magical as krem suggests and is that the only option? is surgery affordable? do different countries and cultures have different levels of advancement in medical transition? these are things i'd want to see written about in codex entries, not lists of various identities that anyone can find by googling a list of genders.

i'm a little disquieted by the avoidance of medical transition given everything happening irl, but it's maybe the issue i understand the thought process behind the most. it feels like a very safe attempt at not veering too far into what happened with krem / the decades of weird fascination with trans bodies. my feelings on this entirely hinge on whether or not the dragon king does actually have top surgery scars lol, for my sanity i'll say he doesn't.

anyway, this all sucks because i've seen SO many fans do better for casual oc posting or fanfic. i've seen so many amazing ways trans culture and hrt and surgery could work in thedas and it's depressing that the writers couldn't even attempt to do something interesting with it. i know there was a lot of crunch that impacted the quality of the writing but i do also think some of these issues would have persisted if they'd had all the time in the world.

#ask #anonymous #long post #sorry i didnt mean for this to get SO long i meant to make 2 points max and just rambled #but yeah. my basic thoughts. one day i'll write a full essay but i dont want to replay veilguard lol #i didn't post about this for a while because i tended to get a lot of negative attention when i did but i think i have the majority of #hardcore veilguard defenders blocked now so lol. we'll see.#the criticism of taash isnt really comprehensive but that's the gist of it. if i wrote about them alone it'd take thousands of words lol

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urlonelystarrr · 2 years ago

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ultraviolence | part two

rk800 'connor' x reader x rk900 'nines'

GENRE → angst, romance & smut

SYNOPSIS → your feelings for connor grew as the android revolution went on, though a new partner makes you question your feelings.

TAGS/WARNINGS → 18+ descriptions of corpses, blood, violence, homicide, child abuse/neglect, creampie, dirty talking, overstimulation, choking, oral(male & female giving/receiving)

CHAPTERS → PART ONE / PART TWO

────────────────────────────────

after working in the DPD for so long, you never could get used to the sound of your alarm blaring at 5:00 am. by the time you arrived at your desk, your limbs were already aching for the warmth and comfort of your bed - the type of tiredness that could only be satiated by a full night's rest (which you didn't get most nights).

to add onto the poor sleep schedule you had, the past few weeks had been filled with an unnecessary amount of paper work, and most of your time was spent sitting in front of the terminal at your desk. in order to pass the time, you'd make frequent stops to connor's desk, only to be yelled at by hank to get back to work. or you would attempt at small talk with nines, to which he always responded with narrowed eyes and a stern look. it was clear he wasn't fond of small talk so early in the morning.

this morning was no different than the last, as you sat at your desk, bored out of your mind. the day had just begun, and the steaming cup of coffee on your desk still wasn't able to replace the extra hours of sleep that you had missed. as if a silent prayer had been answered, you swiveled your chair around to see connor's lovely face, greeting you with a good morning. "good morning detective, you seem to be in a good mood today," he gave a small smile. "all thanks to you," you smile, not noticing the grey eyes across your desk watching the two of you. connor stayed silent for a moment as his LED pulsed amber, and you followed his line of vision to see nines doing the same. "i've sent the case file to rk900, i've just got a report of a double homicide and a suicide," he briefed. "what an amazing way to start my morning," you replied, sarcasm laced in your tone.

"lieutenant anderson is currently supervising an academy student, and since i'm not authorized to investigate crime scenes on my own, i will accompany you today." connor said, hands clasped behind his back as he looked down at you. nines stood from his seat, making his way over to join connor. you took a sip of your coffee before standing up to join the pair, grabbing your keys and heading to the lot.

"what do we know about the homicide?" you asked nobody in particular. unfortunately you had to sit in the backseat of your own car, as nines insisted on driving and connor took the passenger seat before you could. "a mother had murdered her own two children before taking her life. an hk200 reported that he was a witness and is currently at the station giving a written statement," connor turned around to look at you, before turning back around to face the road. "and this happened how long ago?" you asked.

"around 20 minutes ago," nines suddenly spoke, despite being quiet the entire ride. "did the android mention that she had a husband?" nines looked in the rearview mirror to make eye contact with you before replying, "no, however legal documents show that she is married." he pulled into a vacant area near the house crowded by bystanders, police and news reporters. the three of you passed the digitalized 'POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS' tapes, ignoring people's questions about what had happened. as you entered the home, the three of you split up. as stated in the report, the crime took place in three different areas; the kitchen, the bathroom upstairs, and the last in the children's shared bedroom.

you headed over to the kitchen, where the wife laid motionless at the table, a gunshot wound lodged in the back of her head. part of her brain matter was exposed, and the surrounding area had been decorated in brains and blood. it was a gruesome sight to say the least, but you suspected that it was a little odd position for a suicide. connor stood next to you, moving in front of the corpse and analyzing her body. connor's on sight forensic analysis proved to be quite effective as it saved a lot time, compared to waiting for forensic reports after you had analyzed the scene. his brow furrowed slightly, as he looked at you (not without sampling the blood of course). the weapon - a glock G19, was located next to her hand, along with a glass of wine.

"that's unusual. the exit wound isn't on the back of the head, instead it's in the front. it's a strange way to shoot yourself," connor examined, turning to you for your opinion. "i don't think this was a suicide. i think it might've been a homicide, but we can't say for sure," you replied to his analysis, before leaving to join nines upstairs. connor watched your retreating figure, before reconstructing a possible scenario.

as you walked up the creaking stairs, you took notice of the door that was slightly ajar in the distance. as you neared it, you realized it was the bathroom. you pushed the door open with a foot, immediately noticing the bloodied corpse of one of the children in the bathtub. the water had been drained, leaving the body in a pool of her own blood. the victim suffered three gunshot wounds, one in her chest, one in her right side and the last one in her forehead.

it was sickening to see, but the more you looked the more things you found. the gunshot wounds weren't the only injuries she had, as there were welts scattered across her legs, and faint burn marks on her wrist. the welts could have come from a belt. the sight immediately reminded you of the hk400, the first case you ever worked on involving an android. a bubble of disgust and guilt boiled in the deep pits of your stomach, but you swallowed it and stood up, only to be startled by connor's unannounced appearance. "jesus, you scared me!" you sighed. "i didn't intend to startle you, detective," connor said reassuringly, with his hand on the small of your back. you ignored the comforting feeling of his hand on your back, and moved to the final room, leaving connor to analyze the second corpse.

nines crouched next to the young boy, who didn't look older than the age of eight. he took a sample of his blood, analyzing his DNA like his predecessor. like his sister, he was shot. but forensic analysis suggested he was strangled before. judging by the purplish hue on his neck, it was evident that he'd been choked. "i reconstructed a possible scenario. it seems that the perpetrator came in through the door, and then proceeded to choke the victim before shooting him four times," nines explained, looking at you as you stared at the bloodied corpse on the floor. the carpet had been stained red, along with a stick figure drawing of the boy and his family. a few crayons surrounding the picture had suffered the same fate as the drawing - stained red and broken.

you noticed that he suffered the same marks, which were obvious indicators of abuse. nines and connor had seen it too, the bruises, the burn marks and the welts. "I think the mother might have been abusing her children. maybe she felt guilty after doing this and decided to take her life," your brows furrowed as you examined the room further, noticing the lack of clothes and toys.

"It's likely, as her fingerprints match the ones on the gun." nines said. connor chimed in, adding to nines' analysis. "however, the exit wound on her forehead indicates that she couldn't have shot herself. if she killed her two children, then who killed her?" your brows only furrowed in confusion as you tried to piece together what had happened. judging from their analysis, she couldn't have ended her life. if the hk200 was a witness, then he was lying, because the mothers death wasn't adding up. the husband was also nowhere to be seen, and the gun she used was registered in his name. there was only one way to make sense of this mess, as it had spiraled into something beyond what the files insinuated.

"hello, my name is detective l/n. what's your name, honey?" connor and nines watched in the observation room as you questioned the hk200. "my name is michael," he replied, fiddling with his hands in his lap. connor's brow arched slightly from the pet name, an unknown feeling erupting in him that could only be described as jealousy. "thank you for being cooperative, i understand you've already given a written statement but we'd like to ask you a few questions." you opened the case file, revealing the images taken of the bodies. he avoided looking at the pictures, and looked at you or around the room. the room was designed to be plain and bland, in order to keep the person under questioning focused and not distracted. this allows for them to rely on the detective for any type of distraction.

"what did you do today, michael?" you started off with easy questions to gain rapport, as answering easier questions would put him at ease and he would be more likely to give you more information. you could always scare them into a confession, but that would only escalate the situation and end in a possible destruction. "i did my usual list of chores," he replied. you nodded, "does this include cooking meals?"

"yes," he confirmed. "can you tell me what their mother does? does she help out, or does she rely on you for taking care of the children?" you noticed as he began to shift in his seat at the mention of her. "she left taking care of the children to me, and she'd spend most days drinking." you nodded, "did you have a good relationship with the children?" he took a little longer to respond, his eyes glossy with a type of pain you'd seen before. a look you wished to never see again. but then again this wasn't about you. "yeah, we did a lot together. drawing, playing games, normal things." he sounded hurt, like he was genuinely affected. you felt for him, reaching across the table to offer a comforting hand to him. he put his hand on top of yours, relaxing a little as he calmed down from your touch.

"was she married?" you had asked, despite knowing the answer. it was a simple test to see if he was lying or not. "yes. her husband would come home late and leave early in the morning, so she wouldn't spend much time with him," he explained. upon hearing this, connor did a quick search and was able to find his workplace. it was possible that the husband had left before the crime happened, and would come home to horrible news. "what time does he leave for work?" you asked, and the android replied rather quickly. "he leaves at 7:00am." by the time you arrived on scene, it had been 9:27am, and if it happened around twenty minutes before you arrived, then the husband would have been long gone, meaning the crime would take place around 9:07am.

you pushed a few images of the injuries on the children, waiting for him to look at them. "since you took care of the children, you probably have noticed these marks on them. do you know who caused them?" he visibly stiffened, eyes trained on the images of the marks and bruises. he then stared at his lap, remaining silent. but the look of guilt on his face was becoming more apparent. "i know you cared about those kids. you looked after them everyday. i can see the pain in your face." his brows started to furrow, before he slammed his fists on the table, startling you slightly. nines and connor were quickly alerted by this behavior, bodies tense and ready for anything to happen. "you don't know anything!" he yelled. "i don't, so tell me the truth," you pressed. he stayed silent again, before admitting it.

"it was the mother. she did it," he confessed. "she'd beat them almost every night. one time i tried to stop her but she said she'd return me to cyberlife if i stepped any further."

"then who killed her?" leaning into the table, you watched as he averted your gaze, "she committed suicide." it was evident he cared for those children, and seeing their abuse would become something he couldn't tolerate any longer. it started to make sense, when you placed him in the same position of the perpetrator from connor's reconstruction, it all made sense. she had downed glasses of wine after murdering her children, michael finally had enough, his heart broken over the deceased children - and so he grabbed her gun, and shot her in the back of the head before placing the gun so it looked like she committed suicide.

it seems that he started to realize that you knew what happened - what he did. "we both know that's not what happened." you stated firmly. he quickly shot up from his seat, lunging across the table to knock you to the ground. your chair tipped back, causing you to fall on your back. he was quick to get on top of you, his hands immediately wrapping themselves around your throat, and his skin peeled back to reveal the white plastic underneath. you kicked, and tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he was too strong. your throat burned as his digits dug into your tender skin, his fingers right above your pulse point. it throbbed wildy underneath his fingertips, only encouraging him to keep his silence.

connor was quickly on top of him, a hand pinning him to the table while michael's hands tried to fight the deadly grip of the rk800. nines quickly pulled you out of the room, and as much as he wanted to deal with the hk200, he knew connor could handle it.

connor didn't say a word, and it terrified the android underneath his palm. he could only stare into the hot rage above him, warnings popping up in his screen warning him of a shutdown. connor had torn out his thirium pump, the tips of his fingers holding onto the pump in his hand. hot blue blood splattered over his fingers and clothing, though that was the least of his worries.

"you're going to talk," connor suddenly said. "you have approximately 120 seconds before you shut down. i suggest that you tell me the truth, otherwise it won't be the other officers you have to worry about. it'll be me." he leaned into his ear, before putting his thirium pump back into place. his forearm pushed him down into the table, preventing him from moving. "i won't tell you." michael sneered. connor said nothing, and immediately grabbed his arm to probe his memory. michael grunted, the sensation feeling like a burn throughout his body as connor searched his memories. that was all the confirmation that he needed.

michael was escorted out, and you found yourself in the bathroom again, splashing cold water onto your face. after all that happened today, you felt like you didn't solve anything. the husband would come home to his entire family gone, and you felt like you couldn't save anyone. this feeling of shame and guilt, you felt partly responsible. it brought you back to the painful memories of the last case, but this time you had connor and nines.

"you should go to a hospital," nines suggested. both of the androids had scanned you again and again, all to make sure that you were alright. "i'm okay nines," you reassured your partner. "nines?" connor joined in, his head turned to look at his replica. "yes, that is the name that was given to me from the detective." nines replied, his eyes locked onto his predecessor. connor ignored nines, and asked if you were really alright. his fingers itched to touch the bruises forming around your neck, but he pushed away the thought and focused on your well-being. "you both don't need to worry. i've been doing this for years," you replied cooly.

fowler had come up to the three of you, his intense gaze locked on you. "you should head home, l/n. we seriously cannot have you getting injured on the job again," he said sternly. connor was about to retaliate, but nines placed his arm in front of him to stop him. they made brief eye contact, communicating silently.

'don't make it worse for her,' nines said. connor ignored him, his eyes locked on yours as captain fowler scolded you while also making sure you're okay. you sighed once he left, running a hand through your hair. "i guess i'll be getting home then," you said to both the androids, noticing that connor looked worried. "let me drive you home, i feel partly responsible for your injury," he said, his hand on the small of your back again. you smiled, trying to mask the way your body responded to his touches. though, you had forgotten that connor wasn't the only one who could read your body, nines could too. his LED circled amber as he scanned you, taking note of how your temperature raised whenever he or connor was around. he bid you goodbye, and watched as you left with connor for the night.

the car ride wasn't awkward at all. one thing that separated connor from nines was the fact that connor spent more time around humans, and he knew how to make conversation easier. the sound of the car engine and rain pattering against the roof put you at ease. detroit could be pretty at night, especially when it was raining like this. "i saw you take care of that android, you can be scary," you laughed. he gave a small smile in response to your laughter, "i didn't mean for you to see that. i apologize if-"

"i'm only teasing you," you nudged his arm with a grin, "it was kind of hot." he cocked a brow, his social relations program helping him differentiate the two meanings of the word. "hot? i don't think cyberlife intended for it to come off that way.." you laughed, missing these conversations with the android. if only hank could supervise academy students forever, and you could have both rk units to yourself. "i'm worried for you detective, it seems that you're putting yourself at risk with these cases. you should be more careful," he looked over at you, his eyes flickering to your injury before returning back to the road. you eyed him as he drove, fighting the smile the threatened to crawl up your face at his concern for your well-being. "thank you connor, but that's kind of my job. i knew what i was getting into when i was training to become a cop. i know the risks, but for you i'll be more careful." it was strange for him, for him to smile without making the conscious effort to do so, for his body to do things that weren't premeditated and forced.

the more you looked at him from your peripheral, the more you saw the differences between him and nines. you never would compare them, but they were so different in personality that it was slightly humorous. sometimes when you looked into connors eyes, you couldn't help but feel like you'd give him everything. his eyes ere so soft, and the only thing you could compare it to were puppy dog eyes, the thought of it making you chuckle, causing the android look over at you. "what's funny, detective?" you shook your head, "oh nothing. i was just thinking about how hard it must be being the most attractive detective alive," you smiled. if he could blush, he definitely would. "it must be an everyday struggle for you then," he replied cheekily.

it wasn't long before he was inside of your house, awkwardly lingering at your front door while you took your shoes off. "you should stay the night, it's raining too hard for you to be going home so late." he nodded, analyzing your home. it was a modern space, decorated with matching furniture but lacking any personalized items like photos. "i'm going to change, i'll be back soon, you can hang out here,"you smiled before disappearing into a different room. he walked over to the kitchen, noticing a pet food bowl, and an orange cat purring as it rubbed it's body on his legs. he crouched down, petting the cat gently. the collar was a light pink, with the name reading 'peaches'.

you returned, only to find him very immersed with petting your cat. you smiled, crouching next to him to pet her. "she seems to like you," you said, fingers accidentally brushing against his as you pet her together. "she's nice, i like dogs and cats." you chuckled, smiling from his pure nature. he was so sweet. "androids don't sleep, do they?" you suddenly asked, after thinking about what he was going to do while you slept. "no, androids don't require things like sleeping or eating. however we do have a 'rest mode' where we temporarily shut down to reserve energy." his eyes were attentive to your exposed skin, as he was used to seeing you in long sleeved tops, and a skirt with stockings. but you were in the comfort of your home, wearing a tank top and shorts. he appreciated the view.

"that makes sense, I think I'd go insane and hallucinate after not sleeping for a couple of days," you replied, moving to the couch where he followed you. he looked cute sitting in your girly living room. his eyes flickered between you and your neck, your tank top revealing more of your neck and chest, which he tried to ignore. "it doesn't hurt if that's what you're worried about," you said, after noticing his LED turn amber a few times. he was analyzing you. "i apologize, i didn't mean to-" you cut him off by shaking your head, placing a hand on his thigh which was impossible to ignore. "that's okay, i know you're concerned. it's sweet connor, I'm thankful for you," you smiled. something fluttered within him, it was the feeling he got when he made amanda happy or accomplishing a mission, just without being literally forced to accept the woman. she was long gone, but that's what he could compare this feeling to. who knows, maybe he just liked being praised. "thank you for being understanding, detective." his thirium pump raced from the sudden contact, his skin warming from the heat of your palm. "please, call me by my name. even in the office. you're my friend," you rested your hand on his shoulder, the urge to just touch him everywhere overwhelming you. "okay, y/n." the sound of your name rolling off his tongue was something that you enjoyed too much.

his eyes were trained on the floor, a pang of guilt welling up inside him from today's events. "i still feel responsible for your injury." you sighed, "connor, it's okay. it's not your fault." your hand moved to his, and you held his hand gently. there it was, that feeling again. he wanted you to hold his hand forever. your thumb brushed over his knuckles, and he gently squeezed your fingers in response. you suddenly got shy, as your eyes avoided his and you slightly warmed from what you were going to ask. "connor?" you asked for his attention, and he'd give it to you, no questions asked. he titled his head slightly, finding it hard to focus when you were holding his hand. it was far more intimate than any other gestures you've given, besides hugs, he might've found a favorite. "what is it det- y/n?" he corrected. "can i hug you?" you smiled shyly at him. it was unusual for you to ask since you'd always just go ahead and hug him (not that he minded), but it seemed like in your personal space and a much more secluded area, you seemed to be more nervous when alone with him. "of course you can, you don't need to ask. is that why you were nervous?" he teased, and you smiled before leaning into him and wrapping your arms around his body. hugging him wasn't what you expected- it was nothing like hugging a mannequin, but it wasn't like hugging a human. he still had the warmth and the softness from his skin, but under that was plastic and metal that made his body feel more firm. almost like how you'd touch flexed muscles, his body was similar to that.

his arms were wrapped around your waist, a little more loosely than yours. he liked the way you smelled, your smell was comforting in a way. as an android, he could register smells, but he didn't experience them in the same way as humans. certain smells are tied to memories, like a home cooked meal reminding you of childhood. yet your scent made him feel a certain way that he couldn't describe, no matter how many times he tried to compute it. it was just a pleasurable feeling. you smelled good all the time, everytime you hugged him he'd smell bright crystal by versace. "i have a question, y/n." he suddenly spoke. you hummed into his shoulder, prompting him to continue. "what makes you so affectionate towards me?" you almost laughed at his question, but it made you stop and think for a second. he could feel your heart race, and he didn't know why, it was a simple question.

"because I like you." you pulled away, looking to see his reaction. "thank you, I like you too. it's a great pleasure to be working with you," he gave a soft smile, not quite understanding what you really meant. you laughed, and shook your head. "I meant I have feelings for you. and it's okay, I don't expect you to return them, but I just want you to know that I've liked you for a really long time now."

his brows furrowed slightly, now understanding what you meant. you were worried, did he like you too? it had been strange for him. to deny his feelings at first, to ignore the increased whir of his thirium pump when you were around, to distract himself from how good your touch made him feel. to try to talk to someone else because he felt the need to be around you all the time. lately he's been more accepting of these feelings, and some of the new urges he's discovered. he's never felt the urge to want to touch someone before, to see you do things that were completely inappropriate. at first, he felt shame for thinking about you that way. but when he came to accept that it was probably normal, it was easier to let loose. his silence made you worry, but he was happier than he's ever been in his entire life. his LED was showing that he was currently processing the information, and he tried to hide how happy he really was. "I have feelings for you too, and I don't think I would've ever admitted them because I was afraid of rejection," he admitted, a soft smile tugging at his pink lips.

him? connor? the deviant hunter was afraid of being rejected by you? it almost made you laugh, because the thought was so bizarre to you. "are you serious? you were afraid?" you teased him back, and he rolled his eyes at your comment. he looked at you, and then your lips. you did the same, hoping that the two of you were sharing the same thought. in an instant, his lips were on yours. it was a completely new sensation to him, since the only thing to touch his lips were his fingers when analyzing DNA, so the feeling of your plush lips against his own was very new. he liked it.

your hand found its way on the side of his neck, and you deepened the kiss by gently pushing him back onto the couch. his LED pulsed a steady blue, even if inside he felt like he was burning up. he'd never felt so hot before, the component that circled cool air into his system working twice as hard to keep him from overheating. your tongue ran across his bottom lip, and he couldn't deny that he really liked that. your tongue then pushed past his pearly whites, and he actually thought he might catch on fire if you keep pushing him like this. his hands ran up the small of your back, and he pulled you into his lap, making you pull away from the kiss momentarily - a string of saliva connecting your mouths. you pulled him back by his tie, your fingers looping around the fabric to loosen it. it started with his tie, then his jacket, and then your fingers were slowly unbuttoning his shirt. he tilted his head back, allowing you to kiss his neck and the middle of his throat, your tongue running down his adams apple.

he was experiencing pure bliss, the feeling of your tongue running against his skin almost burning him from the heat. your kisses started in between his collarbones, and then it led down his sculpted stomach. you were pleasantly surprised by his muscular physique that hid underneath his clothes. through the jacket, you couldn't see much, but now you were able to see how strong he actually was. cyberlife intended for him to be stronger, and in doing so they gave him a lean yet muscular physique in order to be faster and precise. you slowly shifted to your knees, kneeling in between his thighs. you pushed his legs apart, and rested your arms on his thighs, while your fingers played with his belt. his cock strained against his boxers and his jeans as he looked down at you. your palm pressed on his crotch, and he clenched his jaw from the sudden pressure. fuck, you were going to break him.

"shit," he hissed, feeling more of your hand pressing on him through his jeans. it was a first hearing him curse, and fuck did it turn you on. before you continued, you momentarily stopped to ask him if it was okay. he nodded, his breathing becoming heavier as you unbuckled his belt. you pulled his jeans down enough to where his boxers were exposed, and fuck you didn't expect him to be so...big. it was hard to hide your surprise at his size, and you finally knew why he was always in a good mood. he smirked, his head tilting while his hand ran through your hair. you pulled his cock out gently, kissing his tip before wetting the length with your tongue. you made direct eye contact with him while you ran your tongue up the length of his cock. he nearly came just from the sight.

"you're so pretty," you complimented, before taking him in your mouth. the artificial muscles in his thighs clenched from the heat and wetness from your mouth, and he didn't know if he could handle being inside you if your mouth felt this heavenly. he let out soft grunts, making you clench your thighs together. you spit on his pink tip, before swirling your tongue around the head of his cock, your hands working up his length. you took him in your mouth again, your eyes tearing up from his tip hitting your throat as he gently thrusted into your mouth. his breathing became heavier, grunting while his head tipped back. you were surprised to feel his fingers gripping your hair, before you realized that he was holding you in place. he grunted one last time, before cumming into your mouth. unlike humans, his cum didn't have a certain taste as it was artificial, yet there was still something delicious about it, and you practically licked your lips clean.

your knees ached from being on the floor, and you were surprised yet again when he kissed you again, this time more hungry. you kissed back with the same amount of hunger, your lust never ending for the android that was above you. you laid on your couch, watching as he placed his hands on either side of your head. it was his turn to be in-between your thighs, and you whimpered feeling his cock press against the outline of your shorts. "i want you just as bad as you want me," he muttered into the crook of your neck, his lips kissing at your jaw and neck. unfortunately you couldn't bruise android skin, but he could bruise yours easily. his tongue licked at your skin, and he began to suck to leave a hickey. your hands traced the muscles on his back, your palms running up and down the smooth skin. "yeah? prove it," you challenged, watching as he nearly tore your shorts off, leaving you feeling exposed.

he was a little overwhelmed by so many urges at once, the urge to break you and leave you begging for him, or to fuck you until you cry. your back arched as he started to kiss your exposed cleavage, sitting up on his knees to squeeze your boobs. he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about doing this before. you moaned, watching as he lifted up your tank top and discarded it to the side. he kissed your chest, and you arched your back enough for him to remove your bra. he looked down at you, admiring how pretty you are. "you're prettier," he replied to the comment you made earlier, leaning down to squeeze and play with your boobs. he pushed your hips down from moving up into his, his palms holding you down easily. he decided to do the same, and pressed a thumb against your clothed pussy. you whimpered as he moved his thumb in slow circles, applying the right amount of pressure for you to be arching your back.

"my mouth isn't just for sampling dna, you know," he uttered lowly, his lips pressing against your pussy. you felt so hot, your skin burned from every touch. his hands gripped at your thighs, before moving one of his hands to tear your panties off. he didn't know if he could hold himself back, but for your sake he tried. "oh fuck," you whimpered as he ran a tongue up your slit, brown eyes peering up at you for your reaction. your brows twisted in pleasure, as his tongue began to work magic on you. the tip of his tongue swirled deliciously around your clit, before his lips sealed around you. it didn't take you long until you came on his tongue, his middle and ring finger buried deep into you while his mouth lapped at your clit. your abs clenched, your back arching and your toes curling as you unleash yourself on his mouth.

the moans that spill past your mouth are filthy, filling up the room along with the smell of sex. his fingers shove themselves into your mouth, and you're forced to taste yourself while you look up at the android above you. he looked so hot, his lips were slightly parted and shiny from being in between your thighs. his hair was slightly messy from you tugging on it, which he didn't mind. how his hair looked was the last thing he was thinking about. all he was thinking about was fucking you until you couldn't take it anymore. you lovingly suck on his fingers until his fingers are stripped of your taste, your tongue grazes his knuckles as he pulls them out from your mouth.

"is this your first time?" you asked, your fingers tracing his jaw and running down his chest. "yeah," his short response made you grin, and you pushed him back into the couch, immediately crawling onto his lap. his dick rests against his stomach, and you guide it back to your slit, hovering over him slightly in order to put it in. he looks down at your hand wrapped around his dick, capturing all of this and storing it into a special area that could only be accessed by him. he was definitely going to look at this later. you slowly sink onto his cock, the both of you grunting from the pressure. he seems to be in pure bliss, his head tilting back, his pretty pink lips parted and brows furrowed. if you could take a picture, you would. you gently rock against him, moving your hips slowly in order to not overwhelm him. your hands rest against his chest, and his hands grip onto your hips as you ride him slowly. you lean down and kiss his neck, adding onto the pleasure he was feeling right now. soft gasps and groans slipped out from his mouth uncontrollably, as he started to lose himself in the feeling of you clenched around him. you started to move faster, a pace that only brought the two of you closer to your end. your pussy wrapped around him deliciously, your wetness dripping down and spilling onto his thighs. he wasn't going to let you have all of the control, though.

it might have been his first time, but he sure knew how to fuck like he'd been doing it for years. he suddenly picked you up, with his cock still inside, and pressed you up against the nearest wall. you gasped, legs and arms wrapping around him in fear of being dropped. "don't worry, I'm not gonna drop you," he murmured against your neck, his strong arms holding you up with ease as he started to pound into you. your head titled back as you pushed your hips into him, his inhuman stamina keeping you up in the air, while miraculously being able to hit the spot that made you nearly scream.

"c'mon, take it, i know you can" he encouraged, his cock hitting that spot that made your toes curl. "cum on this dick, i know you want to," he continued, his voice low and demanding as he leaned next to your ear. it was different from how he spoke at the office, with professionalism and respect. but right now, he was fucking you like he had no respect for you, like he hated you. his pace was brutal, filling your pussy up until you couldn't take it. his cock rested heavy inside you, stretching your pussy out in the best way possible. his hand held you by the throat, while his body supported the weight of yours. "oh my god, fuck," you whimpered, your pussy clenching around his cock before you came all over him. he grunted, gasping as his cum poured into you, combining into a mess on your thighs and his own. he thrusted into you a few more times, enjoying the whimpers that slipped past your lips, the way you begged him to stop, the sound of your voice telling him that it was too much. he pulled out gently, cock dragging against the warm walls of your pussy. a new feeling overcame him as he watched his artificial cum drip out your pussy. you returned to your feet, nearly dropping a whole head as he'd been holding you up at eye length. you truly didn't understand how he was able to do so much. goddamn.

"i have no idea how you're able to hold me up like that," you took a second to control your breathing. he smirked, "my stamina and strength were designed to help catch deviants, though I'd say that I prefer fucking you over the mission." you softly gasped, hitting his arm playfully. "I've never heard you curse before," you giggle, doing a little walk of shame to retrieve your clothing. he mimicked your movements, putting his boxers and pants on first, while you lazily threw on your tank top and panties. you stopped him before he could put on his dress shirt. "I don't usually curse when I'm at work, as it's not professional, but we're not at the police department, are we?" he cocked his head, watching curiously as you put on his grey jacket over his bare upper body. "no, we are not," you smile, stepping back to admire your work. "what is the point of wearing a jacket if I'm not wearing anything underneath?" he questioned, watching as you eyed his body. "it's hot," you comment, dragging a hand down his bare stomach, your fingers tracing over his abs. "i look like i work at the eden club," he replied, not very fond of this look. you giggled, pulling him into you for another kiss.

it might have been the first time in a while that you've felt like you were doing something right. whatever you felt with connor, it felt right. he felt the same as you, he felt like having you in his life was something he wouldn't be able to let go. the two of you stayed like this, not putting a label on things yet, and being content with the things way are. you were happy, and so was connor.

though you couldn't deny the slight feelings of desire that you had for his counterpart. you felt guilty for having thoughts about nines. he was your partner. you felt selfish for wanting them both, and you didn't want to have to make a choice with who you wanted to be with, because that wasn't fair. you weren't saying that nines would even have feelings for you, but the mere thought was just enough to make you consider all the possibilities. what you didn't know, was that connor was well aware of the feelings you might have for nines, as well as him. he noticed the looks you gave, the thrum of your heart if he came too close. he didn't know why, but he didn't mind. he didn't mind seeing you look at nines like that, probably because they had the same face. but also because he wanted nines to enjoy you too. he could tell that nines was having the same thoughts, and if only you knew what was going on in his head. the thought of you being used by both of them was exciting. you don't know what's in store, but you know what you're here for.

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AUTHORS NOTE: ur a real one if u get the reference at the end, but I just wanted to say I'm so grateful for all the support that you guys show me ♡ I hope i didnt miss any tags, so pls lmk if i did !! ALSOO i'm so sorry for using y/n. i hate it but i literally don't know what else to put.

#dbh nines #dbh fandom #dbh rk900 #dbh rk800 #dbh connor #dbh #detroit become human #connor x reader #connor x you #connor x y/n #nines x reader #nines rk900 #reader insert #rk900 x reader #rk900 #connor rk900 #fanfic #dbh smut #connor smut

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