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soft4gguk · 1 year ago

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yearning | ch. 1

the one that finds you in Jungkook's doorstep after a night out...

Description: idol!jungkook x reader, fwb

Content: porn with loads of plot!

Word Count: 7.5k

Warnings: oc smokes 1 cigarette lol, they’re so flirty ouch, so much kissing, cutest little dynamic, dry humping (a personal fave in this house), fingering, protected sex (they’re so smart!!), loads of spanking, jaykay ass man forever.

Author’s Note: i once sworn to never write idol aus because… i know nothing about this man ok? i do not claim to know what he’s like in a relationship or a situationship or in his personal life!! so please thread carefully when reading <3333 that being said, his lives last year and these first couple of episodes of “are you sure?” have me feeling very delulu so here u go!! hope you enjoy xo

★ masterlist ★

This is a work of fiction. Please respect the members and their privacy. x

The moment you exit the club, a gust of spring breeze engulfs you. It makes you wrap your arms around your body, but it amounts to nothing, the little black dress that you’d made the executive decision to wear, in the name of fashion, betraying you. The tequila shots you'd downed before leaving the house sure had deceived your senses, too.

Needless to say, you regret said decision, a shiver running down your spine all the way to your legs, making you jump a little in place as you tipsily look around you. You’d cut the night short. Your friends had found another lonely pair they’d quickly gotten cozy with, leaving you to drink one too many gin & tonics all by yourself. You hadn’t minded it for the first two hours, enjoying the music, sparking conversation with the bartender from time to time and entertaining the occasional stranger. Eventually though, it became boring, predictable, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel a little shitty about yourself.

It was all getting repetitive. Friday nights, the same faces, small talk, ice breakers. Even the strangers you met had a similar M.O., making it all seem predictable. It made it feel like a waste of self, more than a waste of time, and it ate at you in moments like these, where it was strange to feel lonely amongst a sea of people, unable to shake the feeling.

The bright city lights illuminate the night, lacing it with something livelier than your mood and you smile. At least the scenery is always pretty. Pretty places. You hear the laughter of a group of people that stand a couple of feet away from you, they seem happy in that genuine way that reflects in pure, unadulterated beauty. Pretty people.

You think of him.

It’s rather instant. Or perhaps instinctive. The very own butterfly effect of your thoughts because to you, he’s the prettiest of them all. He’d been since the very first day, and as you lose focus of the pretty sights the more you stare into the city lights with him on your mind, you can’t help but think nothing will ever stand close.

A girl stands next to you, audibly shivering as she exits the club and the air greets her with the same fate it did you. She holds a cigarette between her red lips, the fire from her pink lighter shining on her red hair. It makes you crave one, too, rummaging through your bag for your own. You smile when you remember how he would tease you for smoking “the skinny kind” as he would call them. Calling you a bit of a snob, but all in lighthearted nature. After all, he could. He knew you enough to let your closeness turn into inside jokes, banter.

Perhaps giving into a vice could prevent you from falling into another.

“Can I borrow your lighter?” she smiles at you before she’s handing it over. Her nails are pink, too.

The fire feels pleasant for all of five seconds, warm against your face as you take the first drag. You give into one instinct so as to distract yourself from the one that’s tugging at your heart and senses, begging you to make a reckless call.

You check the time.

2:32 A.M.

Jungkook scrolls through the endless list of channels aimlessly. Small snippets from whatever’s playing that he cuts short, not really giving it much thought. He settles on one, solely so he can stop putting exertion on his thumb and go back to leaning against his couch – fully relaxed. He sighs. On the screen, some drama he hasn’t gotten around to watching plays, and the story seems to be developing quickly. He doesn’t care for it, if he’s honest, simply content with the white noise it fills the room with.

Bam leaves his dog house, standing right in front of him and they seem to start an unspoken staring contest. He smiles, patting the spot right next to him on the couch and the pup rushes to take the place excitedly. He gets cuddles and kisses simply for existing. For keeping him company – his presence giving Jungkook more peace than he’ll ever know.

“Hey, Bam, should we, like, meet up in our next life as well? Perhaps I’ll be the dog in that one and you’ll be my owner.”

Bam simply stares and Jungkook swears if he could, he’d let out a deep sigh right now. This makes him laugh.

“Hey, don’t be jumping of excitement at the idea, man.”

At this, he attacks. With kisses, that is – wet, sloppy kisses that have Jungkook giggling and pushing back, though it is no use, his dog is that determined to give him love.

“Alright, you win. Let’s go get a beer. For me, not for you. You’re still too young. One day, son.” His voice takes on a lower tone, imitating his father. Or maybe Yoongi’s, he can’t tell anymore.

He retrieves a cold beer mug from his freezer and cracks the can open, nodding his head at the sound it makes, the fizziness bubbling up before he pours it in the cold glass. He takes a sip as he walks back to the couch, blissed out in leisure.

He doesn’t mind being alone, specially not on nights like this when sleep leaves him and everything but seems more tempting. He likes the way everything slows down at this time of day, the ease of it all. No one to see, no texts to reply to. As for what the world is concerned for, he’s asleep. It’s peaceful, just being.

Plopping down on the couch, he rests against the pillows, making himself comfortable. He must’ve spoken too soon, he thinks, because it’s not thirty seconds after this that his phone buzzes on the coffee table in front of him. He ponders on the possibility of simply ignoring it, let it sit there, facing down. But something tells him he should check the message. It could be important, or not. The pull isn’t necessarily violent, just a quiet voice that tells him so, like a little nudge. He leans forward, setting his beer on the table before he’s taking a hold of his phone.

He gets it now – the pull.

From ___: jungkookie, u awake?

To ___: no

From ___: can I call?

He smiles – so fucking big he almost hates that he does, slightly flustered and embarrassed you have this quick of an effect on him. And before he can talk himself out of it, he calls you.

Seeing his name flash on your phone screen does more to you than anything you’ve deemed exhilarating tonight. The simple prospect of hearing his voice rushes more excitement through your body than any of the mindless conversations you had this evening. Than any of the conversations you’ve had all week perhaps. You smile and there’s no doubt that he can hear it in your voice when you say,

“Hey.”

There’s a moment of silence and you can hear the smile on his face, too. It’s warmth – he’s warmth, even far. How far is he, you wonder. Did you happen to demand of him at a bad time? Will the end of this call find you disappointed?

You cut to the chase.

“What are you up to?”

There’s a pause and you can hear the way he sinks into his couch. “Can’t sleep so I’m having a beer and watching some TV with Bamie.”

He’s home and a giddy giggle escapes you. “Ahh,” you say.

“You? It sounds busy in there.”

“Yeah, I’m outside the club.”

“Fun night?”

“No.” You don’t lie, you never lie to him. Don’t have the need to, or the want to. Everything about Jungkook is comfort – the kind that welcomes.

“Yeah, had a feeling. It’s not really your scene, is it?”

Your head leans to the side, eyes closing for a moment. He knows you in ways most people don’t, and it’s a simple remark but it gets to you. The fact that he doesn’t see you for the parts of you that feel the emptiest settles on your heart. It’s good, you think, to be seen by someone who observes.

“I want to see you.” There’s all the point in the world to be honest right now.

“Come over. I’ll make you ramen.”

“Will you show me your cat?”

There’s a pause. You picture him smiling, biting his lip, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, that too.”

You sway from side to side, a little drunkenly and a whole lot excited, as you stand in front of his door. It’s brief, but as you wait you make a little reflection on your emotions. What exactly do you feel right now? It’s been so long – probably not that long – but long enough to make you happier than usual to be seeing his face. Anyone else would make you nervous, and perhaps he does, too, if only a little. But it’s a different kind of nervous. It’s laced with sweetness, as opposed to anxiety. And the minute he opens his front door, it’s replaced by something sweeter.

Yearning.

He stands there, glasses and black sweatpants on, signature oversized shirt – something so very home about him. Your eyes widen as you take in his hair, it’s grown significantly, giving you a rough idea of when it was you last saw him. Two, three months ago. He looks good; rested, fresh, beautiful. You can smell him before you even touch him and it makes you smile. He returns it.

Yeah – yearning.

“I like your hair,” you say, because anything else would give you away.

“Yeah?” he runs a hand through it. “I like you.”

“I like you, too.” Let it give you away, you think. Who cares?

“Alright, well- it was nice seeing you.” He says, closing the door in a too casual, yet dramatic manner and you laugh, simply standing there – a little flustered because, oh does it feel good when Jeon Jungkook flirts with you in that boyish, teasing way only he knows how.

He doesn’t close the door all the way. Instead, he leaves it open far enough for you to see the way he peeks his head out, nose scrunch and toothy smile to signal just how proud he is of himself right now.

“Come here,” he tells you, reaching his hand out from the little gap and pulling you closer as you yelp, squeezing through the nearly closed door. “I missed you.”

You’re in his arms again, and the moment he closes the door behind you, his lips are on yours. It’s a soft kiss, one that says I missed you because you know him well enough by now to understand the things he says with his lips, and his eyes. With his hands, too.

“Mm,-“ you don’t want to pull back to get your words out, so you don’t. “Me more.”

Jungkook was always a happy coincidence – or at least that’s what you told yourself in a futile attempt to tame the feelings down. But the truth was that being back in his arms felt like fate, in that gentle way that doesn’t come in a movie-like encounter or in some sort of catastrophe bringing you together. Just being here. Anywhere, with him, felt fateful. You opt to believe in angels right this second just to thank them.

“How are you,” his hand cups your cheek, pecking your lips before you can answer.

“Good- better now.” His kisses muffle your words and you think you could live with this interruption for the rest of your life.

“Yeah, me too.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer as he circles his around your middle. You take him in, not one for big displays of affection yet this one you could never deny, could never not welcome.

It’s a sweet moment but the pull turns hasty soon enough the more your lips become familiar with one another yet again. You run your fingers through his long hair, rejoicing in its softness and length. His hand travels down, slowly but a bit desperately, squeezing when they meet your ass.

What has a promising ending is cut short by none other than your rumbling stomach. It’s rather loudly and you both hear it, laughing in the middle of the kiss you two seem to refuse parting from.

“You hungry, baby?”

“You promised ramen. And something about a cat.” Your lips part and you look at him, a pretty smile on his equally pretty face.

“Mm, yeah. I did. I’m all stocked up on ramen but the cat…,”

“I prefer Bamie anyways.”

You leave his arms, a smile on your face as you walk towards his beloved child’s crate. The moment he sees you, he hesitates for a moment, not yet having Jungkook’s command to leave his space but he’s excited – you can even make up his little tail wagging from side to side.

“Come here, baby.”

He runs to you and nearly tackles you, settling into the floor to give him the proper cuddles he deserves. He steps on you the way he did when he was a puppy, sitting down on your knees as you scratch under his ears.

“No one’s allowed to tell him he’s grown up. He’s little forever.”

Jungkook laughs. “He’s Jiminie’s height.”

You sneer at him, shaking your head at his joke. He stands there, staring at you with a fondness he reserves for certain things that bring him that kind of comfort that’s gotten rarer over the years. He’s grown up, matured and gotten real about a lot of things but not you.

Never you.

You’re still the innocence he kissed you with that very first time and the little bit of fear it wouldn’t go further than that. You’re the excitement he had when it did. You’re the flirty teasing and the falling in trust, opening himself little by little. You’re still something he once dreamt about – he still does. You’re the thing he has and doesn’t at the same time. You’re you.

Your loud giggles as Bam licks your cheek wake him up from his little daydream and he winces at the sloppy kisses he’s leaving. You don’t seem to mind though and he knows that if it were up to you, you’d stay there til dawn. No ramen, no cat.

“Alright, alright. Daddy’s getting jealous now. You can’t have her all to yourself.”

Your cheeky smile tells him you’re up to no good. “Daddy, huh? Have we ever tried that?”

“What haven’t we tried?” He genuinely ponders on his own question.

“Pegging!” You say, a little too quickly and excitedly for his liking.

“Absolutely not.”

“Mean.”

“Come on, let’s feed you.”

You smile. “Okay, daddy.”

It’s a chaos in the kitchen in between distracting kisses and your tipsy antics, munching on Jungkook’s leftover fried chicken as you scavenger hunt his cupboards for anything that could satisfy your alcohol induced need for sweets and carbs. You’d begged for pancakes, but he didn’t have any honey, and what’s pancakes without honey, really?

“Ramen. Enoki and spring onions.” He says, convincing himself more than he convinces you.

“Okayyyyy. Ramen, enoki- what else did you say?”

His thumb and pointer finger rest at his temples in mock exasperation, making you giggle. “Hey, why don’t you go shower? This’ll be ready when you’re done.”

“Will you be able to work a knife with the thought of me all wet and naked in your shower?”

“I’ll get you wet and naked later. Go sober up. Quick, quick!”

You laugh, kissing his cheek loudly and ruffling his hair before you leave the kitchen, making your way to his bedroom with familiarity - like you’ve done it hundreds of times and perhaps you have if you were to count.

You know where he keeps the towels, that it’s the left tap that opens the hot water, the way his soap smells and what brand of shampoo he uses. His face wash and moisturizer are familiar to you because it’s the same brand you use. You’d left them here once and never got the bottles back. He began purchasing them after they ran out.

You put on the same black Carhartt shirt you always do. It feels and smells the same. It makes you yearn and when you miss him, you smile in the comfort of knowing he’s in the kitchen, probably eating ramen from the pot as you take your sweet time in the bathroom.

All clean and cozy, his house always being the perfect temperature with the add on warmth that swarms your insides at knowing you’re with him, you make your way back to the kitchen. He’s reaching for bowls, back to you and your voice startles him when you say,

“Don’t get dishes dirty, let’s eat from the pot.”

He turns to you, a boyish smile forming on his lips at the sight of you in his comfy, oversized shirt. He’s seen you in it more times than he can count but it still makes his insides tingle. Butterflies, dare he say, is what the sight gives him.

“You sure?”

“Aren’t you? Afraid of exchanging saliva?” You poke your tongue at him and he grabs your wrist, pulling you swiftly towards him.

“Not the funnest way we’ve exchanged juices, but it’ll do for now.”

“Juices.” Your nose scrunches at his words.

“Mm.”

He kisses you, ramen getting cold in the pot as your lips make him forget all about his hunger in the first place. Your stomach doesn’t, though. Interrupting your heated little moment yet again.

“Feed me.”

“On your knees, then.” He teases, lips still on yours.

“That sounds more like a treat than a threat.”

He smiles, passing you the chopsticks. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Am I that predictable?”

“With me. Yes. Just me.”

His words are selfish, of this much he’s aware. He knows exclusivity is too much to ask for. He knows the baggage he comes with and the hesitation that shines through your eyes whenever you find yourselves slipping into comfort and familiarity a little too much. How he can almost tell he’s about to go a season without you, just by this comfort alone. But he can’t help but want you, all to himself. He can’t help but say you’re his even if he’s just saying it. And when the smile on your lips meet your eyes in an almost nostalgic way, he knows you feel the same.

“Yeah. I am.”

“I am with you, too.”

“I’d say I tried to talk myself out of texting you tonight, but I’d be lying.” Your chopsticks play with the noodles, eyes not meeting his.

“Why would you talk yourself out of texting me?”

You shrug.

“Don’t.” His voice is firm and your eyes finally look at his. “I’m always- I always want to see you, ___.”

“I know, it’s just- you know.” You say, and he does. He knows what you mean and he’s glad you don’t voice it because he doesn’t think he can bear the words that would only add insult to injury to the way your gaze falls, that spark threatening to dim its light.

“Yeah,” he gets closer, but it’s almost careful. His thumb caresses your cheek and you lean into his touch. “But you’re here now. I want you here now. Come back to me.”

You stare into his big eyes, smiling at him not because your heart isn’t breaking but because you wouldn’t dare break his with the reality of the situation. So you lie, but it holds truth. “I’m always with you.”

As you two eat, in bursts of comfortable silences and mindless yet meaningful conversations, you start to get used to him again. You’re too tired to fight it, and when you welcome it, it’s sweet.

The pot is empty, your bellies full. You lean against the counter as he puts you to date, catches you up on what his life has looked like for the past two months or so. Trips to L.A., New York, photoshoots, late nights in the recording studio, music videos, long flights and a Calvin Klein campaign you shamelessly admit to swoon over every time you pass by it. He asks about you and you keep your updates mostly work related. Long flights, long meetings, long days. Short bursts of inspiration and even shorter waves of motivation. You omit to tell him about the things you’re maybe not so proud of. The partying, the drinking on a wednesday night, the way your friends don’t feel like your friends anymore, more like acquaintances that keep you around when they deem convenient. You think his words could help, provide comfort and advice, but at the same time you fear the reality of the situation could burst the bubble of bliss you find yourself in right this moment.

So you talk. You catch up. You play friends for a while, feel real mature when he shares snippets of his life that involve other people, other girls. People in his radar, his line of work, the love interest in his music video. Jungkook does, too. Feels like perhaps he’s come a long way when you tell him about trips you’ve taken with friends, new restaurants you’ve tried, galas he knows you haven’t attended alone. It’s all fine, it’s good. Total control of your feelings as you take each other in.

Bam interrupts him mid-sentence, a sleepy whine in half protest he lets out as he walks inside the kitchen.

“Aw, Jungkook,” you coo, “he’s sleepy.”

“Time for bed, Bamie?” He smiles, reaching down to scratch under his ears. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here.”

You smile, well aware that he keeps his dog bed in a cozy room in his house, quite literally puts him to bed every night. It makes you think about how good of a dad he’ll make one day, how much love is stored inside of him, how he likes to be needed and shows affection through acts of service. Your smile drops a bit, a feeling taking over you that you don’t like but have grown used to over the years.

You snap out of it, busying yourself as you begin to tidy up the kitchen, sliding his pink rubber gloves over your hands before you start washing the single pot, knife and chopsticks he’d used to make you dinner. It doesn’t take him long to be back, though, walking back inside the kitchen and smiling at the sight before him. You hum a song he can’t make up, hips shimmying to the beat as you scrub the pot. Your shirt rides up a little and he cocks his head to the side, smiling at the way your underwear peeks from underneath the fabric. A black and lacy thong that has him nodding his head in boyish satisfaction.

“You don’t have to do that,” he tells you, making you jump in place a bit at the sound of his voice.

You turn around, bringing a gloved finger to your lips as you shush him before you’re pointing it at the couch and shooing him away. “I’ll only be a second. Wait for me there.”

“‘Kay, boss.” He army salutes you, turning around and walking back to the couch, sitting down and sinking further into the cushions, legs spreading as he scrolls through his phone, a bit impatiently, missing you even though you’re so close.

And to Jungkook’s great fortune, he doesn’t have to wait for much longer. Wrapping it up in the kitchen, you give it one last glance to make sure it’s back to its pristine state before you’re making your way towards him. He looks up at you, throwing his phone to the side and following you with his eyes, smiling when you’re in front of him.

“Thank you for dinner,” you say, voice sweet and low, eyes a bit hazy.

“Come here.” He takes your hand in his, pulling you closer to him, bottom lip getting caught between his teeth as you throw your legs at either side of him, straddling him.

“I needed this,” you admit.

“Me too,” he breathes. “I’m glad you called.”

You pout, eyes looking up for a second as you ponder. “You called me.”

He chuckles, not a single ounce of desire to deny you. “I’m glad I called.”

You giggle, arms wrapping around his neck and fingers getting lost in his long hair. His head draws back as your nails massage his scalp gently and he relaxes at your touch, goosebumps adorning his skin. His hands travel under your shirt, promptly finding your hips, waist, and then threatening to go higher but Jungkook wants to take his time tonight. He wants to stay in the sweet state of wanting you for a bit longer. When his eyes are back on yours, you kiss him. He sighs against your lips, bringing you closer to him by the waist, letting his tongue taste your bottom lip before he’s tasting your mouth. It’s slow, a bit sloppy and lazy, holds the quality of anything that happens in the middle of the night, when no one’s watching and time stills for the two of you.

“Your skin is so soft,” he says, lips still on yours.

“It’s your body lotion.” You roll your hips over his, smiling when you pull a low groan straight out of him.

“Yeah,” he says, hands traveling down before he’s squeezing your ass, guiding your hips into his. “You smell like me. I like it.”

“I like it, too.” Your words get caught up in a moan as the outline of his cock parts your slit perfectly.

You pull away a bit hesitantly, hands coming to rest at his shoulders as your hips pick up the pace. You go slow but sink deeper into him with every roll of your lips, eyes never parting from his as you take in the way his face starts to contort in pleasure, mouth parting slightly as his breathing grows heavier, little grunts leaving his lips with every push and pull. His hands travel back down to your hips, squeezing a little at the soft flesh, guiding them as you move over his cock. He’s so hard, can feel you through the layers, can bet on the fact that you’re wet and pulsing for him right now.

“That feels good,” he sighs, gaze dropping as he rides your shirt up a bit at the front. His eyes fixate on the way the thin, lacy fabric of your panties bunches up every time you throw your hips back.

“Brings back memories,” you say, voice a bit shaky when a particular roll of your hips has the tip of his cock hitting right against your clit.

Jungkook smiles, mind hazy but perfectly able to picture the memories you refer to. “Mhm,” he sighs, so entrapped by the feeling he swears he can feel you pulse against him. He likes the way you consume his senses. The way everything around him stills and all he can think about is you. His hands squeeze at the flesh on your hips before he says, “turn around, baby.”

“‘Kay.”

Jungkook feels the loss of your warmth as you stand up before him once again, smiling at him before you’re turning around and sitting on his lap. You press your back to his chest, letting your head fall to his shoulder, your lips meeting his cheek in an open mouth kiss. His hands travel up your body, palms closing around your tits, thumbs playing with your nipples over the thick fabric of your shirt. You circle your hips, chasing the same friction from before but it’s not enough in this position. You bring your body forward, hands resting on his thighs as you throw your ass back at him, your pussy perfectly aligned on top of his cock, making you both moan at the same time. Jungkook’s gaze drops to your ass, enthralled by the way he feels, by the way you look. He rides your shirt up your back, exposes you to him and it only eggs you on, moving against his cock at the perfect rhythm.

He hooks a finger down the side of your panties, letting it travel down, smiling lazily at the way you trap his knuckles between your pussy and his cock, moaning as you grind on them. He can feel how wet you are, dripping for him already even though he hasn’t touched you yet. “Want my fingers, baby?”

“Yes, please,” you plead, voice shaky as you look back at him.

He’d usually tease you, make you beg for it a little longer, but tonight Jungkook obliges. It’s been long – too long – and all he can think about is being inside you, feeling you around him, making you feel good. He takes his time simply so he can savor the moment. So he can memorize it well enough to store it somewhere inside of him, just in case it’s another three months until he sees you again.

He pushes his middle and ring finger inside of you, hissing at your warmth, cock jumping inside his sweatpants in anticipation and a little big of neglect. You close your eyes, pleasure taking over you as he begins to thrust his fingers inside of you slowly, arching expertly every time they hit your g-spot. His free hand squeezes around your ass cheek, groaning when the hand that fucks into you pushes down on his cock, aiding at giving him some much needed friction. You feel lightheaded already, all-consumed in his hold as he takes over your every sense. Your body relaxes and you can feel the way your tummy tenses right away.

“Fuck, I think I’m gonna cum,” your voice is faint but he hears you well enough.

“Already? That was fast, baby.” You don’t miss the cocky tone his words hint at.

“Shut up and don’t stop,” you say, looking back at him playfully.

You see the way he smiles at you before his gaze is dropping back down, fingers moving expertly inside of you at the same pace, applying a bit more force as he pushes in, massaging that spot with the tip of his fingers. The added pressure has you mewling in no time, nails digging into his thighs, teeth biting at your bottom lip to ground you back into the moment as you let go.

“Fuck,” he says as he feels you cum around his fingers, sweet moans filling the space around you and he so badly wishes he could look at your face right now. “Yeah, baby, that’s it.” He feels the way you contract around him, hips circling over his hand as you ride the waves of pleasure.

You come down after a minute, mind still hazy as you fall back into him, lips finding his the moment he turns his head to the side. You kiss him, breathing into his mouth, smiling in your fucked out bliss. “That was so good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you say, pressing your forehead to his. “I need you to fuck me now.”

“Want it?” he asks, and you nod your head. “You can have it.”

“Yeah, want it so bad, Jungkook.” Your voice is needy, holds a dreaminess to it that Jungkook doesn’t miss – one that makes him melt into your words, your touch, your lips as you kiss him again.

Jungkook presses his hips into you, raising them a bit as he pushes his sweatpants down. You help him take them off, hand reaching back before you’re wrapping it around his cock. He’s hard and pulsing for you and if you weren’t pulsing for him, too, you’d probably want him in your mouth right this second. He feels heavy, big and thick in your hold, a grunt leaving his lips when your thumb circles around the head. You love how sensitive he is, how receptive.

“Condom,” he says, before he runs out of blood in his brain and it all falls down to his cock.

“In my bag,” you say, reaching to the side and pulling it towards you. You rummage around it for a second too long – a second that has Jungkook’s mind betraying him. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But nonetheless he can’t help but wonder where you’d be right now if he’d been asleep and hadn’t seen your text. Perhaps in the same position but with a stranger. Or maybe a stranger only to Jungkook. Perhaps he hadn’t been the only person you texted tonight. “Here you go, baby.”

Your voice dismantles his worries and he’s warm again, all thoughts vanishing and it’s back to you and him. He leans forward, kissing your lips as he takes the condom from your hand. It makes you blush slightly, biting your lip in anticipation as you watch as he rips the foil of the packaging with his teeth. You watch the way he smirks as he rolls the condom on.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Just thinking,” he says, smile growing wider, cheek dimples making him look cute but something about his voice begs to differ.

You hum. “Thinking about what?”

He smiles. “July 14th, 2021.”

You both crack up, laughter filling the air the moment the words leave his mouth because of course you know what July 14th, 2021 meant. You’d been in a position very similar to this one, perhaps a bit more hazy minded, the true meaning of the heat of the moment finding you the minute you’d realized neither of you had a condom. You’d looked into each other’s eyes and made the silent agreement to be a little reckless and put a whole lot of trust on birth control and Jungkook’s pull out game.

He said he’d never forget that day.

“Long live, July 14th, 2021,” you say.

“Shhh,” he says, squinting his eyes and bringing a finger to his mouth. “Don’t remind me.”

“You reminded yourself,” you bite back. “Now, can you fuck me? Pretty please.”

“Yeah, baby, come here.”

You push your ass back at him, looking at him from over your shoulder, biting your lip in anticipation as he strokes his cock once, twice, before he’s lining himself against your entrance. His hand comes to your hip, pulling you down towards him as you push him inside of you. You both sigh, moaning as he bottoms out, so deep and warm it has Jungkook throwing his head back against the couch, sinking further into it and pushing impossibly deeper into you.

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you whimper, nails digging into his flesh.

“Fuck me, baby,” he says, running a hand through his long hair. You nod, circling your hips a couple of times as you adjust to his size before you start moving your hips into him, ass bouncing with every push and pull. He hisses at the sight alone, bringing his hand down as he delivers a hard slap against your cheek, making you moan. “Shit, just like that. You’re so hot, ___.”

“Jungkook,” you whisper.

“Yeah, baby?” His eyes are back on yours, threatening to close in pleasure at the way your pussy feels around him.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, baby. So much.”

You fall into his chest, kissing him as he wraps his hand around your throat, not applying any pressure, just simply holding you. You gasp into his mouth when his other hand travels down and finds your clit, drawing lazy circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. You whine and he moans when you move your hips to the rhythm of his touch.

“I don’t wanna be on top anymore,” you say, pouting into his lips, frowning when you feel his chest shake in laughter.

“Of course you don’t.”

“I’m an awful top.”

“You’re not a top.”

“Hey, I was a good top that one time,” you protest.

“Mm, yeah, that was hot. You got all bossy on me.”

“Oh, but that’s regardless,” you tell him, pushing your lips into his once more and straightening your back, smiling as you look back at him. He wipes said smile off your face in a second, hand meeting your ass in another hard slap.

“Stay there,” he says, holding firmly onto your hips.

“Okay, daddy.” That earns you another slap, though you can’t say it wasn’t exactly the goal in mind.

“Behave.”

Your face grows pliant as you nod at him and Jungkook has to fight to keep up the front because if he’s being honest, the sight alone drives him crazy, threatens to break him down completely and leave him a needy, whiny mess. He holds you in place, legs raising you up a bit before he starts pistoling his hips against you, fucking you hard and fast and even though you saw it coming, it still takes you by surprise. The force of his thrusts, how good he feels as the pain translates into pleasure, the noises he makes – it’s all too much but fuck, you don’t want him to ever stop. Your mouth parts in a silent moan, eyes closing as your face contorts in pleasure before the sensation ripples through you and you’re crying out. Your hand holds onto his arm and the firm grasp you have on it let’s him know.

“Fuck, I’m cummin,” you breathe out.

“Fuck yeah, baby. Cum all over my cock.”

“Oh my God,” you say, voice shaky and faint as you throw your body back into his.

“Fuck, I love your pussy.”

“I love your cock,” you say, fucked out giggles escaping your lips.

It takes you both a minute to steady your breathing and regain your strength. Jungkook kisses your neck, snaking a hand inside your shirt and squeezing your boob as you arch your back at the feel. “Let’s get you to bed, princess.”

“Music to my ears,” you say, giddy and excited.

Your knees buckle a bit when your feet touch the floor, the both of you laughing at your loss of balance, Jungkook a bit more cockily than you. He slaps your ass softly once, then twice as you begin to walk towards his bedroom. Once inside he takes his shirt off and when you turn around, your eyes scan over his body, metaphorically and possibly physically drooling over him. Your hands find the hem of your t-shirt before you’re pulling it off your body and tossing it aside until it’s landing on top of his. Your tits bounce as you do, and he nods his head at you, a satisfied pout adorning his lips. The pout turns sour the moment you turn around but is soon enough replaced with a smile when you start to crawl on top of his big mattress, finding the perfect spot over his pillows and laying down comfortably.

“You’re so perfect.” Jungkook says, because anything else would downplay it and he’s not in the mood to run away from the truth. You giggle, soft and sweet and he feels the way his heart aches for you inside his chest.

“Come to me,” you say, arms outstretched towards him. He makes his way to you, letting himself hover over you for a minute as he takes you in before he’s falling perfectly between your legs. You kiss him, letting your fingers get lost in his hair, breathing into the kiss and you swear this moment is laced in pure, unadulterated bliss. “Want to feel you inside me.”

“I’ll give it to you, baby. I’ll give you anything you want.”

There it is, yet again, and without a fail. It’s so common you nearly miss it – the way the moment turns tender. It’s mostly soft, this unspoken agreement you’ve fallen into with Jungkook. It’s friendship and attraction, good sex and years of exploring each other. It’s trust and communication. It’s understanding. It’s soft at the beginning and tender halfway through. It’s so tender it feels tangible, like the moment itself could fit inside the palm of your hand and feel ripe to the touch as you hold onto it. It’s tender when he looks into your eyes, it’s tender when his voice says your name, when you kiss his lips. It’s tender when the lust borders on something else. It’s tender when it lingers, when it threatens to fall.

He fucks you, hips moving against yours slowly, pulling moans out of your lips that get caught between his own when he kisses you.

“You feel so good,” you whisper into his mouth, words that only he could hear even if it weren’t just the two of you.

“Fuck, baby, so do you,” he whines, supple and yours, even if for that moment. “I’m not gonna last much longer.”

You smile, hand running through his hair before your fingers are pushing a strand behind his hear. “Cum for me, Kookie. Wanna feel you cum for me.”

Your words throw him over the edge, falling blissfully into you. It feels so fucking good. Your fingers running through his hair, down his neck and then back up again. The way your pussy clenches around him, cock throbbing for you at the wake of his release. Your lips are soft and the rise and fall of your chest falls into perfect sync with his. His hand squeezes at your breast before it’s traveling down your body, squeezing at your thigh before you’re wrapping your legs around his waist, flushed to him. Every little thing you do heightens his senses until all he can breathe, think and feel is you. His face falls down the crook of your neck and you breathe out a moan into his ear, unraveling him completely.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby.” His hips slow down before they still completely, a moan passing his lips as he releases into the condom, your nails softly running down his spine. His body feels spent but he doesn’t miss the way it relaxes on top of you, blissful and peaceful, growing sleepy right away.

“Feel good?” you ask, your fingertips running down his back in what feels like a feathery whisper.

“So fucking good,” he mumbles against the skin of your shoulder before his eyes are finding yours again. He kisses you. He kisses you because in moments like this he wants to say something else, something that makes more sense to his heart than anything his brain could say.

You kiss him back, afraid your heart will betray you, too.

You stare at him as you make your way back to his bed. He lays on his tummy, cheek pressed against the soft pillow, his pretty hair framing his face in a way that makes him look dreamlike. He doesn’t move an inch when you pull back the covers, if only for a second, to get back in bed with him. You lay on your side, eyes still fixed on him and your heart grows a new kind of tender at the sight of his sleeping form. He’s pouty and soft and so, so peaceful. Something sinks in your tummy, but it’s not in a way that signals bad news. Perhaps it’s the butterflies settling, perhaps the heat of the moment has began to cool down.

Your hand comes to his face, fingers gently pushing his hair out of his eyes before you let them wander down his face. His cheeks are soft, his ears cold and when it tickles, he frowns. Your thumb travels up again, smoothing his brow bone and he relaxes. Your eyes follow your touch as you trace the bridge of his nose, slowly, softly, as if you were being quizzed on it later. Wanting to take everything in, afraid that even blinking could take away from the moment. And when your finger lands on his lips, you trace that too the way your own did only minutes prior.

His eyes begin to flutter, a failed attempt to open them but you know he’s partially awake from the smile that pulls at his lips. You feel it on your finger before your eyes meet his gesture and when they do, you close them instinctively, leaning over and kissing him. His body can’t respond to his brain right now, exhausted and more asleep than he is awake, but he hums in satisfaction, lips puckering as he tries to give into his instincts.

“Let’s have breakfast together tomorrow,” he mumbles against your lips. “I’ll go buy honey and make you pancakes.”

You smile, though he can’t see, and perhaps it’s for the best. Your voice is a whisper when you say, “deal.”

His smile is the last thing you see before you fall asleep.

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joeloverture · 1 year ago

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morning cardio | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog pairing: dbf!neighbor!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] your neighbor and dad's longtime buddy catches you sneaking back home after an underwhelming hook-up. you want more — he provides. warnings: (18+ mdni) dbf!neighbor!joel, age gap (23/50), reader has a bad relationship with her father, reader's father is overly strict, reader hooks up with an oc, dirty talk, soft!dom joel, degradation, praise, thigh riding, 1 spank, titty slapping, daddy kink, exhibitionism but nobody sees, almost caught, heavy petting, misogyny for sexiness that joel doesn't actually believe in since he's a sweetheart [no use of y/n] word count: 3.7k a/n: watch me almost exclusively post dbf joel. watch me. also, mind the tags, they've changed slightly since i posted the teaser. this was supposed to be a series. this is no longer the case bc i'm indecisive. sorry.

Mistake number one: your eyes are crusted shut with the mascara you’d forgotten to wipe off.

Mistake number two: the bed you wake up in is not your own.

Mistake number three: sleeping with your neighbor.

Rubbing your mascara-sealed eyes, you blink yourself into consciousness and instantly regret it. There’s a moment of stillness, time stretching as you take in the room underneath the swelling orange sunlight. The window is cracked just enough to give you a glimpse at the world outside — birds chirping, sprinklers spritzing, cars crunching gravel as they pull out of the driveway. Surrounding the narrow, rumpled bed is a graveyard of orphaned socks. A box fan whirrs in the corner. The room had felt much cleaner past midnight when it was only the yellowed street lamp outside shining through the window. Then you spot the digital clock on the cluttered bedside table reads 6:10, ten minutes later than you’d wanted to be awake for, and time returns to its regular pace.

Your heart kicks awake in your chest, veins going cold. You kick the sheets off of your sweaty body, roll out of bed, and stumble two steps before planting your feet on the carpet below. Even that isn’t enough to stir your hookup. Dylan Andrews.

It’d seemed like a good enough idea at the time. Both of you were home for spring break. Both of you had flirted at the block party with each other. He was only decent-looking and mediocre with his hands, but you needed a break from spending another night in your childhood bedroom. What better way to do it than with a dick appointment?

Again. It’d seemed like a good enough idea at the time. Sneaking out underneath the nose of your strict, tough-as-nails dad was the easy part. Sneaking back in? Less easy. And to make matters worse, you were already ten minutes behind.

Shit.

You tiptoe across the room, naked as the day you were born, and stuff your underappreciated lingerie into your backpack. Without even putting your panties or bra on, you hop into your shorts and wrestle with your hoodie. By the time you’re out of Dylan’s room, it’s 6:12.

The difference between your dad and Dylan’s mom? She doesn’t give a shit what side of town Dylan wakes up on or how much alcohol is sloshing around in his system as long as he’s safe. You’re not the first girl to do the walk of shame out of Ms. Andrews' generic McMansion house, and you’re far from the last.

She’s downstairs in front of the coffee maker, still wearing her pajamas and doing a Dollar General crossword when you slip past her kitchen unnoticed. The door clangs shut behind you, and you figure she must see you walking down the cul-de-sac.

Your dad always leaves for work at 6:45 after a freezing cold shower and a steaming cup of black coffee for balance. You can only hope his shower ran a little late and that he isn’t at the dining room table already. Cramming two steps into one, you continue with your beeline down the awakening street.

You’re followed home by the mailboxes and flower beds, the pebbles you kick with every step. You’re almost to the property line, prepared to make a mad dash to your front door when you hear the faint call of your name. You skid to a stop, and turn to face the source: the craftsman-style house next door.

And there he is – Joel Miller, sitting on one of the cushioned chairs of his front porch in nothing but his sleep shorts and a t-shirt, legs spread as wide as the chair can accommodate. There’s a smug, knowing look on his face, one that says I’ve caught you. See how you can get out of this.

It’s been a long time since you’ve been face to face with Joel — Mr. Miller. You’d think you’d see him more often, with him being your dad’s buddy and your neighbor, but it’s been since summer. You’re sure he must be having the time of his life by joining your just got laid parade.

“You’re up awful early,” he calls, beckoning you up the driveway with a come-hither movement of his fingers. Leaving your dignity at the curb, you pad up the yard to his porch, climbing one of the stairs to lean against the gutter that feeds into his shrubbery. Pollen and moss is scattered across the wooden deck, surrounding a package that he hasn’t bothered to pick up yet. His guitar is off to the side, propped up against the doorway of the house. You wonder if he’d been playing when he’d seen you walking by.

Joel’s covered for you before, briefly and sparingly. Taken the fall for the half-empty bottle of fireball in your dresser even though he’d never go within ten feet of that shit, blamed it on himself for accidentally leaving it behind after fixing a wheel that had jumped off track for you. Even though your dad had chewed him out for drinking on the job, he’d still managed to sneak it back to you with the wise words of hiding it in a sock next time. You’d been two months past your twenty-first when that had happened, and maybe Joel had pitied you after realizing how authoritarian his friend was.

You aren’t as sure if he’ll pity you now.

“Needed some fresh air,” you defend lamely, hands hanging limp by your sides.

“Needed some cock?” he corrects, and his bluntness makes you choke. He seems relaxed for the words that just came out of his mouth, fingers drumming on his impossibly large thighs, a playful smirk resting on his lips.

You sputter, “No! Jesus, what the hell–”

“I got eyes, hun. Saw you leave that Andrews kid’s place. Clearly he didn’t stick it to ya that good if you’re still walkin’ steady,” he comments. His head tilts.

“Joel,” you hiss, eyes flitting to your dad’s house next door. He seems to read your mind, his smirk widening.

“Wonder what your pops would think. Bet I have a pretty good idea. His little angel, sneakin’ around and whorin’ herself out.” He clicks his tongue at you. “A damn shame.”

Heat spools low in your stomach and down to your unsatisfied center. You wish you’d worn darker colored shorts instead of the flimsy gray things you have on. There’s no barrier of your panties to stop yourself from leaking all over them, and with the way Joel’s looking at you, eyes dark and sly, you’re wishing there was.

“Can’t even imagine what you’re gettin’ up to at that college ‘a yours. Bet you had five guys inside of ya all at once, and I sure ain’t talkin’ about burgers, hun.” He lounges back in his chair, watching you.

You feel yourself gush. Heat burns in your thighs, and they rub together on instinct, seeking to extinguish that brimming ache between your legs. You bunch your hands in the fabric of your sweatshirt and can’t stop yourself from squirming underneath his gaze. It’s not like you’ve never thought about this, this with him of all people when you’re underneath your covers and your hand finds the warm junction between your thighs. Always unattainable. Always just out of reach.

You whisper again, “Joel,” but this time, it comes out as more of a moan. Humiliation warms your cheeks and chest, forming a different kind of pit in your stomach.

“Hmmmm?” Joel hums at you with a raised brow. He’s casual, indifferent, almost. But then his eyes flicker up and down, stopping at the wet patch smeared across the front of your shorts, the way your thighs press tight, tensing before letting go. “Ah. A little slut shamin’ gets you all riled up, hun?” That tears a whimper from you. He does that stupid come hither motion again, and like a lost dog, you listen. Standing in front of him, you feel completely, utterly exposed.

He adjusts himself in his chair, and you swallow the building lump in your throat when you see his bulge hardening. It sends another zap of heat to your core, and then another, more surprised one when his hand goes up to grab at your tit. Your breath catches as he thumbs one of your hardened nipples. A triumphant noise echoes out of him. “Braless, too?” His other hand goes down to your shorts, playing with the waistband. “Prancin’ around in these short, skimpy things, too. Practically giving the whole neighborhood a free peep show.”

His hand slides lower. Lower. Pans over to the crease of your thigh and then his thumb is planting over your clit, rubbing only once before he pulls away. “Messy pussy. Bet you stained the guys sheets.”

You’re quiet, staring at him, his wicked fucking expression, those hands that look like sin itself. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Ah. Poor baby. All this effort and you didn’t even get to come.” He just looks at you. Unmoving. Not doing a single damn thing to get you there.

“Please, Joel,” you whisper, embarrassed by the gritty need already embedded into your voice when he’s hardly even touched you.

And he’s still wearing that wolfish look, that tainted-with-intention gleam in his eyes that tells you he knows exactly what you do want when he asks, “What? What do you want?” He licks his lips, a fleeting moment.

You look over your shoulder, at the rising street. Anyone could have their windows cracked. Anyone could hear you confess on this porch. Still, you murmur, “I… I want you to make me come, Joel.” Your voice shivers a little bit along with the stroke of wind that wisps against the backs of your thighs.

His brows raise together, now. His head tips forward. “What was that? A little louder. You know, my ears really ain’t the sharpest these days…”

Fucking bastard.

“I want,” you say again, fighting to stop your voice from wavering, to keep it not too loud but not too quiet. “you to make me come.”

Joel sucks on his teeth for a second. “Ohhh. Now I don’t think that’s really fair, hun.” He gives you a mockingly sad look.

“Why?” you ask, and you know you sound as whiny as a petulant child. But he’d been correct earlier. You put in all of this effort, sneaking out for a thrilling night that had turned into something more like two sweaty bodies moving together and only one of them feeling good from it. You want to feel good. You’re tired of looking at the right and the wrong. Joel’s sitting in front of you, his thumb still smelling like your arousal; that’s what’s right.

“You’re out here breakin’ all the rules. Shouldn’t be rewarding you for that, sweetheart. Besides, it’s a little fucked up, dontcha think? Makin’ you come all over me while your pops, my buddy, is none the wiser gettin’ ready for work next door?” His vulgarity only weakens you even more, pussy clenching and begging to be filled. You’re about to protest again when he cuts in, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help ya out.”

Your heart pedals in your chest, eager and wanting. But Joel, instead of getting up and elbowing you inside like you expect, stays right where he is. He pats one of his splayed thighs, the grin on his face only widening. Your face contorts. Joel hears your question before you ask.

“What? Never humped someone’s leg before? With how much of a bitch in heat you’re actin’ right now, I’m surprised.” You can feel the shock on your face plain as day. Joel jerks his head down to his thigh, egging you on. “Better hurry up if you want my help, sweetheart. Pretty sure your dad’s about to get goin’, and I sure don’t have all day, either.”

The rapidly shrinking part of yourself that isn’t consumed with desire tells you to take a step back. That anyone, God forbid, even the Adlers across the street could witness this. Talk about a free peep show.

You think of the alternative: sneaking back into your house with a hope and a prayer that your dad won’t find you, backpack over your shoulder and shoes on, as you climb the stairs back to your bedroom. Open up your Joel-advised dresser drawer of things your dad says you shouldn’t have and pull out your vibrator. Do the same old hassle of a routine, desperately trying to make yourself come. Reach an unfulfilling peak.

Or… take what Joel’s offering you. Risks and all.

You take a tentative step forward, glaring at Joel when he chuckles because of your hesitance, and plop yourself down on his thigh. The pressure against your clit immediately pulls a whimper from you. His big hands fix themselves on your hips, holding tight, but not too tight as to hold you captive against him. There’s still the faint existence of the Joel you’ve always known, considerate and sweet and all southern gentleman, that exists behind the guise of his dominance.

You nestle your head into the crook of his neck, breathing heavy against him as you get a slow start to grinding your hips on his thigh. Although your movements are tentative, uncertain in nature, your head is already going fuzzy.

“Bet you’re only this wet cause that boy already put a new load in your dishwasher.” You scoff at him in disbelief — both at how much more wet it gets you, and how foul his words are. He chooses then to jerk you forward by the hips. You cry out as your pussy drags along the thick expanse of his thigh, clit catching on the bunched up fabric of your rumpled shorts.

“Zip it, you fuckin’ hussy. Ain’t a damn soul in this neighborhood that wants to wake up to you sobbin’ while gettin’ off on this thigh.” One of his hands drifts back to squeeze at the flesh of your ass. You hear the spank before you feel it, a sting that echoes and sticks right between your legs. He’s effortlessly strung a barbed wire of humiliation around your body. The lack of power makes your thighs clamp down around his, and you can’t tell if you crave more of it or despise it.

Unable to decide which, you loudly, exaggeratedly moan into his ear, still rocking down on his lap. It resounds through the neighborhood, the springboard roofs ricocheting you coquettish noises down the street and through the flowerbeds. A spooked crow lifts off of the power lines behind you, and you hear it squawk as its wings beat and carry it away.

Joel cocks his head at you, brow raised. “So it’s not just your legs that have a problem stayin’ shut. It’s your nasty mouth, too.” His hands migrate up your sides to your tits, which jostle with every flighty movement across his thigh. Before you know what he’s doing, he tweezes at your nipples in a way that makes you melt into him, forehead falling flat against his neck. And then he lands a hard smack across your chest, pleasure with a bite. Your hips jolt. “Behave for daddy before I make you walk next door draggin’ a snail trail behind ya.”

You know he doesn’t mean your real dad. A new rush of heat settles in your stomach, tightening your cunt from an ache to an insatiable thrumming that only Joel can solve. “Fuck,” you almost shout, but end up muffling into his skin with an open-mouthed kiss. He sighs, adjusting under you. The change in angle on your clit makes you whimper, especially when you feel his hardened length smushed against the outside of your thigh.

Your hand goes down to grip it, to participate in the push and pull, the cat and mouse, but he shakes his head, pulling it out of the way. He holds you by the small of your back, urging you to keep rubbing on him. “You’re lucky I’m even givin’ you my thigh,” he spits. “Ain’t gonna let you play chutes and ladders tryna make me come when I know damn well where that hand was last night.”

“Daddy,” you pout at him, lower lip jutting out.

He only shakes his head. “Don’t start.”

Whining in agitation, you manage to school yourself into behaving like he’d told you to. Every grind of your hips welcomes pleasure, beckons it, activates the porch light inside of you that invites it inside. You go limp against Joel as he guides you back and forth, and even limper when he tightens the muscle underneath your soaking core. Your hands anchor themselves on his broad shoulders, nails carving into his skin through the flimsy material of his shirt. He hisses underneath you, a break in his seemingly titanium resolve. You feel yourself getting closer, heat wreathing around your stomach, cunt clenching.

In your house, the foyer light flickers on.

Your hips stall over Joel’s as you see your dad’s backlit silhouette moving around in the foyer. Likely sliding on his shoes, patting his pockets for his wallet and his work phone…. You have two minutes at best.

Joel’s eyes follow your distracted line of vision. His amused chuckle warms the back of your neck. “Oughta hurry up if you don’t wanna get caught. Your old man would be in for a rude awakening, headin’ to work and finding his precious little girl fuckin’ my leg like a whore,” he murmurs.

He bounces his leg underneath you, and you bite back the needy cry that threatens to slip out. It feels so good, too good for you to think about anything other than the haze of arousal and pleasure that hovers over your head like a perpetual fog. You return to grinding down on him, hips pumping with a greater, renewed speed. “Attagirl,” Joel croons at you, and the hand at the small of your back presses harder, pushing you up and down his thigh.

Short, strained breaths of yours meet the morning air, eyes pinned on the rectangular window. It’s a golden-washed reminder of how wrong this is. Your dad would blow a gasket, see red, breathe fire at you if he knew exactly what was happening just a few feet away from his front yard.

But you forget all about that when Joel’s calloused fingers cup your chin, nudging you to look at him. His eyes are all pupil, darkened with something like starvation, something like want. “Don’t look at him. Look at me,” he coaxes, and he bounces his thigh again.

You’re close, you can feel it. He can feel it, too, in the way that your thighs fasten around his, your cunt rocking on him as your fervor makes the whole front porch shake and shudder. Tossing your hips back and forth, you wanted it, but now? Now you need it. Your stomach tightens, your legs shivering below you as your cunt gushes all over both of your shorts. “That’s it, baby, come on me like you were beggin’ to. ‘S alright, nice and easy for daddy, mhm?” He tenses his thigh one final time, and you lurch over that edge. “Gooood girl,” he hums as your cunt flutters against his leg. “You’re a daredevil, aren’t you?” he asks, jerking his head toward your house.

You figure you must be, after what you just did.

You’d planned on staying there, riding it out and trembling against his warm chest. But the garage cranks open. You jolt off of Joel’s lap, damn near teleporting across the porch with how fast you move. Joel smirks at you, crossing his unfucked leg over his freshly fucked one, where you’d rubbed your cum all over his skin until it’d glistened. The sight warms your stomach all over again, but it doesn’t last – nerves spasm in your ribcage as your dad ducks out into the driveway.

You fumble with your shorts, pulling them down and crossing your hands in front of the obvious stain on the gray fabric. Your dad squints across the yard, cupping a hand over his eyes. “Miller?” He calls your name shortly after, and you straighten. “You’re up early, kiddo.”

You open your mouth, on the precipice of a lie that you know won’t be good. It’ll come out unsteady, dishonest, and uneven.

Joel points at the package at the foot of his doorstep. “My toolbox got sent to yours,” he explains. “Damn postal. ‘Bout as good as the Boston Post Road these days. But your kid’s got me covered. Raised her right.”

For the second time, Joel Miller covers for you. You have no idea where this leaves you, standing under your dad’s scrutinizing gaze. With your cum cooling and sticking to your folds the same way it’s cooling and sticking to his leg, Joel knows your secret. And he’s keeping it.

Your dad only gives a shallow nod, looking between the two of you. “Well,” he hooks a hand back at his truck. “I gotta head off to work.” He shifts on his feet, this time pointing to you. “And you head back inside, kiddo. Too early for you to be up and movin’.” Of course it is.

You stare at the ground, the pollen and stray leaves below your feet. Finally, you settle on a nod. Shallow and halfhearted, much like his. Your dad, satisfied, retreats back into the garage. You hear the truck engine come to life.

“You heard the man,” Joel says. You tighten your fists, moving to step away, but the way Joel’s eyes glimmer has you loitering. He lowers his voice. “See you soon, daredevil.”

That damned nickname. “How do you know I’ll be back?” you retort under your breath.

He shrugs. “I’m sure there’ll be more… ‘packages’.”

You blame the heat in your body on the rising sun, sweat clinging to the back of your neck as you plod off through the front yard. There’s only one thought in your head as your dad pulls out and you close the garage. Mr. Miller can’t happen again.

Mistake number four: thinking you’re telling the truth.

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic

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desublimitate · 11 months ago

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Allure of darkness

❛ Let's make a deal: if you beg me to fuck you again, you will be mine from now on ❜

Author's note: MDNI. This is the first chapter of a fic you can find on Ao3 here. OC (y/n) is afab and uses she/her, no body type or any characteristics specified so you all can identify with her 🖤 Timeline is canon compliant i guess (?)

Content: yami sukehiro x reader, smut, rough sex, vaginal sex, dom/sub, oral sex, size kink, dirty talk, praise kink

As surprising it was that you became a Magic Knight, it didn't shock anyone when you joined the Black Bull. Such a wasted talent you were, if only you were born in a noble family, everyone knew you would have been a shiny jewel for the Clover Kingdom, but you, born a peasant didn't have much hopes for your future. If it wasn't for that man.

The priest of your village begged you to visit the church and confess your sin of envy, seeing you getting greener and meaner day by day.

You deserved more than everyone else, that's what your face read.

Born a gifted kid, your talent succeeded any expectations, therefore, when at 14 your grimoire picked you, the world was ready to see you shine.

Speaking in tongues magic.

What a rare and unique grimoire.

You were just a sprout when that spellbook appeared before your eyes.

Thin as a spring daisy, latched to your childhood dreams, your inner wisdom was always a sign that something bigger was coming your way.

That day, surrounded by all your friends, you played imagining what type of magic would have chosen you.

Water magic would have been so beautiful to wield, spatial magic would have helped you travel around the world, god you were so excited to see your natural talent.

Your mother had food magic, she would replenish mana thanks to her meals while your father's stone magic was celebrated in the whole Clover Kingdom, even nobles would rely on him to build their palaces. It was all coming up to you, wasn't it?

Your mother cried tears of pride, your father clapped his strong hands when you, small and bubbly, got picked by that majestic grimoire.

Speaking in tongues magic, the wise men of the village were enthusiast for the recognition you would bring. With your talent you were going to be able to decode the most ancient tomes, discovering parts of history still kept secret. Your future seemed set in stone: after years of deep studies, you would have reached the Capital, and joined the Wizard King and served him, opening doors to unknown worlds with your magic.

But then it all went wrong.

Your father fell ill and couldn't continue with his work as before.

The less money he brought home, the less provisions you could afford.

Food at the village market seemed always more expensive, affecting both your parents magic. If your mother couldn't cook, your father's mana couldn't really catch up.

Nor you could pay for healers.

There was only one painful but inevitable solutions.

With a tight heart you gave up your studies at the academy to find a job in town that could provide for your family.

With the weight of your home on your shoulders, you served ale and stews at the village tavern, always with a smile, but crying inside.

You watched them all leave for the Capital, your childhood friends and their not-so-special magic.

You grew colder and crueler, blaming fate or whoever weaved the strings of life for what they did to you.

They were out there, with their common powers, mingling with other commoners, while you were a sparkling diamond forced to stay under the dirt.

Someone like you, able to decode and translate ancient inscriptions had to spend your nights among drunkhards who never knew when to keep their hands at bay.

You deserved more than that, you were born for more than that.

All that talent couldn't have gone to waste.

Always more isolated, your family started to grow worried.

Lost in your thoughts, in private studies you started doing on your own, sneaking books from the local library in your bag, they believed you were going down a dark path.

Who knew what kind of books you were studying, what kind of obscure magic you were uncovering.

Darkness called to you, like a siren with her hypnotic song.

You were going to take your destiny in your hands.

If life wasn't going to give you what you deserved, you were going to take it yourself.

No matter what.

There was a certain allure to darkness you couldn't deny.

The books you were learning to read on your own were so full of wonders and secrets. It didn't matter how exhausted you were, if you came home from at the tavern at the break of dawn, you looked forward to be hiding under your blankets with even a small light to read your stolen tomes.

Of course you would return them, at some point.

Your parents never noticed them, or if they did, they never asked.

There was so much out there, demons caged in the depths of hell, monsters of ancient times. All with magic so undefeatable you couldn't begin to imagine them.

Stories of the first Wizard King, of the Demon he slayed.

There was so much in that world and you deserved to be a part of it.

You deserved to have a piece of power.

That night was particularly ectic at the tavern. You hated those kind of nights, when dozens of failed Magic Knights reunited to drink to forget their missed opportunities. Soldiers retired after injuries, former knights that served their time in prison after the Wizard King found them guilty of taking advantage of their role.

They were just the worst, they started the night already quite high and at the end of your shift even your clothes stenched of beer and sweat.

-Born to be a scholar, forced to clean after drunkhards's vomit- You brushed the floor hard, covering your nose from the disgusting smell.

-What was it, y/n?!- Your boss's voice came loud booming from the kitchen.

-Nothing, nothing!- You groaned with annoyance.

-Get your ass back here, The Table asked for more ale-

''Of course they did'' You made sure to keep that thought for yourself, but not for long -Look, boss, are we sure we want to keep doing this? We are losing customers everytime someone sits at The Table, is it really worth it?!-

Your boss was an old greasy man, short in height but full of rage.

-Since when I asked your opinion on business matters?! When I will need the opinion of a vomit-cleaning maid I will come to you! Now, off you go and you make sure I don't hear your voice for the rest of the evening!-

The unspeakable curses you swallowed burned your throat, but you knew better than crying, at least in that man's presence.

You waited for when you were under your blankets, surrounded by your books, to cry your misfortune.

-Are you still here?!-

-I'm going, I'm going- Your hand slightly shook when lifting the overfilled tray.

If you didn't burned down that place yet it was all because of the little money that kept your family going.

The smell of alcohol filled your nostrils and made you dizzy as soon as you stepped into The Table room.

The Table room was the aisle reserved for bets: the worst kind of men, usually addicted to gambling spent their nights and their fortunes at The Table.

Whether it was cards, chips, dice, at The Table, those men would even bet on their life.

Many times they were left with nothing to offer and tried to sneak you in their games, someone even tried to put your body on the table, as if you were a good they could exchange.

As if you would have given yourself to a loser like them.

-Here is the beauty of the house! Are you included in the meal deal, precious!- Someone chanted as soon as you stepped in.

-Ah ah ah, I never heard that- You rolled your eyes and landed the cups on the table.

-Bold of you to even ask for a meal deal, when you are not even paying a shitty dime, sir-

The room boomed with a roar for your comeback.

Insulted in his pride, the man tugged at your apron, forcing you to bend down.

God, he reeked.

-Listen here, precious, shoot another of your smart comebacks at me and I will make you pay for the meal deal, one way or another-

As if he could intimidate you.

You snatched back your apron in place -Sure thing, sir, as if you can afford me-

Now a new sound surprised you.

A laugh you never heard before caught your attention among the others.

Your eyes quickly scanned the table of the loyal vile customers, and immediately your heart skipped a beat.

Wow.

There was a man there, he had never been here before you were certain of it. You knew all those fools by name, and the stranger was definitely a new entrance.

God, what was a man like that doing there?

-She surely has a silver tongue!- The man then pointed a pocket knife to your harasser, with a dark snarl he threatened -I think you will want to think about it twice before speaking like that to the lady, asshole!-

You stood still like a salt statue. No one ever stood up for you, especially not like that, holding the drunks at knifepoint.

That stranger had awakened something dormient in you.

A thirst for life that made your blood boil.

His voice was baritonal, almost coming from the pits of hell, with a charm to it that made it impossible to forget.

Almost magnetic.

His eyes were like those of a hawk.

Foreigner, you were sure, no one had eyes like that in the kingdom of Clover.

Sharp, gleaming.

Wild.

Everything about that foreigner called to parts of you you believed dead for good.

His six pack and pecs were almost tearing the fabric of his white tank top apart.

His biceps as big as your head.

God, he was immense and the more you stared at his rough fingers playing with a cigarette, the more your mind went blank.

The foreigner took a drag on the thin cigarette and your throat ran dry.

The way his lips sucked on the end and breathed out the smoke made your legs quiver.

-Are you going to stand there and stare much longer, my love?-

He didn't even acknowledged you, yet he knew somehow.

Fuck.

With a jump you left -I'm not your love, asshole-

That laugh dug inside you -We will see about that-

Needless to say you couldn't just focus on anything that night.

Your boss noticed it, how you dropped plates, forgot orders, misplaced tables.

-What is it with you tonight?! God you are so useless-

What was with you? You wished you knew.

There was a man at The Table, among the worst ones you knew, that got under your skin with just his voice.

How dared he calling you ''my love'', how dared he made fun of you for staring at him?

There had to be something you could do about your blushing cheeks.

-Hey boss- You tried to not want to go back to The Table room, but you started looking forward for them to order more drinks, so that you could catch a glimpse of him -Do you know who is tha guy? I have never seen him here-

The short man peaked through the door and chuckled -Tsk, is he back for real?-

So he knew him.

Your boss made a happy face, brushing his palms.

That wasn't a good sign.

-That...- He pointed with his thumb -...is one of the biggest losers I've ever seen-

You curled your lips, well, that was disappointing.

So handsome and yet a loser.

He wouldn't sit at The Table after all.

Now, you noticed something that those bunch of drunk pigs would never be able to.

He noted down his points and strategies for game in a language from so far away.

A language you knew well and studied in your books.

But god, was he a loser for real.

Your boss was right, that handsome, muscular foreigner, had already lost his shoes and jacket, after having no more money to bet on.

Everytime you had to serve his table you had to hold your breath, to not get lost in his smell, of cigarettes and oils.

His grey eyes always locked with yours, as if he perceived you coming before you even stepped in.

And you couldn't resist them.

The way he looked at you was...no, you didn't want to think about it.

He was a drunk and a loser.

How could he even lose with such easy cards?

All night long you wanted to try and do something, a test, and finally when everyone was a bit too drunk to notice, you took your chance.

-Midori- The moment you said that word, he lifted his head quickly.

Bingo, you were right.

He must have thought to be completely wasted, he even started hearing his own native language now.

But as surprised as he was, never taking his eyes off you, he picked the green card from his hand and threw it on the table.

To the other players's discontent.

He won.

And for the rest of the night, you played with him, cheating for him under everyone's nose.

He clearly loved gambling but had no idea how to play, so it was you everytime you brought cups of beers to suggest him, in his own language, the colors, the numbers, the cards to pick.

Slowly, the foreigner won back his shoes, his jacket and started gaining the others players's money.

It never happened before, which made The Table room want to witness that unique event.

Why did you want that man to win? Maybe because his satisfied laugh freed all the butterflies in your stomach, maybe because for once you met someone more interesting.

Or mostly, it was because you loved to have his eyes on you.

Always scanning your ass whenever you turned your back, or your breasts whenever you bent on the table.

For the first time since you started working at the tavern you wished your shift never ended.

But it did, as always.

Your boss gave you your pay for the day, less than the half of what you deserved, but better than nothing.

It was dark and chill outside, you loved to feel the cold wind on your face after a night in the tavern.

The dark of the night shielded you from your troubles and the cold washed you from the dirt.

With your coat under your arm, you slammed the door open to leave for good.

God, you hated that bell on the doorframe.

At first you didn't notice him, hidden in the shadows, but the moment the tail of your eye catched the frame in the corner, you gasped and jumped.

-FUCK!- You almost dropped your belongings from the scare -God, you scared me!-

Yet, he didn't seem impressed.

Leaning on the wall, foot against the stone to enhance the size of his thick thighs through the marroon leather pants, lighting a cigarette.

The man stretched his arm, offering you the packet.

-Want a smoke?-

At loss of words you didn't know how to react.

If it was anyone else you would have ran away, or attacked them, but him you felt you could trust.

You shouldn't have, your conscence was trying to talk to you, you don't talk to strangers who drink and gamble and spend the night staring at your ass.

-No, I don't smoke-

He shrugged -Better for your health, I guess-

-Wha...what are you doing here?-

In the dark he looked intimidating, as if he belonged to the night,

as if he was born from the shadows.

His tanned skin, his dark brown hair, the rougly shaven beard.

Everything about him screamed wilderness.

And it called you.

-What, a man can't enjoy a smoke at night without being harassed now?-

He loved to play.

You rolled your eyes -As if you haven't stared at my tits all night-

The man laughed -God, you do have a silver tongue, don't you? Does that pretty mouth of yours ever get you in trouble?-

-More than you can imagine-

He lifted an eyebrow, intrigued -And do you have a name to accompany your brains?-

You swallowed.

Never give your name to a stranger in a dark alley.

But when you thought, your mouth already gave it off.

-And you, do you have a name to accompany all those muscles?-

The foreigner put down his foot -You don't know who I am?-

Were you supposed to?

-I mean, your reputation preceeds you. You really are bad at cards-

He offered you his hand to shake -Yami Sukehiro-

Sukehiro.

You shook his hand and the size difference made you weak at your knees. His hand seemed to devour yours.

-Yami. It means darkness-

Yami squeezed your hand, and perhaps taking advantage of the grasp, he reduced the distance between the two of you.

Forcing you to lift your head to look at him.

-What does a girl that knows the language of the Land of The Sun does in a tavern, serving beers to gamblers?-

That confirmation almost made you wanna jump around like a kid -So I was right, you really come from the Land of The Sun!-

Yami looked genuinely surprised, but was trying his best to not show it.

Clearly failing.

-It's the first time I meet someone that actually knows my country, leave alone speaks its language. How?-

And it was the first time for you that someone acknowledged your talent. For you it was just natural, but it wasn't.

It was your uniqueness.

-My magic. Speaking in tongues-

Yami took a deep drag, the smoke that came out of his mouth dissolved close in your face, giving you an hint of what his lips might have tasted like.

-Never heard that one-

No one ever asked you, and now you were afraid you would have annoyed him by talking about it.

-Oh, it's...uh, well...the name says it all I mean-

Yami shook his head, leaning on your face, slowly.

So slow you could feel your cheeks starting to burn like bonfires.

-I want you to tell me about it...or did the cat eat your silver tongue?-

The effect he had on you was the closest thing you knew to being drunk.

You felt light, floating from the floor in his presence.

Your mind blank, all your ability to speak gone to hell.

You started muttering.

-Oh, well...uh- You scratched your head. Did you look good? Were you a mess? -My magic allows me to...know languages. All of them, actually! From all countries, even those far from here. And ancient ones, lost ones too! I can speak demon language, or angelic language if that matters. Yours is pretty easy compared to those, you know, and...-

Yami stopped you, pressing a finger on your lips.

You halted and stopped breathing all of a sudden.

-This brings me back to my first question. What does a girl like you do in a tavern like this?- His eyes, darting you, digging into your skin -Why are you not a Magic Knight?-

Ouch, did he have to ask that?

-Did I strike a nerve?- Yami tilted his head in way that reads...concern?

You lowered your gaze, ashamed.

-No, no it's okay. I just..I just can't afford it-

Yami smoked, and let you continue speaking.

-My family is not doing well. My father used to work in the Capital, but then he fell ill and my mother is a healer so we really are not swimming in good waters right now. I wanted to try and become one, I did, I studied in an academy for a while but yeah, my family needs food and money, not books-

Yami hinted a smile, the muscles at the corner of his mouth slightly twitched but he didn't speak for a few seconds.

-Next week the Capital is hosting the yearly exam to recruit Magic Knights. Come-

For a moment, you believed he was truly stupid. Didn't he listen what you just said?

-I can't, Yami, my family won't survive without me! And it would be a stupid waste of time, I have no combat skills or anything like that, I would never be chosen, so...-

-If you got chosen though, your family will be provided everything they need, they pay good money you know-

At this point, you just wanted to leave.

You turned away, but Yami grabbed your arm, pulling you towards him.

Too close.

Too dangerous.

-What the fuck are you doing! Are you deaf or what?!- You kicked him on the knees and that made him laugh loud.

So loud he could have woken the neighbourhood.

-And you say you don't have combat skills?! Listen to me very well, y/n- He had your wrist tight against his chest.

His pectorals were so swollen, you just couldn't help yourself.

-You will be chosen- Yami sounded so confident in himself.

-What?!-

-You have a power that Jul..the Wizard King would never, for anything in the world, want to miss out. The things you could do, knowing the ancient languages and the dark tongues...come with me to the Capital-

You were lost in his eyes, in the inflections of his voice, how it made his chest vibrate.

-Why, do you also want to become a Magic Knight? Will you attend at the exam?-

He smiled, and tucked a strand of your hair back behind your ears with a gentleness that had nothing to do with his brute attire.

-Yeah, I will attend-

What were you? A stupid teenager, thinking of running away in the night with the first handsome man that you met?

Yet, his darkness was so compelling, and his body so inviting.

You noticed how his eyes had dropped on your lips, the movement of his tongue, licking his.

Hungry.

Feral.

-Suddenly so quiet?- Yami pressed you against his chest. You could feel his heart racing -Where did your silver tongue go, uh?-

Where did your self control go, you had no idea.

The proximity to Yami Sukehiro, a stranger from a foreign land, that sparked in you again the wish to pursue your talent, made you feel like an animal.

All about him called to you, even his name.

You loved how it rolled on your tongue.

Sukehiro.

You wanted to whisper it over and over.

And how immense he was compared to you, that really stole all reason in your mind.

Your body was reacting to him, since the first moment you caught a glimpse of him, he woke your instincts.

You were thirsty, and hungry for him, for a man like that you could have really lost control.

-You are still staring, y/n- Yami lifted your chin -My eyes are up here-

Your lips were dry -I could say the same about you, you have been staring all night, Sukehiro-

-Mhm- He hummed -Calling me by my first name, now? Who gave you the permission, my love?-

Your cheeks set ablaze and your legs trembled.

Between your thighs you could feel a wet pond forming, your clit pulsing everytime he spoke.

-I don't need anyone's permission to do anything-

Yami was taking deep breaths, all of his muscles were tense.

But after your last reply, he sighed with a groan and grabbed your face.

-Show me what else that cursed mouth can do-

Yami devoured your lips, invading your mouth with his tongue and moaning when he found yours was ready to return the kiss.

You licked him per instinct, followed the movement of his lips.

God, he tasted like heaven, you almost fell on your knees.

His kiss was wild, needy, brutal.

-You are so good at it...-He panted in between kisses, before penetrating your mouth again with his tongue.

He knew what you liked, how you couldn't tell.

-Bite me- You sighed -My lips, bite me-

Yami still had your face in his hands, as if you could have escaped him.

He bit you and when he did, he opened his eyes, making sure he wasn't hurting you.

You wanted it, nothing could have hurt.

Yami drowned his head on your neck, where your skin was thin and that sent a shiver down your spine, making your toes curl.

-Fuck, Sukehiro-

-Do you like that?- He bit your skin, it stung and burned, and he sucked.

And sealed his mark with a lap of his tongue -Do you like being marked?-

You nodded, in trance.

Having his mark, the mere thought made your pussy wetter than it already was. Just by kissing him, your womb was on fire, now that he was marking you, thin trails of wetness started flowing down your thighs.

Not anyone, but him.

The mark of this stranger appeared out of nowhere, sent by the darkness.

He was in your destiny, that was the only reason you could find for letting go so casually with a stranger.

This stranger though, you wanted him.

-I want you- Your moan made Yami clench his fist.

-Say that again, y/n- His low voice echoed on your neck and you wrapped your arms around his shoulder, grabbing a fistful of his dark hair.

-I want you, Sukehiro-

That must have been the signal.

Because Yami bent down and grabbed your ass in his full hands, gave it a rough squeeze and lifted you.

After locking your thighs around his waist he looked at you straight in the eyes.

A hunter with his prey.

-Good, because I have been wanting to fuck you all night-

Yami Sukehiro was a man of instinct, he knew how to trust his guts and that night for some reason, he sensed that it was his lucky night.

Ever since he stepped into the tavern, ready to lose all his belongings as always, he knew that he wouldn't have left with empty hands.

When he saw you, his primeval awareness locked in. He was an apex predator and you were the perfect mate.

Your snarl, your smart replies, everything about your rudeness was appealing to him. And god knew how he struggled all night to hide the boner in his pants everytime you showed up.

How you milk-smooth skin shone under the candle light, the softness of your breasts made him starve.

The perfect shape of your ass filling your clothes was mesmerizing, how many hands of cards did he lose while lost staring at you walking away, just to catch a glimpse of it.

But there were too many layers of skirts for his liking, thank goodness he found a remedy for that.

When he groped your ass to lift you, his fingers dug into your cheeks, spreading them apart.

Yami kneaded your ass and sneered when you mewled in his mouth.

-Oh yeah? You wanna fuck me?- Repeating his words made you come to terms with the truth: he was gonna fuck you, and the anticipation was almost feverish. You just couldn't wait any longer, each step Yami took on the staircase that led to the rooms upstairs of the tavern made your heart flutter.

Confidently, Yami didn't miss a single step, while still licking and biting your jaw.

-Mhm mhm- He confirmed -I wouldn't have left this village without making you mine first-

Yami noticed how his words affected you: your panties were soaked under a couple underskirts, so soaked that your wetness had reached his white shirt and spread -So wet for me already, and I haven't even touched you yet? You don't seem so bossy now, do you-

It wasn't your fault, but his.

You never met someone like him, someone that made you fall for lust so quickly. For all you knew, he could have been a criminal of the worst grade, but it didn't matter.

Your brain was fogged by desire, all your body ached for him.

Your breasts were squished against his pecs, your nipples hardened and got so sensitive just by friction that electricity jolted through your nerves; your thighs were numb and your core, well, you were trying to mantain a certain decency to not beg him to fill you right away.

Yami kicked the door of the room he rented, the wooden plank slammed against the wall and he didn't really cared about making sure he closed it behind his back, than he threw you on the mattress.

-Sukehiro...-You gasped, stretching your arms for him, needing those muscles back on you, that scent overtaking you.

Yami stood at the end of the bed, kicking his boots in a corner and brought his hands on his white top.

A translucent stain of your wetness made his skin visible through the fabric.

-Look what you have done to my favourite shirt, naughty-

Hungrily, you reached for his pants, with your fingers you tried to undo the strings and bottons that separated you from pleasure.

While you untied the knots, Yami stripped off his shirt, leaving your mouth dry and your eyes glazed.

-You are so hot- The words left your lips like you were hypnotized.

His six pack was so defined, hard at touch and over his bulky pectorals a thin layer of dark hair.

-Take your fucking clothes off- Yami commanded with a sigh, his chest rising with deep breaths.

He wanted it as much as you did.

You didn't let him repeat himself, as soon as your corset came undone and your tits were revealed to him, Yami let out a soft groan.

-Fuck-

His pants disappeared from sight, making you aware of the biggest cock you ever seen.

You had good partners in your history, you never complained but this...there was no way that could fit inside you.

And your pulsing cunt was aching for the challenge.

-Fuck, you are so big- You licked your lips, looking at Yami grabbing his cock in his hands and stroking it.

Shivers spread across your cunt, his full hand could barely circle the girth of that rock-hard cock.

In the moonlight, droplets of precum glistened on the head and leaked all acroos the veiny lenght.

Yami stood proud of his size and his build, he was born to be a dominant, that was clear as day.

It was clear for his presence turned you into a mute goldfish.

Speechless, a mess of pants and purrs, you welcomed Yami Sukehiro, the stranger that entranced you with his darkness, between your legs, where he tore apart your skirts with his bare hands.

-Lemme see you, lemme see how...-Yami lifted your legs, pushing your knees onto your chest, exposing your naked, gleaming, pussy.

He exhaled, a deep deep sigh sent a cool breeze over your soaked sex.

Like a soft rain over a fire.

Yami took his time to admire your naked body, after trying to imagine it all night through your clothes, his fantasy could have never made justice to the perfection you were.

The firm shape of your tits, how they mellowed in his fingers, your perky nipples and the way you squirmed as soon as he tickled them.

Your hips and waist, perfect for his hands to grab, he made sure to give them a good squeeze when he pulled you under him to assert his dominance.

And then, your pussy.

-This is all mine- He growled as he towered over you, bringing your legs on his strong broad shoulders.

Drunk in his gaze, you nodded.

-Yeah? Is your pussy all mine, my love?- He cucked his brows, faking a desperate expression. Probably making an impression of your face, pathetically needing him, all of him.

-Say it, I want your smart mouth to say your pussy belongs to me now-

There was something in the way he commanded you that turned your brain into mush.

Sterness, the magnetic tone of his voice, his dominating size.

-It's yours, Yami. Just please...- You bit your lips.

You begged? You were really begging now? What did this man do to you to reduce you to a cock begging submissive?

A wicked grin appeared on his lips, and Yami pushed himself slowly on you, his weight taking over all your resistance.

-Please...what? What were you trying to say?- The head of his cock nudged at your entrance with a wet sound.

You tilted your head back, fighting with the last ounce of self control you stored, but your clit said otherwise when Yami stroked it with his middle finger.

His cock ready to penetrate you and his hand playing with your bud, if your legs weren't kept tight on his shoulders, you would have kicked them in the air.

Yami made slow circles around your wet and swollen clit, and the stimulation was a trap for your pussy.

Through the growing louder moans, you felt his cock having an easier access inside you.

Your hole loosening.

God, Yami knew what to do with a woman's body.

And the idea of other having fucked that cock before, having his lustful eyes, made you burn with jealousy.

And desire to satisfy him.

Now he didn't stop fiddling with your clith when he bit your collabone and whispered again -Please...what? Say it, show me how dirty can that wicked mouth really be- Yami reached your mouth and chocked your moan with a kiss. His beard was tickling you, everywhere he left bites your skin was on fire -Are you only good at giving smart comebacks? You keep bragging about your tongue, until now I've only tasted desperation in it. Will you really beg me to fuck you, uh? Is that what you were trying to say?-

You were on the verge of tears, thirsty and hungry for Yami like your life depended on him taking your body.

You needed his touch, as rough as he could be.

You needed to disappear under him, to be conquered.

You never wanted anyone as much as you wanted that stranger.

-Sukehiro...please- With a hand you cupped his face and he followed your movement, curling his lips.

-What a good little girl you are, I will offer you a deal-

A deal?

If there was trouble you were way too late to escape now.

-What do you want?- Your voice a sob.

-You. I want you-

-I don't understand-

-If you beg me to fuck you, you will be mine. You will belong to me, your precious little cunt will belong to me-

Whatever it meant, it was what your body was screaming for.

Did he want to buy you? Were you going to be his concubine?

You should have reflected on it, on the consequences, on the conditions, but how could you reflect on anything when a man like Yami Sukehiro was feasting on your tits, filling his mouth with your soft flesh, nibbling and sucking your nipples.

-Fuck me- It finally escaped you -I am yours, Yami-

A hard, deep thrust filled you to the point of choking you.

Yami pounded his way inside you, with a fast thrust that made your pubic bones clash against his, and his balls smack against your ass.

His cock reached so deep inside you that you gasped for air, while he roared.

Your pussy stretched all at once to welcome his size but not enough.

Your muscles wrapped and squeezed his throbbing cock.

Yami didn't take his grey eyes off you, with a smile upon seeing you finally getting what you have asked for.

He didn't move, for as rough as his penetration was, he still realized how big he was for you and waited for your body to adjust to his size.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair.

-You are mine now- He said, low, like a promise from hell.

Yami was inside you, his cock throbbed against your walls, his head already nudging a spot that no one ever found before.

You moaned his name again and he grabbed your wrist, bringing it behind your head.

Then kissed you deeply while entwining his fingers with yours.

That kiss was different, less brutal, less carnal.

He kissed you like he...

No, you couldn't be that stupid. You didn't even know him, you knew nothing about him.

No strings attached whatsoever.

It was just casual sex, the best sex, but just casual.

Nothing else, right?

His kiss, slow, passionate seemed to say otherwise.

But when he moved his cock, you forgot about everything else.

In and out of your pussy, Yami started slowly to pount in you, so slow he made you die in anticipation for the next thrust, but deep and rough enough to make you scream.

-Now that's a sound I like coming from your mouth-

His teeth were once again on your neck, right under your jaw, your chin.

Yami was leaving you a necklace of lovebites.

The contrast between the pleasure of his cock in your cunt and the bites on your skin sent you in a spiral.

Your fingers reached for his shoulders.

-Faster- You moaned into his ear.

And faster he went.

Yami panted and moaned, he wasn't the kind of man that kept his pleasure all for himself, on the contrary he had no restraint when it came to growling for what your pussy did to him.

Each thrust faster than the previous, the smacking sound your pussy was making and the slippery movement of his cock were a sign of how both of your juices were mixing.

His precum mixed with your pleasure and leaked over your butthole and dripped on the sheets, already drenched by sweat.

-You like it like this, sweetheart? Is it fast enough for your needy pussy?- Yami smiled even through his growls and didn't even reacted when your nails scratched his back.

-You are a fucking asshole- You managed to say, his weight and his cock choked air out of you.

-You have no idea- Yami squeezed your tit and kept drilling you.

If he kept pounding that deep, you were sure he was going to break you in half, but your pussy was made for his cock, he was molding it in his shape and you just couldn't have enough of the sound of his voice.

Of knowing that that was you driving him crazy as much as he was doing with you.

-Where the fuck have you been until now?-

He finally arched his back when your nails scratched deeper, that question caught completely unprepared.

You wanted him, you wanted to please him.

-Tell me I'm yours, Yami-

Every word coming out of you almost incomprehensible.

-You are mine, you are fucking mine-

Every word coming out of him accompanied by a thrust.

That's all you needed to know.

You were his to please.

-I wanna ride your cock, Sukehiro-

He barely let you finish the sentence, that his hands were already on your hips, squeezing you and rolling over the bed.

Yami held you firm in place and now that you were sitting on his thick thighs, that you were observing his skin, coated by a shiny layer of sweat, you realized how truly big he was compared to you.

Your whole body would fit on one of his thigh only, his abdomen spread across the mattress, barely enough to contain him.

Yami crossed his swollen biceps under his head and rocked his hips, making you bounce.

-You said you wanted to ride me, are you just words?-

Fuck, what a piece of shit he was.

You wanted him to destroy you.

That arrogant sneer on his face made you grab his cock, wet of both your wetness and his precum, and bring it to your entrance.

It was heavy in your hand that couldn't circle it, and it smelled of heat.

A part of you, the most irrational and drunk of him, almost gave up on the desire to have him inside to taste him instead.

You wanted that massive shaft in your mouth, discover how much of it you would fit before you choked on it.

Discover the taste of that man, see him crumble for your lips.

But Yami had other plans for you: with another sudden and unexpected hump, he filled your cunt.

The meowing gasp you let out made him chuckle.

-Now that's more like that- He watched you lose that last crumb of sanity as you fall on his chest.

His cock drilled up to your stomach, a visible bulge rising on your womb, touching muscles and nerves no one ever touched before.

Looking for stability, grabbing his pecs, you stuck your tongue out in pure bliss.

Yami didn't miss the chance of sucking on your tongue and to make fun of your addiction -You really look cock drunk, sweetheart. Do you like being fucked like this?-

With his cruel fingers, he reached for your clit and as if his cock wasn't enough, he stroked it.

-Uh, you like being fucked like this? Naughty girl, look at your face-

The wetness of your pleasure was being stroked by Yami, spurting all over his hairy pube, his pounding reaching for your womb.

Like a predator breeding his mate.

-Ngh...Suke...hiro-

A new energy was growing inside you, an electricity that spread across your legs and down your spine.

-Yeah? Are you close to cumming?-

Your head nodded, eyes seeing stars.

With each deep pound he smacked in your pussy, his thighs slapped against your ass, a soft wet friction of sweat merged your skins together.

If he kept drilling at that depth and pace, you would pass out.

Your thighs grinded on him, with the intention of grasping every single inch of pleasure.

That take of charge made Yami moan.

Your pussy twitched when his voice reached your ear with a loud growl.

And you grinded again, locking your eyes on his.

-That's a good girl, keep doing that...fuck-

Inside you, that weight throbbed, readjusting your insides

Yami's cock was growing harder.

He tilted his head back, closing his eyes, lost in pure lust of your cunt clenching him.

Your walls sucked him in and out, the air suction with the lewd wet noises was a sign of how both your sexes were addicted to each other.

-Ya..Yami...I'm...-

Yami didn't open his eyes, but still found your hips, grabbing them tight, making it impossible for you to escape his next action.

-Cum on my cock, fuck- He roared, before rocking as fast as he could, fucking the air out of you -Cum on me, ugh-

Your climax blossomed in you like a flaming flower.

The spark ignited in your womb, a liquid light exploded as for a moment, you lost consciousness.

You came like you never came before.

Your legs outstretched and seizured, so did your back, like struck by a thunder.

Your cunt exploded on Yami's cock, tigthening, twitching.

Immediately, he was there to grab you.

As he rose to seize you in his arm, the movement pushed his cock even deeper in you.

-SUKEHIRO- You screamed, your nose invaded by the smell of sex and sweat that emanated from Yami.

His hot breath collided on your neck, while you disappeared into his embrace.

And he kept pumping his cock inside you, making sure of stealing every piece of orgasm out of you.

When his pace slowed and his breath became unsteady, your head spinned.

-Where do you want me to cum, answer quickly before I breed you-

His.

You wanted to be his.

-In my mouth- You hiccupped.

Yami remained in silence for a hot second, he wasn't sure he heard correctly, in the heat of the moment.

Did you say you wanted his load in your mouth? Didn't his ears deceive him?

-Say it again-

-Cum in my mouth, Yami. I want to taste you-

With manly arrogance, he lifted you from his cock, glazed by your juices.

Your pussy leaked your creamy orgasm on his thigh and with a sigh of relief your womb was freed by Yami's cock.

You felt empty now that he wasn't inside you anymore, already addicted to his presence and shape.

You laid on the edge of the mattress, legs spread and sore while he sat on his knees stroking his erection at full speed.

The wet pumping made Yami look aching to cum.

Head down and focused, his brow furrowed, chest going up and down in unsteady breaths.

You could tell he needed to cum just by how swollen his balls were.

-Will you be mine?- He growled under his breath, giving a hard stroke to his glistening head.

-I will be yours- You nodded, ready to take all of him.

Whatever that meant, you wanted it.

You wanted to be his.

You wanted to be ruined by this stranger you couldn't get enough of.

There was a before and a after Yami Sukehiro. You knew, the moment he first kissed you that no one else would have ever compared.

How could anyone compare to that strength, that stamina, that size.

-No one fucks like you do- Your body spoke for you, your brain was long shut down.

That confession erupted from you made Yami shudder.

Without ceasing to jerk off, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you towards him.

-Take it, open your mouth- He commanded, when your lips met with his hairy pube and the salty smell of his cock -Take it-

You obeyed, the reddened and swollen head of Yami's cock caressed your lips and your tongue, and the contact made him explode.

Yami bent on you, keeping your head firm as he released his load.

With your eyes up on him, you saw him hissing and roaring.

-Fuu..unf...Fuckk- He let go loud, beastly.

Suddenly your mouth was filled with a warm and thick liquid, the amount of Yami's seed was impressive.

How much did he need it, how long was he keeping all that.

And you did it, that was all for you.

Your effect on him and your doing.

His cock throbbed against your lips, shooting strings of sperm to decorate your tongue.

He tasted like salt, like heat, like lust.

Yami kept your head down until you drank him to the last drop.

And sighed, deeply, releasing you and abandoning himself back on the mattress.

Not before grabbing your arm and pulling you on his chest.

He swallowed, slicking his sweaty hair back.

He regained lucidity and caressed your back with the tip of his fingers -You alright?-

You lifted your head and nodded.

-Did you swallow my cum?!- Yami seemed surprised at the idea, as if he wasn't expecting that.

-Well, of course, that's why I wanted you to cum in my mouth-

Now Yami made a sound, resting his arm over his eyes.

Exhausted, relieved and utterly lost in you.

That wicked mouth of yours was going to be his ruin, he knew it.

Squeezing your cheeks he kissed you, savouring his own taste still lingering in your mouth.

A sloppy kiss, that's what you both needed after losing your minds in each other.

-You are a naughty, naughty, girl. Where did you learn how to fuck like that, uh?- He smacked your ass as he made himself cozy, lying on his side -Do your books say how to ride a man?-

You hid a laugh, tracing his hard muscles lines with your fingers -I had my experiences you know.

Yami's eyes darkened suddenly, the playful grin disappeared before he crashed onto your mouth again, forcing you to lay down with his imposing weight.

Slow, with soft petal kisses in between, never taking his eyes off you as he fought the urge to own you again.

-You are mine now-

Would have it ruined the mood if you asked what he meant? You really didn't care, for a part of you knew he was right.

That you would have looked for him in all the men you slept with.

Yami made you his.

-Only mine to kiss...- Yami licked under your jaw -...to touch...- Then he went low on your tits -...to fuck...- On your abdomen -...to ruin- And he stopped right above your clit, on your soft bushy pube.

Biting your lips you were already savouring the experience of Yami licking you, his mouth was so close.

-Jerk- You spat out when he cruelly crawled back to your face, with a playful smile.

He chuckled -Ready to go again, uh? You loved my cock that much?-

You nodded, scratching his light beard -I've never been fucked like this-

Yami gave you a squeeze on your hips and nudged his big nose against yours -You can say it outloud-

Yami Sukehiro snored, not that it surprised you that a brute like him would keep his rudeness even in his sleep, what surprised you was that his snoring woke you.

You forgot to have even fallen asleep.

He was sleeping like a babe, a soldier proud of his won battle, bicep under his head and one hand resting on his abdomen, one knee up to make a tent of the messed up sheets.

When you woke up you were still naked, covered in shivers after the sweat had cooled on your skin.

You must have fallen asleep together, after all you were both sore.

So sore that even rising from the bed pained you.

God, that man really fucked you like no one did, your legs were twitching from cramps.

You looked at him quickly, he was handsome when he slept. His chest rose in deep breaths and on his face was a dreamless serenity.

But you couldn't stay the night, what would have your boss said if he saw you coming down for breakfast with one of his customers, especially in the conditions you were?

What would have your parents said if they didn't see you at home by daylight?

It was all just sex, you reminded yourself.

You didn't know this guy, you didn't know his businesses.

No strings attached, just good, amazing, breath-taking, unforgettable sex.

When you gathered your clothes back they were a mess, completely torn apart, and then your eyes fell on something glittering in the dark.

You looked back, making sure Yami didn't wake from you stepping on the wooden tiles, and peeked inside his pouch.

There was a black shawl, or cape with a sygil embroidered on it.

A black bull.

That must have been the insigna of his gang or whatever. Under it, far more interesting, the leather sachet with the gold he won at The Table.

So much gold, what did he need it for?

He said he was going to the Clover Kingdom Capital, to attend the exam for the Magic Knights.

And asked you to join him.

It was then that a thought came to your mind.

You helped him win that gold, actually, if it wasn't for you he wouldn't have seen a dime, that meant that a big part of that win was also yours, right?

When Yami woke up the next morning he was alone and for a moment he believed that last night was a dream.

The most beautiful dream he ever had.

But your smell was still all over him, your sweet scent filled the room and yet, you were nowhere to be seen.

Not that he expected his breakfast in bed, but it was the first time that someone ran away in the middle of the night after fucking.

Usually it was him.

You were a surprise after the other.

Arrogant and clever, the best fuck he had and also a runaway.

Weren't you just a catch?

His insight was never wrong and led him to his pouch.

With a loud -AH!- Yami laughed seeing all of his gold vanished, and replaced by a small parchment in the leather sachet.

The ink was not completely dry yet, and it read

I'm sorry, I just took my part. I guess I will see you at the Magic Knight exams, don't forget it. You really have the best cock I ever fucked.

See you at the Capital, Yami Sukehiro

You clearly had no idea in what trouble you just put yourself.

Yami crumpled up your letter and put it in his pockets, somehow a way to feel you close and went about his day laughing.

-Oh, you will see my love, I will be there-

#black clover #black clover smut #yami sukehiro #yami sukehiro x reader #yami sukehiro smut #fanfiction #fanfic #black clover manga #manga fanfic #anime fanfic #smut #smut fic

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chilling-seavey · 2 months ago

Text

Disillusionment (gr63)

↳ A/N Oh wow, I am excited for this one. From watchin this video on Medieval life and sex, I was interested in writing my own take on this era as historically accurate as possible, right down to the way of speech (while still making it legible for us in the 21st century). I delved into hours upon hours of research for what was supposed to be a 'short fic' and ended up with this glorious beast. I hope you love it as much as I do! It was so much fun (and so much work!) to write!

↳ Summary: George had spent his entire life as a peasant farmer in the quiet fields of Norfolk, sheltered from much of the unrest that had gripped late 14th-century England. Choosing to leave behind the stable, modest life he was born into, he sets out for London in hopes of forging his own path among the city’s guilds. His apprenticeship master is a kind and just man—but it is the master’s eldest daughter, a fair and intelligent maiden, who begins to stir something deeper within him. Though everything seems promising at first, the lingering unrest in the wake of the Peasants’ Revolt still hangs heavy in London’s streets, and George soon discovers that life beyond the fields is far more complex—and far less kind—than he ever imagined.

↳ Pairings: Peasant!George Russell x Master's Daughter!OC; Peasant!George Russell x Nomad!Lando Norris (platonic); Apprentice!George Russell x Apprentice!Alex Albon (platonic)

↳ Word Count: 31.7k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex (well, she drinks herbal tea and jumps around a little after which was historically accurate contraception), premarital sex (aka sin!!!!), exhibitionism (not really, but outdoor/semi-public sex was all that was possible in this era), other historical accuracies that we in the 21st century may deem strange. Mentions and descriptions of violence, social uprisings, societal divide, thievery, treason, executions and death, religion/God.

In all the three and twenty years of his life, never had George once thought of a life beyond Lynn. Born unto a family of modest means in a village lying a ways beyond the eastern walls of the town, he was destined to toil for his livelihood and to serve his Lord. From there, all that he might ever think to need lay within a day's journey: the town-centre and the bustling river port for trade, a modest chapel for Sunday mass, and the wide-spread hills of Norfolk for those rare days granted to rest. To George it was but the way of things, as it had ever been; a life measured in bushels and seasons, in toil and in prayer, and in the simpleties of a peasant's lot.

At the break of day, the labour was already well begun, George and his family having been roused long before the rooster’s first crow to prepare for another grueling day. While his sisters tended to the cows and the homestead, George and his brothers took to the fields while dew still clung to the grasses and the soil was heavy beneath their feet. As spring drew closer, the farmers of England set themselves to the important task of preparing the land for planting of the crops that would feed their countrymen for the year ahead. Each soul, from man to woman, from child unto elder, had their part to play and they knew it well. There was no time for dawdling; not when the nourishment of hundreds lay upon their shoulders.

George lent his hand to the fastening of the heavy plough to the pair of oxen, and soon they set to their day’s work. Their father took up the rear, steadying the plough as its iron share bit deep into the soil, breaking the earth in readiness for planting, while the sons, ropes in hand, guided the beasts by nose and horn, coaxing them steady through the furrowed field. The sun, though yet low upon the horizon, bore down with a slow, unyielding heat, and the day stretched before them with neither promise of ease nor mercy. The Lord of their village required the work to be completed, his land to be tended to, rain or shine, and that was the way of it.

The sprawling arable land of their village had been divided amongst the families dwelling therein, each set to their allotted strip to farm. For decades, the Russells had laboured upon their share, the charge of peasantry passed down from man unto man, from father unto son. In time, when their father should be called to God—may He grant him rest—it would fall to George’s eldest brother to take over their plot of labour and provide for their family.

Being born unto this fate was grueling with little rewards to reap. Families were granted but enough pay to afford food and shelter, yet their lives were ever bound and beholden to their Lordship. Many villages and its peasants would toil beneath the iron fist of wretched and greedy Lords who took the fruit of their labours for themselves and left them with little. The Russells were fortunate to dwell beneath Lord Hamilton; a generous and kindly man who saw fit to share the blessings of their toil with those who worked his land.

And work the land they did; bathed by the warmth of the springtime sun, the labourers ploughed and sowed until the sun kissed the western horizon, nestling between the grassy hills and budding sycamores and thus decreeing the day’s labour at an end. The well-worn oxen were returned to pasture and the men withdrew from the fields to their homesteads for supper, caked in mud and in grime and in pride. The village women had prepared fresh bread with butter and stew and ale for the men upon their return and the families gathered in their respective huts to share a meal around the hearth.

Between his elder brother and sister sat George, bowl in hand, spooning thin broth into his famished mouth with dirt-stained fingers clutching a spoon of rough-carved wood. The low fire crackled in the centre of the one-room farmhouse, the embers glowing, and a veil of smoke rose, winding upwards toward the vented opening in the roof. A thin drift of ash lay upon everything within the farmhouse, cloaking every surface in a light grey, the necessity if wanting to have pleasant heat in those chilly springtime evenings.

Across the floor strewn with rushes, a tabby cat gave chase after a mouse, narrowly missing the fire that sought to snatch at the tip of its tail. In the far corner, the family cow mooed soft and slow, settling into its bed of straw beside the lowly sheep and the pregnant pig, which snorted and chomped in its muck. The women had cleared out the soiled straw and rushes from the house that day, and for a little while, the fresh sweetness of greenery overtook the heavy odour of the livestock with which they shared their dwelling. Then, when the tabby returned to the fireside with the mouse clutched in its jaws, George leaned from his low stool to give it a scratch behind the ear—yet another hand about the farm, doing her part.

The golden glow of the evening sun waned through the open wood shutters of the farmhouse as night began to fall while supper concluded. As darkness drew nearer, his mother stooped by the fire to catch a flame in the tinderbox to bring to the few candles dotting the perimeter of the room while the siblings brought their dishes to the metal basin in the corner to wash up. The eldest sister—on the cusp of being betrothed to a young man from a fine family in their same village—took her place at the basin to do the washing with the last of their well water for the day.

While he aided his sister in gathering the dishes, George caught the eye of his eldest brother, who leaned idly against the doorway, arms folded across his linen shirt. The brothers had spoken in hushed voices out in the fields of their hope to venture out after supper, for tomorrow was Sunday, and no work would be required of them. Now, burdened with evening chores, George grew restless, eager for the rare company of other townsfolk and men of his own age. He shared a knowing glance with his brother, a silent exchange of anticipation.

“Father,” his brother said, pushing away from the wall and stepping nearer to where their father prepared for evening prayer, “might George and I be granted leave to visit the alehouse tonight, for a small measure of leisure before bed-call?” ("Father, can George and I go to the pub tonight for some free time before bed?")

Their mother answered firmly in his place, “Ye shall not come to mass to-morrow, drunken.” ("You will not come to church drunk tomorrow.")

The father looked up from his preparations, his brow furrowed with quiet authority over his wife, “Aye, let them have their time. Our lads are worthy and modest.” ("Oh, let them have their time. Our sons are respectable.")

As the younger siblings mulled about in play, the eldest brothers exchanged another glance, hopefulness flickering in their eyes as they silently pleaded with their parents. Their mother, seated by the hearth with her hands busy mending one of the younger boys’ stockings, shook her head slowly without raising her gaze, her expression heavy with judgment, as if knowing her tongue was nothing against that of her husband’s.

“Go on then,” their father then waved his hand towards the door as if to shoo them out like vermin, “But I shall expect no grumbling come morn when we rise for mass.” ("Go on then. But I don't want arguing in the morning when we have to get up for church.")

A ways down the dirt road, the brothers made their way to another villager’s homestead with the promise of fresh ale and good company. The thatch roofed house—not unlike the architecture of their very own from which they came—lured them in with twirling smoke rising from the centre and a straw broom—indication that the brew was on—propped up against the mudded wall beside the door. George followed behind his elder brother into the ashy and torrid alehouse where a few other townsfolk were already gathered around a handful of wooden tables surrounded with rickety stools.

The alewife stood behind a table near the entrance, her cottage rearranged to suit the plentiful brew and the growing demand for it. She greeted the brothers warmly, “Aye, the Russell lads, good even.” ("Ah, the Russell boys, good evening.")

“Hail, madam, well met,” George returned the greeting with courtesy. ("Hi, ma'am. Good to see you.")

“Might I tempt ye with the finest ale this side of Norfolk?” ("Can I interest you in the best ale in all of Norfolk?")

George’s brother chuckled, “We came not to scrub the floors, I assure thee.” ("Well we definitely didn't come to scrub the floors.")

One to be swooned by the dazzling smiles of the brothers, the alewife let forth a merry laugh as she gathered the metal cups they had brought, then turned to fill them from the tapped barrel set behind her. When she returned, she charged them each a penny. George reached within his leather satchel fastened at his belt, and drew forth a slender silver coin to pay his due.

With cups in hand, the brothers made their way through the throng and found a bench amongst their fellows, summoned by the merry voice of a distant friend. The young men greeted each other with hearty embraces and settled round their table to drink.

The friend, long absent from their village since his journey to London the year past, now spoke earnestly about the Great Uprising. He recounted how hundreds of peasants flooded the streets of London, crying out for lessened tax, redistribution of the Church’s wealth, and the abolition of wage caps. Many men had lost their lives fighting for a better future for the common folk, yet their friend had not lost the spark in his eyes; and instead, he spoke as though he saw himself as a gallant knight.

He had returned but a fortnight past to their modest village, yet already did he speak with longing of London, eager to take his leave once more. George found himself enraptured by the tales the man told, his thoughts straying far beyond the bounds of Lynn, chasing visions of the great city and all it might yet hold. London lay many days away and the road there was treacherous for a man of his standing, never often pondered or faced by such men. Facing the trek would threaten one's livelihood should it not work out.

When the tale had drawn to a close, and the others turned their talk to merrier things, George leaned forth, his voice low but earnest, “Tell me, truly, is London fair?” ("Be honest with me, is London good?")

The friend, cup in hand, regarded him with a smile as warm as the firelight, “Aye, if thou can take up a trade…and have the coin to do so. Its walls house promise to men like we, a chance for something more.” ("Yes, if you can do a trade and have the money to do so. London's walls hold lots of opportunities for men like us, giving us a chance to do more in our lives.")

George sat back, his mind alight with the revelation. Men around him had been sparked with ideas of revolution, George, now was filled with the heat of forging his own path rather than accepting what doth been provided to him upon his birth. Much to ponder as he spent his days toiling the fields of someone else’s land, destined to labour ever for the gain of others rather than his own. It was the way of things, so he had been taught. Who was he, then, to think otherwise?

But as George lay on the straw and feathered bed between his mother and his sister that night—his prayers said and his tunic shed—he dreamt of London streets and the adventure that awaited, just beyond reach.

It was well understood that the permissions of his father and mother did little to secure his journey. Rather, it was the permission of the Lord of their village that would need to be sought; he alone held the power to grant George his leave or to forbid him from straying from his destined toil. Long and wearisome were the days spent pleading his case at home, yet the greater trial still loomed—that of standing before the nobleman who held rule over their very livelihoods.

The townsfolk saw little of his Lordship, for he was often away on business in Norwich or London, or else kept to his modest manor at the village’s heart, as though to watch over his lands and his people. He came amongst them for festivals, at sessions of the manorial court, and, of course, mass upon Sundays, yet elsewise, their worlds were vastly different and paths did not often cross. Those lives of the serfs and the peasants were starkly separate from the lives of the nobles and knights; one to work, one to protect.

Henceforth, George’s unease as he approached the guarded doors of Lord Hamilton’s manor was warranted. The armoured knights stationed at the threshold turned their gaze upon him and asked his purpose to which George requested an audience with his Lordship regarding his matter of employment. Without haste, one of the knights led him within the stone-lined home, his metal armour clanking through the vast space with every step. George, mindful of his steps, peered about the chamber they crossed—awestruck by the soaring arches and carved beams, so unlike the humble farmstead to which he was born.

Through the sitting room and into the study, the knight led George forth. There, bathed in the golden light that poured through the opened shutters, sat Lord Hamilton at his writing table of fine-carved oak, a quill resting between his ringed fingers and his desk littered with parchment. His garments were of a deep-dyed blue—far too expensive for the commoners to ever lay hands on—and the fabric was well kept and hardly frayed and dull as George’s were. For a moment, George felt as though he were laying gaze upon King Richard himself, so stately and almost ethereal was the figure before him.

Lord Hamilton raised his gaze upon their entry and he dismissed the knight to return to his post. With a modest smile to the young man who now stood before him, he turned to rest his quill back in its ink pot, “A Russell lad, art thou?” ("You're a Russell son, aren't you?")

With haste, George removed his canvas hat from atop his head and clutched it in his grimy fists as he bowed at the waist, greeting his liege with a courteous, “My Lord.”

“Pray tell, for what purpose dost thou seek my audience?” ("Please tell me, why did you want to speak with me?")

George wrung the rough fabric of his cap in his hands and shifted his weight, as he mustered his courage to speak his truth, “My Lord, I beseech thee to grant me leave to travel to London, that I might seek an apprenticeship.” ("My Lord, I ask of you to permit me to travel to London so I can look for an apprenticeship.")

“Aye, an apprenticeship?” Lord Hamilton turned towards his peasant, staring upon him as if in study, his kirtle cascading from his lap like the river’s waves. “Thou dost wish to part from our village in search of greater fortune?” ("Oh, an apprenticeship? You wish to leave our village in search of more money?")

“I am much indebted to thee and thy kindness, my Lord. I wish to see England’s fine lands and all that she doth offer. It grieveth me greatly to bid farewell to our town,” George assured him quickly, his heart racing within his chest. ("I am very indebted to you and your kindness, my Lord. I want to see England's beautiful land and all that it offers. I makes me sad to say goodbye to our town.")

Lord Hamilton’s handsome face broke into a Godly smile, “Thou art not betrothed to thy land, goodman. If thou hast the means, thou mayst venture wheresoever thou dost please.” ("You are not married to your land, son. If you have the money, you can travel wherever you want to.")

“My father hath been saving, and I have fared well in my trading this season, my Lord.” ("My father has been saving and I have made successful trades this season, my Lord.")

“I believe this to be true,” Lord Hamilton said kindly, his voice soft as the King’s finest silk, “Thou hast my blessing, lad. But tread with care, the journey is treacherous.” ("I believe you. You have my blessing, son. But be careful, the journey isn't an easy one.")

For a moment, George could not believe what his ears had heard. Lord Hamilton had always been a fair and just nobleman, caring for his workers and his townsfolk, but to permit leave so generously had George bowing to him deeply. He then bowed once more, spilling words from his quivering lips, “Aye, my Lord. I thank thee. God bless thee.” ("Yes, my Lord. Thank you. God bless you.")

“Go with God, and may He watch over thee on thy journey.” ("Go with God, and may He protect you on your journey.")

The fairest of the Russell’s trusty steeds was to be gifted unto their second-born son for his lengthy journey to the city. It was a ride of four nights from rural Lynn to the city gates, and George bore some coin in his satchel to spend at inns along the way. His mother fretted over him as his father prepared the steed, warning him of looters and marauders who often loitered in the woods, seeking to raid young travelers such as he. George assured her he would be cautious, reminding her of his archery training as a boy to pacify her as he affixed his quiver and crossbow over his back in the rare case of an altercation.

He embraced his siblings in farewell and kissed his mother, promising to write if he could soon afford some parchment upon his arrival. His father held him tightest of all, clinging a moment longer, before patting his back and taking his face in both of his hands. He murmured a prayer over him, kissed his brow, and then stepped away. George, with a tempest of excitement and trepidation stirring in his breast, mounted his steed and settled upon the padded saddle comfortably and situated his leather boots against the horse’s flank. With a soft nudge and a click of the teeth, George turned from his homestead and all he had known, offering one final wave in farewell.

The River Great Ouse guided him southward, along the well-trodden path of men having come before him for centuries. His steed’s hooves clopped upon the muddy trails at a steady canter, through winding hills, sparse forests, and the quiet richness of rural England. With nothing upon his back but his bow and a canvas bag of a singular change of garments, a tinderbox, a bowl and cup, some bread, and a sprig of lavender, George felt heartily prepared for what might lie ahead. He whistled as he rode by his lonesome, some merry tune often heard at village festivals, passing the hours beneath the grey skies of springtime.

His steed grew weary after a few hours of travel and as he came upon the next small village, George decided to rest for the rest of the evening and return to his journey come morning. In Littleport—a village not unlike his own, with thatch-roofed cottages nestled amidst fields of tilled earth—he found a quiet welcome. His satchel weighed light on his belt, a reminder of what little coin he had to spare, and as he rode through the streets of the unfamiliar village, he was faced with the travelers choice between inn or stable.

To take to the hay overnight was to risk theft, his sleep destined to be light and uneasy upon a bed of straw—but the promise of a free night's rest weighed heavily in its favour. And so, turning down a narrow, mud-soaked path behind the small village, George guided his horse toward the stretch of farmland beyond the outskirts.

The sun had just dipped beneath the horizon, and the folk of the village had taken their leave from the fields, retreating to their hearths and homes. Left to his own company, George found a quiet place to rest beside a low stone wall that marked the edge of a farmer’s plot. He tied his steed to the post and then settled himself atop the strewn straw, being cautious that the fence hid him sufficiently from potential townsfolk wandering their streets after dusk.

Without the warmth of his family in their shared bed topped with a thin stuffing of feathers, George drew his arms about himself as the night’s chill crept over the countryside. The straw upon which he lay scratched at his skin and his garments did little to guard him from the itch and the cold. He shifted and turned, seeking comfort upon the prickly bed until the moon was hung high above England.

From his side came a low whicker and a snort, followed by the dull thud of iron-shod hooves upon hard earth and the soft jangle of harness, the noise stirring George from his restless doze. With a soft click of his tongue and an outstretched arm, he beckoned the steed near and invited the loyal creature to take its rest, for the road ahead would be long come dawn.

The horse bent its legs and lowered itself upon the grass like a hound at its master’s feet, laying its great head beside the straw where George lay. A fond smile touched George’s lips as the presence of his family’s horse brought a flicker of comfort. He tenderly stroked its muzzle, and before long, sleep took him at last.

George vacated the town before the inhabitants had risen for sunup. His limbs were sore and stiff from the night’s rest upon the hay, but he counted himself fortunate for no thief had come to trouble his sleep nor lighten his satchel. His steed moved with rejuvenation, trotting proudly beside the river that wound southward like a silver thread through the land. As they journeyed on, George broke his fast with the bread his mother had wrapped for him, the taste of home still warm upon his tongue despite the stiffness of the grain.

Just past midday, the river had begun to narrow and George took his rest under the shade of the oak trees along the river bed. He tethered his horse and then rid himself of his garments before wading into the stream with a sigh of contentment. The babbling water drew him in, cool and clear, swallowing up the lowly traveler’s body in its bath of stones and sand. The springtime sun had chased the chill of winter from the stream, leaving its waters cool but kind upon the skin. They flowed down from Lynn, his home, where the mouth of the river drew its breath from the northern sea.

George bathed himself in the river then laid upon the grassy bank to dry, stretched long beneath the sun like a weary wayfarer. It certainly felt abnormal to not be spending his days toiling the land in his modest village, helping his family and his fellow townsfolk to bring in revenue for Lord Hamilton. Yet, it was a taste of freedom that was sweet upon his tongue, a part of life unexplored and readily at his fingertips.

Having relieved himself at the base of one of the many trees along the riverbank, he dressed once more and mounted his steed, ready to carry on with the journey laid before him.

Cambridge lay not far, and as the day wore on and his horse grew weary, George sought the shelter of an inn for the night. It was the safest option when facing a lively town such as Cambridge and he need not risk resting beneath the open sky for a second night—the odds against thievery would not favour him twice. He trod upon his horse across the dirt roads of the town as the inhabitants bustled to and fro from buildings and homesteads come the end of the working day.

Though not quite so famed and populus as his native Lynn, yet alone Norfolk or London, Cambridge had grown swiftly, owing to the University which had opened its doors not quite two centuries past. Only the richest of men could attend, and thus the town’s populace had begun to rise above the bounds of the lower orders that often made up the majority of inhabitants. As George rode through the outwardly bustling streets of Cambridge in search of an inn, he caught his first glimpse of the town’s shifting divide: men in finer garments, their tunics of richer fabrics and boots polished clean standing in stark contrast to the worn attire and weathered leather of the working folk.

The first inn George came upon was perched on the outskirts of the city, its courtyard being tended to by a servant when George approached. He guided his horse to halt at the gate and the servant approached.

“Good day, sire,” the young man greeted the weary traveler, “How may I be of service?” ("Good day, sir. How can I help you?")

George, having never been addressed as someone’s societal superior, paused for but a moment to gather his wits before answering, “Good evening, goodman. Might thy fine establishment have a room for myself and my steed this night?” ("Good evening, sir. Does your fine inn have a room for me and for my horse to stay tonight?")

“Aye,” said the servant, unlocking the gate with a creak, “for two pence a night, if such a fee suits ye well enough.” ("Yes, for you pence a night, if that is fine with you.")

Such a high fee gave George pause for but a moment, yet again. His hand moved to his satchel on his belt, feeling the light weight of the few coins it contained—his very livelihood until he reached London. Two pence would not be everything, yet the thought of parting with it felt as if there had been a blow to his stomach.

George offered a polite smile to the man and dismounted from his horse, “Aye, two pence it shall be.” ("Yes, two pence it is.")

The servant held out his hand to collect payment and George rifled through his satchel before placing two silver pennies in his grimy palm. The worn and dirtied nails upon George's fingers spoke plainly that he, too, was no stranger to the hardships of the lower classes. The servant gave a curt nod in thanks, and George passed him the reins. A stablehand came forth to take the steed, leading it across the modest courtyard toward the stables, whilst the servant turned and bade George to follow toward the inn.

Within the walls of the modest inn, George was surprised to find the common room quite lively. Fellow travelers sat on low stools around wood tables, metal cups of ale in hand, chattering and laughing over the toe-tapping tune floating from the lute-player in the corner. George had been familiar with local ale-houses in his small village but never before had he stepped foot in such an establishment that rivaled that of a festival.

The servant bade him onward into the rambunctiousness of the common room, and with nothing but his single canvas bag in hand, George stepped warily across the floor of packed earth, his eyes casting about in search of an empty seat. A woman bustled between the tables, bearing metal platters of bread and meat and bowls of cabbage stew, serving the travelers who filled the cramped space. She cleared their empties and refilled their cups of ale at the offer of another silver penny while delivering polite conversation to those who initiated.

Catching sight of George where he lingered beneath the wood beamed entryway, she waved him in, her words hardly heard over the flurry of lute music and drunken chatter. With a brisk motion, she ushered him toward a vacant spot at one of the long boards and nearly tossed him onto the bench between two men. Before he could speak in protest, she had vanished once more, swallowed up by the kitchen's bustle.

The fellow young travelers greeted him upon his sudden placing at their table, the group of strangers just as worn and straggly as George appeared, sharing in the communal lot of peasantry.

George offered a courteous nod to the faces turned toward him, “Hail.” ("Hello.")

The young man from his left—who looked no older than George, with unruly curly hair like the earth and and eyes like the forests—inquired, “From whence do you come?” ("Where are you from?")

“I have journeyed from a small village beyond the fair town of Lynn.” George replied simply, barely glancing up as the woman returned and set before him a plate of bread and pork. ("I have come from a small village just outside of the lovely town of Lynn.")

“Aye, Norfolk,” the newly acquainted acknowledged as George paid the woman a penny for his sustenance, “Have thee ever set foot in Norwich?” ("Oh, Norfolk. Have you ever been to Norwich?")

The rest of the men at their table busied themselves with their own conversation or toe-tapping along with the lute, ignorant to the two of them. George did not quite mind; he preferred the solitude, to avoid finding himself in the centre of a crowd if he could spare it. And this stranger seemed the perfect company to help him pass another night of his journey.

“Nay,” George replied, “Never have I left my village till now.” ("No, I have never left my village until now.")

“Never at all?” the young man echoed in surprise. “Well Norwich is ever the city—second only to London, I’d wager.” ("Never at all? Well Norwich is quite the city, almost as good as London, I bet.")

“Thou hast been?” George inquired as he pulled some meat off the bone from which he had been served. ("You have been?")

“Aye, I have journeyed to many cities across England.” ("Yes, I have traveled to many cities all over England.")

“Art thou a merchant?” ("Are you a merchant?")

The young man laughed as if such a claim were most comical before replying, “Nay, merely a wanderer—a slave to no Lord but God.” ("No, merely a wanderer, a slave to no man but God.")

George had never met such a person in his life; someone so free and aloof. In his village everyone played a crucial role in the daily toil, everyone with a purpose. The thought of doing anything but filled George with curiosity, “Pray tell, how dost thou earn thy bread and keep?” ("Tell me, how do you afford food and shelter?")

Leaning in closer until they were shoulder to shoulder, the lad had a glint in his eye as he held up his hand and gave his fingers a wriggle, “Nimble fingers.”

George nearly choked on his bread at such a bold confession. Was he truly breaking bread and sharing ale with a thief? The very sort of person his mother had warned him about upon the commencement of his journey?

As though sensing the unease his admission had brought, the lad clapped George upon the back, “Peace, goodman. I steal not from your kind. Nay, I take from the lords—the very men who forged this wretched order and condemned the likes of us to a life of misery and servitude. With this University, Cambridge is rife with wealthy men whose pockets hang loose.” ("Relax, man. I don't steal from your kind. No, I take from the lords, the men who created this society and doomed our kind to lives of work and servantry. With this new university, Cambridge is full of wealthy men who are easy to pickpocket.")

Coughing, George lifted his cup of ale to his lips to clear his lungs from the shock.

To maintain the peace, the thief offered out his hand like an olive branch, “They call me Lando, of the town of Bristol.” ("I am Lando, from Bristol.")

George set his cup down and clasped the offered hand, “George, from Lynn.”

“Well met, George of Lynn.” Lando grinned with a boyish smile that met his eyes. ("Nice to meet you, George from Lynn.")

The lute-player entertained the crowd whilst George ate his supper; meat being such a rarity that he feasted heartily, feeling like a king. His fingers were coated in fat by the time he sucked the bones clean and he licked them off one by one, satisfied.

“Say, how hath thy journey been since departing from Lynn?” asked Lando with his elbows atop the wood table and his metal cup clutched in both hands. ("Tell me, how has your journey been since leaving Lynn?")

“Has been fair,” George answered whilst he reached for his own cup to rinse down the tough pork, “I slept upon straw last night in some small village to save coin. But thankfully, I was not disrupted.” ("It's been fine. I slept on straw last night in some village so I wouldn't have to pay for an inn. Thankfully, I was not bothered.")

“Nay, nay, nay,” Lando pushed himself back from the table to sit up straighter, addressing his new friend seriously, “Sleep not in the open air! Find a Monastery where they are required by God to feed and house weary travelers. They may turn away idle chatter, save for that of the Bible, but they will offer food and a bed without charge.” ("No, no, no. Don't sleep outside! Find a Monastery where they are required by God to give weary travelers food and shelter. They won't appreciate casual chatter unless you talk about the bible, but they will offer food and a bed for free.")

George raised his eyebrows, “A Monastery? I dare not impose upon the men of God.” ("A Monastery? I don't want to bother the men of God.")

“Nay, it is their duty,” Lando assured him, “They are pleased to be of service and to lend the charity of the Lord unto His people. I have lodged with them many a time in my wanderings.” ("No, it is their job. They are happy to help the Lord's people. I have stayed with them many times on my journeys.")

George pondered this for a moment and, knowing the lightness of his satchel and the heavy fee for another nights stay at an inn, he relented in taking up his new friend on his suggestion. The promise of safety and food and a bed while also offering an opportunity to connect with God and His servants was not easily refused.

The newly acquainted shared their table and spoke of their travels well into the evening, even as the other travelers took to the sleeping chamber and the lute-player's tune dwindled to silence. Lando, ever generous with his coin, beckoned the alewife time and again, bidding her to bring forth more cups of ale for them to share. George, though curious, held his tongue and dared not ask how a man of equal means to himself had come by such coin—he reckoned he already knew the answer.

Lando sat with his leather boots kicked up upon the wooden table, eased into the worn back of his chair with his cup nursed in hand. He spoke to George about his adventures—his journeys into many of towns and cities that England had to offer, and all the interesting folk he hadst stumbled across. George soon came to see that Lando had lived many lifetimes in his two and twenty years. Born to a family of peasants not unlike George’s own, Lando had instead grown up beneath the rule of a cruel and unrelenting Lord, where the folk were sworn to their land and left with naught to provide for themselves.

He had fled at but fifteen years of age, leaving his family behind, and took to the streets to carve a life of his own merit. Modest thievery and the kindness of strangers kept him afloat, and Lando found his calling in aiding those who, like his family, did suffer. He stole for the greater good—to take from the wealthy and give unto the poor—seeking a world where men did divide their coin rather than hoard it. In the year past, Lando had even taken part in the infamous Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, when the working folk rose up and stormed the streets of London to cry for the end of unjust taxes, the abolishment of serfdom, and the redistribution of the Church’s riches. He had stood, too, amongst the crowd that came face to face with King Richard himself, who had come to quell the unrest.

George listened to Lando’s tales with wonder in his eyes and a blossoming of hope in his chest. He had been lucky to have been born unto a family under Lord Hamilton’s name where life had been kind and just, but he could see the fractures in his reality as Lando went on. Was his life truly as fair as he had assumed it to be? Perchance his choice to journey unto London had been rightly made.

The young men retired to bed together, treading quietly over the floorboards into the communal bedroom filled with their fellow wayfarers, trying not to let the effects of their plentiful ale haze their balance in the darkness. Mattresses of straw and feathers were set across the floor around the central hearth, each left bare without linens, a precaution to limit the spread of bedbugs. Lando and George removed their outerwear and boots and shared a vacant corner of the room, nestled in near a man who snored like thunder.

At first light, George rose with the sun, well-rested and peaceful. Beside him, Lando stirred, stretching so far he struck George's jaw with an elbow, muttering an apology with his voice slurred with lingering sleep. Around them, the communal chamber was already stirring; several travelers had gathered at the wash basins to cleanse themselves for the journey ahead. George rose at his own pace, exchanging easy words with Lando as they donned their outer garments and freshened themselves amid the thinning crowd.

They broke their fast with a small serving of bread and cheese in the common room and George observed in quiet astonishment as Lando drifted behind a distracted nobleman seated nearby and discreetly slipped the man’s coin-satchel from his belt without breaking stride. The act was so easy, so practiced, that it nearly seemed an art. Returning to the table, Lando sat with a grin and without a word split the silver coins evenly between them, offering George his share as though it were a parting token.

He hesitated to take it but Lando insisted, curling his fingers around the coins and pushing it towards his chest, “To start thy life in London.” ("To start your life in London.")

George couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

They embraced in parting, the kind of farewell shared by those who had, in only a night, become kindred spirits. George offered to take Lando with him, to ride together into London, but the young rogue only shook his head, “If God wills it, we’ll meet again,” he said simply. And it wasn’t in George’s heart to doubt God’s will. ("If it's in God's plan, we will meet again.")

With ten extra pence tucked into his satchel—courtesy of Lando’s so-called generosity—he retrieved his steed from the stables, mounted, and turned southward once more. Cambridge faded behind him with the promise of all that London had to offer on the horizon.

Four days after leaving the outskirts of Lynn, George arrived at the Walls of London. The gatehouse—Bishopsgate—upon which he approached from the northward paths was loosely guarded by knights but they bade George no trouble upon his arrival. Instead, they stepped aside and permitted him to canter through the large oak doors that welcomed him into the infamous London.

After having spent the night in a Monastery in a village halfway between Cambridge and London, George reached his destination well fed and well rested and still with a comfortable amount of coin in his satchel. The springtime sun warmed the streets as he steered his steed through the winding dirt and stone paths between multi-storeyed homes and intricately carved buildings. George had been into the heart of Lynn on occasion for trade, and so was no stranger to the bustle of a populous town—but nothing he had known could compare to the splendour of the illustrious London.

Inhabitants bustled to and fro along the streets—peasants and noblemen alike—some leading livestock or carrying goods or engaged in conversation with fellow kin. The city rang with noise, far livelier than Lynn had ever seemed, and George found himself struck by the feeling that London bore a true heart, the very soul of England. The spire of St. Paul’s rose high above the rooftops, drawing him toward the city’s centre where the jagged lanes gave way to the expanse of the main square. There, merchants called out from their stalls, tempting him with artisan craft or fresh produce, but he rode on, too awestruck by the towering architecture and the astonishing truth that he had, at last, arrived.

As much as George longed to gawk at the marvels around him, he had come to London with a purpose; and time was money. He dismounted beneath the shade of a great oak at the edge of the square, tying his steed to one of its stout branches. Back on solid ground, he cast his eyes over the bustling crowds of the city, familiarizing himself with his new reality, as he straightened his cloak and retied his belt and the laces of his weathered leather boots. Catching his reflection in a polished glass window of the opulent St. Paul’s, he ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair in an effort to look somewhat presentable after the long journey behind him.

It was known that George had not been blessed to have been born unto a family of wealth or trade and, so, in order to achieve an apprenticeship, he would either have to pay a generous sum to a master of said trade or, more realistically, be incredibly convincing at selling himself as an apprentice. George knew himself to be a diligent worker at heart, but as a common peasant, he was well aware that earning the favour of a man of higher station would be no simple task. It was to be a long day ahead.

Donning his best tunic and cloak, George walked his steed through the streets of London to begin his task of finding himself an apprenticeship. He approached the first guildhall: that of the chandlers—candlemakers, an impressively important trade as the men who provided light to all of England. He knocked upon the wood door, politely greeted the servant who answered, and requested to speak with the master of the guild.

When the well-dressed gentleman met him at the door, George straightened up formally and offered him a smile, “Hail, good sir. I am George, son of Stephen, of the town of Lynn. I come humbly to request the honour of an apprenticeship at thy fine shop. I possess no coin, but—” ("Hello, sir. I am George, son of Stephen, from the town of Lynn. I am here to politely ask if you are able to offer me an apprenticeship in your fine shop. I have no money but—")

He got no further. The door was shut in his face before the sentence left his lips.

Startled, George blinked at the wood now sealed before him and took a small step back, uncertain whether to knock again or turn away entirely. Not wanting to be a pest, he decided on the latter. There were plenty more guilds to pitch to, after all. This was London! The city of opportunity.

With a click of his tongue, he guided his horse back to the street and they continued on their way. Soon, they stumbled upon the Grocer’s guild hall; the lavish building housing those who were in charge of the importing and trading of spices from the continent. As he had done previously, George knocked upon the door, asked to speak with the guild master, and barely got his introduction from his lips before the door was yet again shut in his face.

He had known it would be difficult to earn an apprenticeship without coin, but the sheer inhumility of those he had encountered thus far left him more rattled than he cared to admit. He had journeyed so far and his spirits were already starting to sink.

And still, he went on. He tried the mercers, the drapers, the butchers, the blacksmiths, the goldsmiths, the saltiers, and even the bakers and the clothworkers. Every guild master replied to him like the man before: with a refusal and a firm shutting of their door.

The sun was beginning to set, and George had time to visit one last guildhall before he would need to find an inn for the night. His steed was growing tired as he guided it by the reins through the cobbled streets, its hooves clinking against the stone and earth in a solemn rhythm behind him, as if the beast could feel the desperation and wallowing of his master. George gave his horse another encouraging tug as he approached the facade of the final guildhall for the evening: the carpenters.

The hall was not quite as elaborate as many of the others George had visited and, instead, it almost blended right into the many other standard buildings that made up London. It stood within a modest garden surrounded by four other cottage tenements and George crossed the path beneath the shade of the buildings and the foliage that grew within the courtyard. It felt as though he had stepped outside of London for a moment as the noise of the lively city gave way to the serenity of the garden and the faint chirping of birds from the trees’ budding branches. George peered up towards the sky that peeked between the thin canopy of trees, finding solace in the momentary shade and calm.

He tied his horse to one of the trunks and it let out a tired snort and a stomp of its hoof against the earth. George patted its side and then made his way up to the front doors of the guildhall and, with a defeated sigh, he raised his fist and knocked upon the wood. As he had countless times that day, he greeted the servant and requested an audience with the master of the guild, then waited patiently upon the stoop.

An older gentleman of no more than five and forty years appeared in the doorway, his dark hair and beard peppered with white of seasalt and his deep set eyes housed a hue of seafoam green. His garments were not that of a nobleman but certainly more tidy than that of George’s class, donning crisp edges of fabric and colourful sleeves, even with the dusting of wood shavings that littered the front of his tunic. He was a broad gentleman but there was a sense of warmth about him that George caught onto immediately, something almost paternal that set him apart from the other guild masters with which he had spoken to that day.

As always, George straightened up and offered a respectful smile and recited his pitch with practiced ease, “Hail, good sir. I am George, son of Stephen, of the town of Lynn. I come humbly to request the honour of an apprenticeship at thy fine shop. I possess no coin, but I offer honest labour, willing hands, and a quick mind in return for thy tutelage.” ("Hello, sir. I am George, son of Stephen, from the town of Lynn. I am here to politely ask if you are able to offer me an apprenticeship in your fine shop. I have no money but I offer good work, eager hands, and intelligence in return for your guidance.")

“From Lynn? My, quite the journey, lad,” the man replied, his voice low and gravelly. ("From Lynn? My, that's quite far, boy.")

“Four days, sir,” George nodded once, almost as if in a brief bow, “I have heard naught but praise of London, and I carry dreams far greater than Norfolk can hold.” ("Four days, sir. I have heard nothing but good things about London and I have dreams bigger than what Norfolk can offer me.")

“Aye,” the guild master acknowledged before asking with measured curiosity, “And what werest thou doing in Lynn, lad?” ("I see. And what were you doing in Lynn?")

“Working the land, sir. My father is a farmer, as was his father before him,” George said plainly, “But I seek to learn a craft—to build a life by my own hands in a city that might make use of them.” ("Farming, sir. My father is a farmer as was his father before him. But I want to learn a trade so I can build a life for myself with my own hands in a city that would find me useful.")

“And thy dream to join me and my fellow carpenters, George?” ("And your dream is to join me as a carpenter, George?")

“In all honesty, good sir, I seek an apprenticeship of any kind. I would be most indebted were you to grant me the means to a life and an honest trade in this fair city.” ("To me honest, sir, I want an apprenticeship of any kind. I would be indebted to you if you would offer me an income and training in this fair city.")

The man chuckled, the sound deep from within his chest, and when he smiled at George’s words, there was a glint of something kind in his eye, “Your honesty is admirable. God hath surely blessed thee.” ("Your honesty is admirable. God has blessed you with it.")

“I have naught but truth and my dedication to offer thee, sir.” George insisted, his voice thick with resolve, as though he might drop to his knees in plea, “But I swear upon God Himself—I shall bring no strife to thy door. I would give my very soul to thy guild and to thy craft.” ("I have nothing but truth and dedication to offer you, sir. But I swear to God, I will bring no annoyances to your household. I will give my soul to your guild and your trade.")

“Thou art a brave man and thy hast persuaded me, lad. I shall accept thee into my guild as an apprentice, provided thou apply thyself earnestly and conduct thyself with humility, dignity, and honour under my roof.” ("You are a brave man and you have persuaded me, boy. I will accept you into my guild as an apprentice, only if you apply yourself to the work and if you show humility, dignity, and honour in my house.")

For a moment, George could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Could it truly have been that easy? Had his day of toiling through the streets of London finally paid off in the eleventh hour? The kind gentleman before him—now his master—wore the face of a man to be trusted, and George moved swiftly to bow.

“Thank thee, sir. God bless thee, sir,” he said, with all the gratitude he could muster. ("Thank you, sir. God bless you, sir.")

“Come in now, out of the dusk. I will urge a servant to tend to thy steed.” his master instructed and ushered him inside. ("Come in, out of the dark. I will have a servant take care of your horse.")

Stepping over the threshold into the entry room, George was captivated by the timber framed interior that surrounded him and the wood floors beneath his leather boots—regal underfoot compared to the packed earth and rushes he had always known back home. A large brick framed hearth took up a majority of the far wall and chairs draped with furs and wool were positioned in front of it. Directly across from the door was a narrow wooden staircase—a feature George had never before seen in a home before—and he tried to peer up the staircase’s sharp bend as it vanished into the upper floor before turning to follow the gentleman onwards.

They crossed the reception room and passed beneath the rise of the staircase, where a low passageway opened into a smaller sitting room. A writing desk sat beneath a narrow window—likely the master's office—and George eyed the stacks of parchment and bound books along the other surfaces. George followed him onwards, into a cluttered cooking room and then right through the adjacent door that led them into the dining room. There, a group of people were gathered around a central table, their faces lit by candlelight and the glow of a crackling hearth. Ten heads lifted from their meals to watch him enter.

With a hand on George’s shoulder as if he were showing off a prize pig, his master introduced him, “May I introduce my newest apprentice: George of Lynn.”

For a moment, George was more struck by the fact that they dined at a proper table—something he had never known in his village, where families took their meals around the hearth, balancing them in their laps. At once, he urged himself back to his new reality as his master gave him a friendly nudge forward to find a spot at one of the benches at the table.

On the side where George sat, there were three other young men, no older than he, dressed in humble garments much like his own and they gave him courteous nods of greeting, though none spoke a word. At the far end of their line sat a young lad and lass, likely the master's youngest children, while, on the opposite side of the table, the five eldest children were seated in what appeared to be the order of their years, with the eldest taking the place nearest the head of the table, where their father was sure to sit.

“Father,” said the eldest of the lads, likely a few years George’s elder, “I knew not we were in want of another apprentice.” ("Father, I didn't know we wanted another apprentice.")

“We were not,” replied the master, settling himself at the head of the board, “Yet this young man moved me well, with good speech and solemn vow of industry.” ("We were not, but this young man convinced me with good words and a promise of hard work.")

The second son, seated close beside his brother, cast George a dubious glance but addressed his father as well, “Willst thou take him without fee, then? For nothing?” ("Will you take him without payment? For nothing?")

“Pray thee, judge not, son,” the gentleman warned, his voice steady but firm, “For as long as I draw breath, this house and this shop shall be ruled by mine own hand.” ("Please, don't judge, son. For as long as I am alive, this house and this shop will follow my rules.")

George shifted uncomfortably upon the far end of the bench, where he sat distanced from his master, urging himself to focus on the gentleness of the man, rather than the suspicious gazes of his heirs.

“I am indebted to thy family’s kindness, sir,” spoke George at last, “I will do my best to not burden thee.” ("I am grateful for your family's kindness, sir. I will do my best to not be a burden.")

“I have utmost faith in thee, young George,” the master smiled. ("I trust you, young George.")

He then took it upon himself to make proper introductions. The table, though crowded, bore warmth in its company. Three apprentices—Alexander, Andrea, and Oliver—were named as George’s new companions, both in labour and in lodging. With a touch of pride in his voice, the master spoke of his own brood: seven children in all, a blessing in these times when many did not survive beyond infancy. He did not shy from sharing that the birth of his youngest had cost him his beloved wife, yet his words held no bitterness. The child, merely eleven, with braids woven like a crown upon her head, was spoken of as a jewel most dear—so precious that none could place blame upon her for the sorrow that marked her birth.

The master went on to name each of his children in turn, and George did his best to mark their names and ages in his memory as they came. The two eldest sons, those who had voiced their misgivings towards his arrival, regarded him in silence, their stares not unkind, but rather, measuring. Yet it was the third born, a daughter—just a year shy of George’s own age—who caught his eye. She had said not a word since his arrival, but there was a gentle sureness in her that drew him, and when her gaze met his, he felt the air shift near imperceptibly, as though the room had grown warmer for it.

Her hair was as golden as the morning sun, plaited into two long braids that were folded upward and fastened just above her ears with white ribbons, framing her porcelain face with an air of quiet grace. Freckles dotted her nose and the apples of her cheeks like constellations and the warmth of her hair was contrasted by the striking blue of her eyes like winter’s first frost, gazing upon him with an intensity that rose shivers along his arms. Norfolk had many fair ladies but never before had he seen a woman so beautiful, so graceful, as though she had been shaped by the very hand of God, made not merely for the world, but for him and him alone.

The gorgeous Guinevere. A name fit for a queen.

George was torn from his reverie by the voice of his master, who bade his second daughter fetch a bowl of stew for their newly arrived guest. When it was set before him, he offered the girl a grateful nod and a soft word of thanks. Yet when his eyes sought the eldest daughter once more, he found her gaze lowered, her bashful smile now turned modestly to her own bowl. He bowed his head himself and smothered his rouged cheeks behind a spoon of his meal.

George was settled into his new home quite swiftly, and though the two eldest sons had shown some wariness at first, he soon found his place with comfort among the household. The fourth storey of the home was where the four apprentices slept, each upon a single bed of straw and feather, clad in simple linen and with modest pillows. The bed assigned to George lay in the far corner beside a small dormer window that gave view to the bustling London street below. As the days passed and the air grew warmer, he would often unfasten the shutters to draw in a breeze and ease the closeness of the attic chamber.

He got on well with the other apprentices with whom he was to share much of his waking and sleeping hours. Oliver and Andrea were but seventeen and sixteen years of age, respectively, and their families had paid for their apprenticeships, as was common for boys of reasonable fortune. Their youth had allowed them to form a bond in the year past under their master's roof together, and their impish antics did sometimes keep George from his rest after nightfall.

Alexander, the third apprentice, was nearer to George’s own age at four and twenty and his late entry into apprenticeship came from his seeking of a new beginning after his young wife had perished in childbed when they were but twenty, the babe lost with her. The sorrow of losing both his beloved and their firstborn had him quitting their small town to begin anew in London. George was fond of Alexander and his humility and brotherhood he had shown him since his arrival and they confided in each other often.

The apprenticeship itself pleased George greatly. He found much worth in labouring with his hands in the carpenter’s shop, learning from the master how to wield the tools and fashion goods of needful use for the people of London. On slower days, the master would teach his apprentices techniques and helpful mathematics that helped in their trade through hands-on application. When not labouring beside the master in the shopfront or tending to folk who came to purchase wares, the apprentices were set to their tasks in the loft above, toiling steadfastly on honing their craft.

George knew well that his place in the apprenticeship was granted by the grace of God, and thus he did not dare idle; often was he the last of his fellows to depart the workshop, retiring to his bed well after the sun had set. One particular evening, George had chosen the shop over dinner, toiling until the moon blessed the sky. The crowded house soon grew quiet as its inhabitants retired to their chambers for the night and George was left entirely to his lonesome in the shop. His hands were rough from working the timber and wielding his tools, wood shavings scattered over the tabletop and his lap as he sat atop a stool at the workbench, focus narrowed on the small forming shape in hand in the flickering candlelight.

Having taken no supper, he soon grew weary and knew he ought to put an end to his toil until daybreak. George put away his tools and his project and swept the workbench and the floor free of scraps and shavings, disposing of them in the bucket in the corner to be later used for kindling. Having blown out the candles, he left but one alight in its candelabrum to carry through the darkened homestead.

The floorboards groaned beneath his feet as he stole downstairs in search of a bit of bread and cheese before he would take to his bed. In his careful hand, the candlelight flicked across the walls, dancing with the moonlight that filled the reception room from the large courtyard window at the base of the stairs. Just as George turned to cross the chamber toward the cookroom, his gaze was drawn to a figure bathed in candlelight within the modest office set just off the hall.

Guinevere was nestled upon a fur-draped chair in the corner of the chamber, surrounded by melting candles and stacks of parchment, a leather-bound book held in hand from which she read most intently. The skirt of her kirtle flowed about her feet, the plainness of the garment lending her an elevated elegance in the golden glow of the flame. The dark blue dye of the cloth near shimmered like royal purple, and George thought she might well have passed for a lady of King Richard’s own court. Never had he seen someone as effortlessly graceful as his master’s eldest daughter, never had someone caused his heart to race just so.

She looked up from her pages upon hearing his cautious approach across the creaking floorboards and she smiled at the sight of him, lowering her book to her lap.

“Good evening, George,” she greeted in a voice as smooth as satin. George would never tire of it, “Is all well with thee?” ("Good evening, George. Is everything okay?")

He stopped in the opening to the study to share in her polite greeting, “Good evening, Miss Guinevere. I hath not expected thee. I had stayed late at my labours and came now in search of a morsel before I take to my chamber for the night.” ("Good evening, Miss Guinevere. I was not expecting you here. I had stayed up late working and came downstairs for something to eat before I go to bed.")

“Aye, I had thought as much. We all missed thee at supper.” ("Yes, I had thought so. We all missed you at dinner.")

George leaned against the doorway, candelabrum still held in one hand and a fond smile on his face, “Thou flatter me, Miss Guinevere.” ("You flatter me, Miss Guinevere.")

“Tis the truth.” ("It is the truth.")

There was a moment of silence between them as they simply stared at each other in the dim candlelight. George took in the sight of her in her comfortable kirtle and stockinged feet as she relaxed in the comfort of her home after dark, her feminine hands resting delicately on the book in her lap.

Not wanting to part quite yet, George inquired, “What art thou reading?” ("What are you reading?")

Guinevere gently tapped the cover of the book, “I read last month’s ledger, that I might ensure Father’s business runneth smoothly.” ("I am reading last month's ledger so I can make sure father's business is running smoothly.")

George had learned, in the weeks since his apprenticeship began, that Guinevere—being the eldest daughter and in the aftermath of their mother’s passing—served as the bookkeeper for the master’s trade. She kept the ledgers, overseeing the accuracy of orders placed by the cityfolk, the payments received, and the taxes duly paid. Though her bearing was gentle and graceful, she was a resolute and steadfast steward of the accounts, standing firm for her father against customers and tax collectors alike. Behind the scenes, she also worked closely with the wives of other guildmasters to ensure their shared affairs proceeded as they must.

“For that, I admire thee,” George stated. ("I admire you for that.")

“I admire thee for bearing the assiduity of my father day by day.” ("I admire you for dealing with the perfectionism of my father every day.")

They shared soft laughter at her discreet and playful dig at the stubborn work ethic of her father.

George merely shook his head fondly, “Thy father is a man of great worth, and I hath learned much from him.” ("Your father is a very skilled man and I have learned a lot from him.")

Guinevere leaned back in her chair comfortably, “Aye, perhaps ’tis not long before thou wilt aid me with the ledgers?” ("Yes, perhaps it's not long until you will help me with the ledgers?")

“Nay, thou hast the blessing of literacy.” ("No, you actually are lucky enough to be literate.")

It was a rare gift to read, granted only to the wealthiest who could afford tutors or the halls of university. Most folk’s labours needed no learning, and thus, reading was often a pastime for those with leisure and money. Since his coming to London, George perceived that his master held education in high regard for his children and, indeed, for any whom he might aid. They were no noble house, yet the gain from their prosperous carpentry trade granted them some added comforts and opportunities beyond most common folk.

Guinevere’s eyes softened at George’s simple reply, and she offered graciously, “Perchance I might tutor thee?” ("Maybe I can tutor you?")

“To read? Latin?”

“Some,” she shrugged, “mainly ledgers, so that when thou becomest a master in thine own right, thou mightst structure well thy business.” ("Some Latin, mainly ledgers, so when you have a business of your own, you will be able to run it smoothly.")

George’s teeth sunk into his bottom lip as if to smother his flattered grin, “Thy predict my mastery?” ("You think I'm going to be a master?")

“No other apprentice doth skip supper to carve.” Guinevere replied with a knowing smile. ("None of our other apprentices skip dinner to work.")

“Very well,” George relented, unable to turn down an opportunity for more time with his master’s beautiful daughter, “I graciously accept thine offer of tutelage.” ("Very well, I will happily accept your offer to tutor me.")

“’Tis wonderful. I look most forward to it. Might we read together after supper most nights? When the chores are done and the household hath taken to bed, that we be not disturbed?” ("That's wonderful, I am looking forward to it. Maybe we can read together after supper most nights? When chores are done and the family has gone to bed so they won't disturb us?")

“Aye, after supper it shall be,” George agreed. ("Yes, after supper sounds great.")

Guinevere’s lips held the softest of smiles; something that seemed as effortless as breath to her. Everything she did appeared so graceful, so righteous, that George near felt the need to kneel and bow before her.

They lingered in a quiet, gentle gaze until at last she spoke, “I dare not keep thee from thy bread and cheese.” ("I don't want to keep you from your snack.")

George blinked himself back to the present, almost forgetting why he had come downstairs in the first place, and he stepped away from where he leaned against the wall. He was reluctant to part, for he had found great joy in her company and their discourse, yet he would not overstay his welcome. With a tender smile, he offered, “I thank thee, Miss Guinevere. God keep thee.” ("Thank you, Miss Guinevere. Be well.")

“God bless thee, George.” ("God bless you, George.")

Since their moonlit discourse in the study, George and Guinevere had grown nearer still. Though he kept steadfast to his duties as an apprentice throughout the daylight hours, upon sundown—once supper had been taken—he would often spend his evenings with her in the reception chamber by the hearth with parchment, open ledgers, and inked quills lay scattered before them.

At first, he felt himself a fool, unable to make sense of the symbols and markings she read with such ease. Yet she bore great patience and did not hurry him, guiding him gently through each letter until they became known to him as well as the tools in the workshop. Their shared evenings became most dear to him; not solely for the broadening of his knowledge, but for the quiet ease it brought after a day’s hard toil in the shop. Her presence soothed him in ways he could scarcely put into words, and on certain nights, they spoke at length rather than studied, their discourse flowing as freely as the fire crackled in the hearth.

George spoke of his youth and what it meant to be born unto a family of peasants, offering the city-dwelling maiden a glimpse into the labours of the farming life. In turn, Guinevere shared of her mother’s passing and the burdens she bore as the woman of the house, and what excitement youth in London entailed. They found common ground in the sorrow of lost siblings—taken by the cruel fate of infant death, so frequent in their world that neither wept at the telling, though their hearts lay heavy. Yet laughter too was shared over favoured jests and good memories from local festivals. One night in particular, their merriment in shared tales grew so full that their laughter stirred the master from his chamber above, and he came down from his chamber and bid them both to bed at once.

Over the weeks, George found himself engraving his wood blocks with letterforms and words, employing his carpentry tools to etch decorative symbols and shapes into the surface. He practiced what Guinevere had taught him whenever he could, tying in literacy with his trade. Yet he would not take from her without offering payment, no matter how gracious she was in giving of her time and knowledge for no fee. Instead, he repaid her with quaint carvings and figurines fashioned in the shop, and she was ever honoured to receive them. Those, too, did grow more intricate as time wore on; from a modest box wherein she might keep her hair ribbons, to a simple comb for her hair, to a simple carved bird with its wings tucked at its side and its beak turned towards the sky.

One day, as he passed by the daughters’ chamber on the second floor of the homestead, he saw the door set slightly ajar, and within, there upon the window ledge beside Guinevere’s bed were his gifts, set out proudly in the sunlight for display.

Another Sunday drew near and, as was their custom, the family took their respite from labour for a day of prayer and rest. The apprentices accompanied the family to the local church a few streets over, trailing behind them respectfully in the pleasant summer sun. George could not deny that Guinevere looked absolutely ravishing in her Sunday best, the rich blue dye of her kirtle standing out against her pale skin and over modest linen shirt like ink upon fresh parchment. Walking behind her alongside his fellowmen, George found himself drawn to her every step as she strolled with the hands of her two youngest siblings in hers, the skirt swishing around her legs and caressing the cobblestones beneath her leather boots. George almost felt inferior in his faded blue tunic, frayed at the edges and having faced many a season on his back.

During mass, George was trapped between Guinevere and Alexander in the pew, seated so close in the cramped church that their thighs did touch. As always, Guinevere lifted her voice in hymn with the choir, singing with such grace that it seemed the very angels had lent her their tongues. On his other side, Alexander joined the song as well—though his voice, God love him, was ever out of tune but he was a man of faith and sang proudly to the hymns as if willing his voice to reach Heaven.

George kept his eyes dutifully upon the altar, though it was no small task with Guinevere’s voice floating beside him like incense in the air—sweet, clear, and wholly distracting, contrasted almost in jest by the unflattering notes of Alexander. He knew the Lord called for humility and so he prayed—first for forgiveness for the errant thoughts that stirred whenever he sat so near to Guinevere, and then, perhaps more earnestly, for strength not to grin every time Alexander tried to hit a note and missed tragically. He bit his cheek and feigned focus on the Gospel.

The church bells tolled, guiding the faithful from the quaint stone chapel, its people spilling out into the streets beneath the late-morning sun. It was a blessed relief to take a breath of fresh air after so long within the cramped confines of the nave and on such a beautiful day, most would gladly prefer to pass their hours beneath the open sky. As the family gathered upon the cobbled streets to speak of the sermon and ponder the day’s leisure, George lingered near to Guinevere within their familiar cluster.

He craved for more of her company outside of their nightly lessons and his heart raced in his breast with the need to have her for a moment to himself, desperate to find an escape from the presence of the entire family. Knowing he had no right to speak up against the will of the master of the house, his protest could only be given by a gentle touch of his finger against Guinevere’s wrist. She glanced at him with the limited space between them in their cramped cluster and their eyes met knowingly, a thousand words shared in but a glance.

Guinevere turned back to their gathering and spoke above her bickering siblings, “Father, might George and I take a turn through the square to behold the vendors before we return home?” ("Father, can George and I go for a walk through the square to look at the vendors before we go home?")

The master cast but a brief glance upon the pair, his attention divided between all seven of his children at once, and he granted them permission of leave with a wave of his hand and a passive, “Aye, if ye must.” ("Yes, if you must.")

George scarcely had a moment to realize Guinevere had taken his hand before they were hastening down the street together, far from the church steps, leaving the family well behind. Once they had disappeared from view, they slowed to a leisurely stroll and Guinevere slipped her hand from his, desiring not for the town’s gossip to be laid upon them. They fell in step together as they strolled aimlessly through the London streets which were far more hushed upon a Sunday than on days of toil.

“I am sorry if I hath torn thee from thy day with thy kin,” George said gently. ("I'm sorry if I took you away from your day with your family.")

Guinevere simply scoffed out a lighthearted breath, “Nay, I see no need to squander yet another Lord’s day amidst such tiresome company.” ("It's fine, I don't want to waste another Sunday with their exhausting company.")

“Thou holdest me to higher standing, Miss Guinevere?” George teased. ("You like me better, Miss Guinevere?")

“Certainly, sire,” she said right back and slid her hand into the crook of his arm as if she had been doing so all her life, “Thy company is most blessed.” ("Certainly, sir. Your company is most lovely.")

George stole a glance at her, letting her words and her playful honesty settle between them.

They walked arm in arm awhile longer until they came unto the Wall of London at Aldgate, where they paused upon the threshold, gazing forth across the rolling green hills of England’s fair and fertile lands beyond. They had not been permitted to venture forth beyond the city walls, yet the call of privacy and a sweet summer’s walk drew them out, and they strode in step together as they departed the bounds of the city.

The quiet of the outskirts of the city walls were a welcome change from the hustle and bustle that was ever present on the London streets within. Conversation flowed between them with the ease and warmth of their evening lessons, now exchanged as they walked side by side along the earthen paths. The air smelled of summer and its rich soil and flushing foliage, carrying with it birdsong and the hum of insects.

Along the bank of the Thames, a little ways off from the Tower of London, a quiet collection of willow trees lured them closer into the shade of their branches. In respite from the summer’s sun, George and Guinevere took rest upon the grassy brink beside the river, sheltered beneath the cool shade of ancient trees and, together they watched the water’s current, swift and sure, haste in its course toward the sea. As George sat upon the grass, he watched as Guinevere hoisted up the hem of her kirtle to kick off her boots so she could wade, barefoot, into the shallow rocky edge of the river.

She appeared to him as Eve in Eden, fashioned by the hand of God and in perfect harmony with the green splendour of the earth. George lay reclined upon the riverbank, propped upon his elbows, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watched her crouch low to trail her fingers through the rushing waters, the current dancing around her hand like it, too, was drawn to her grace. Her golden hair fell around her shoulders and in waves down her back, free from her usual tidy braids and plaiting, and George craved to run his fingers through it to know if it felt as soft as it looked.

When Guinevere did receive her fix of the cool stream, she carried her boots back up the riverbank and joined George upon the grass. She tucked her legs beneath her and rested back upon one hand, appreciating the serenity of the quiet summer afternoon as the warm breeze flitted through the ends of her hair. George tried not to stare at her beauty and, instead, he, too, kept his eyes focused forward on the impressive Thames that rushed past them.

“Father is seeking a suitor for me,” Guinevere said plainly, suddenly, breaking their calm. ("Father is looking for a husband for me.")

Something unkind stirred in George’s breast, and he kept his gaze fixed upon the river, unwilling to let her glimpse the wound her words had struck upon his heart.

“Hast thou heard?” she asked, casting a glance in his direction, “I had not thought he would see me wed to some gentleman, not whilst I remain his bookkeeper. Yet perhaps, once my eldest brother taketh the shop, his wife shall be made to keep the ledgers and I shall be left with nothing.” ("Have you heard? I thought he wouldn't marry me off to some gentleman, not while I'm his bookkeeper. But I guess my eldest brother will be taking over the shop and then his wife will be in charge of the ledgers and I will be left with nothing.")

“Nay, speak not of such woes,” George tutted, at last turning his gaze upon her. “Thou hast intelligence beyond measure—thy worth is not bound to ledger nor shop, thou need not tether thyself thereto to prove it.” ("No, don't talk like that. You have so much intelligence. Your worth is not tied to the ledgers or the shop and you don't need to be stuck with them to prove it.")

Guinevere pursed her lips in thought as she gazed out upon the river as if letting his words soak through her like water, her expression steady but her eyes holding a hint of unease. She did not quite acknowledge his sentiment and, instead, replied with a plain, “Father hath enough coin to betroth me to a nobleman. ’Tis a fine prospect for the shop, to bind us to a name of strength and standing.” ("Father has enough success to marry me off to a nobleman. It is a great idea for the shop as it will bind us to a name of strength and title.")

“A nobleman,” George echoed.

She glanced back upon him, “The few suitors I have met thus far hath been dreadful bores.” ("The few men I have met so far have been so boring.")

The heaviness of her initial confession lifted with that statement and George’s lips pricked up at the corners into an amused smile. Squinting in the shaded sun as he glanced up at her lounging beside where he lay, he spoke, “Aye?” ("Yeah?")

“The suitors have not worked a day honest in their lives, nor held labour in any proper trade. They scarcely can keep a conversation—nothing upon their tongues but talk of coin and standing—and lend no ear to what I might wish to say.” she insisted, turning her body so he could lounge herself upon her stomach with a gentle sigh, settling upon her forearms beside him on the grass until their eyes met, level and unhurried in the hush of summer. Finally, she added softly, “Not like thee.” ("The men have not worked a day in their lives or have had any proper job. They can barely keep a conversation unless it is about money or titles and they don't care to listen to what I have to say. Not like you.")

George smiled faintly at her addition, watching the way her words were formed by her pinkened lips, before he replied honestly, “I do take thy words with much delight, Miss Guinevere.” ("Your kind words make me happy, Miss Guinevere.")

Her slender fingers played with the blades of grass beneath her, plucking strands from the grasp of the Earth to caress them soft and tender. She appeared younger in that moment, bathed in the shade of the willow tree and the fractured haze of sunlight that slipped through, her boots cast aside and her stockinged feet swaying to and fro in the breeze. George desired to never return home, to stay in their sanctuary of river and tree together for the rest of time.

Lounging back upon his forearms beside her, George reached forth with one hand to pluck a wildflower from the patches that grew along the riverbank. He turned it between his fingers a moment, admiring its bright yellow petals and dainty leaves, before he summoned the courage to reach for Guinevere’s golden hair, tucking it behind her ear and secured it in place with the blossom. Her diamond eyes rose to meet his with a fond smile at the gesture, and as his hand began to move away from her cheek, she caught it gently in her own.

“Forgive me,” she breathed, gazing into his eyes as she held his hand to her cheek, “I have been taken with thee since thou were first welcomed into our home.” ("I'm sorry but I have been admiring you since you first stepped foot into our home.")

George broke into a bashful grin and cast his gaze down upon their joined hands, his thumb grazing over her knuckles. “‘Tis I who must confess, Miss Guinevere; I have been plagued by thoughts most unseemly toward the daughter of mine own master, for I have been wholly captivated by thy beauty. I do yearn for but a moment of thy time…and of thy affections.” ("It is me who has to confess, Miss Guinevere. My mind has been filled with salacious thoughts about my master's daughter as I have been in awe of your beauty. I crave even just a moment of your time or attention.")

Guinevere’s lashes fluttered as she drew a faint gasp at his confession, her gaze unwilling to part from his. Her voice, timid in a way he had not yet heard from her—like a maid too fearful to raise her hopes—came soft, “Is it so?” ("Really?")

“Aye,” George’s thumb brushed across the apple of her cheek, caressing the light dusting of freckles that kissed her porcelain skin, “When the Divine Being made you, He left nothing undone.” ("Yes. When God made you, he gave such attention to every little part of you.")

“I cared not to tutor thee,” she spilled out, as though in a hurried penance, “I did so only that I might steal a moment alone in thy company—to speak with thee, to behold thy fair visage by firelight, and to take to my bed visions of thy lips.” ("I didn't care about tutoring you. I only offered so I could spend time with you; to talk with you, stare at your handsome face by firelight, and to go to sleep with thoughts of your lips.")

George, with a racing heart and his gaze locked with hers, guided her hand away from her face to dust a cautious kiss to the back of it. He was testing the waters, the limits he could push with the daughter of his master who had just confessed that she had been taken with him, likely just as strongly as he had been taken by her over the few months they had shared. Guinevere did not flinch at the touch of his lips against her skin, rather, she watched with awe as his lashes fluttered shut and he left another kiss to the inside of her wrist.

When his eyes opened once more, her wrist still resting against his cheek and her hand held tenderly in his own, he found her already watching him as if to tempt him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. They sat so near that as he turned his head from her hand in his, his nose brushed her cheek, his breath warm upon her skin. His fingers toyed shyly with hers, the roughened touch of a tradesman tracing the softness of a feminine palm. The simple graze felt as if embers of a hearth sparked between them wherever his skin caressed hers.

She intertwined her fingers with his, taking hold of his hand and he returned the favour with a kiss most tentative upon her cheek, slow and lingering, like a breath of morning fog. And then another, to the corner of her mouth, wandering, testing. What they were doing was incredibly risky, a trespass upon all that society did deem proper and right, and, perhaps most grave of all, a defiance of her father’s will. But this was Guinevere—the most elegant maiden George had ever had the pleasure of knowing—and who was he to resist such temptation as the Lord Himself had placed before him? He was but a sinner, as any other Christian soul in all of England.

Let it be known that she did kiss him first. She was the one to lunge for his lips with her own, closing the mere breath between them with an intensity like no other. George made an embarrassing little sound at the sudden contact, a squeak of surprise as his eyes screwed shut and his hand tightened in hers. Neither of them moved for but a moment before, finally, they broke apart just long enough to move in for another searing kiss. George pulled his hand out of hers to grasp the side of her face in his calloused palm, pulling her deeper into their kiss and her palm fell against his chest.

Her lips were as soft as flower petals, as fair to feel as they were to behold, and George found himself aching for more—more of her, her lips, in any manner she might grant. She shifted closer still, almost leaning atop him, side by side, and her hand against his chest slid up to the side of his neck. It was a dream as they laid there on the riverbank, kissing languidly in the privacy of the willow tree shade, no one around for miles.

After a moment, Guinevere broke away from his lips for only a breath, her nose brushing against his as her fingers traced the edge of his jaw, “Is this wicked of us? To succumb to something not yet ours to take?” ("Is this wrong for us to do? To give into this temptation that is not ours to take?")

George’s thumb swept lightly across her cheek while his gaze took in every inch of her soft face in their close proximity, “If it be wicked, then let us both fall together, for I would sooner sin with thee than live righteously without.” ("If it is wrong, then let us both break the rules together, because I would rather commit a sin with you than not have you at all.")

And then she lunged at him once more, crashing their lips together with enough force that pulled a startled gasp from his breast and his hand tightened on the back of her neck, fingers tangled in the back of her hair. Their kisses turned feverish, near frantic, born of long weeks gone without—of withstanding the natural pull that drew them nearer, as though their very souls yearned to meet. It was everything so wrong, so sinful, sharing such closeness and intimacy outside of the promise of betrothal. But, with the first sweet taste of what they craved, even God Himself could not part them.

George moved off his forearms to rest flat against the grassy bank beneath him and Guinevere followed earnestly, as if parting from his lips were an unthinkable idea. His hands could not get enough of her as they traveled over her back and shoulders and tangled in the luscious golden strands of her free-flowing hair. Her leg then slipped over his, drawing herself closer still, her hips pressed up against his thigh and her hands pressed against the grass on either side of his head.

Guinevere then drew back from his kiss, her lips wandering soft over his cheek as she breathed a dreamy, “Ah, I burn for thee. Deep within my very soul.” ("I crave you, deep within me.")

George felt it too, that unearthly heat which seemed to stir beneath his skin wherever she laid her touch, and deeper still within his body, in some place strange and sorely tender. It was a sensation unlike any other, raw and unrelenting and so incredibly fierce, impossible to ignore.

“Miss Guinevere,” George breathed like her name was a prayer, his long lashes fluttered atop his rouged cheeks, nose nudging against hers, “I crave thee in every way known to man.” ("Miss Guinevere, I need you in every way imaginable.")

His hands slid down her back and gripped her waist, pressing his fingers into the curve of her hips as if to draw her impossibly closer. Her lips pressed firmly to his—once, twice, thrice—and then she drew back to gaze into his eyes, her finger trailing slowly along his bottom lip, “I am utterly besotted with thy lips.” ("I am addicted to your lips.")

“They are thine,” George nearly promised in a whisper, his thumb trailing slow along her hip over the flowing blue-dyed fabric of her kirtle where it draped across his thigh, “Take from them what thou wilt.” ("They are yours. Take from them whatever you need.")

And so she kissed him again, right down against the summer grass, her arms encircling his head as if to swallow him up completely in her embrace. He held her just as passionately, strong arms of a farmer locked around the city girl’s waist, clutching her to his body as if he willed her never to part from him. They kissed until they were dizzy and their lips were tingling with sin and the heat of their bodies outpowered that of the summer sun above them.

George had never felt this intensely before and the stirring in the depths of his stomach was something almost unparalleled, something he subconsciously craved to chase more of. When Guinevere shifted beside him with her leg still draped between his two and her hips rutted against his thigh, causing her to let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard right against his lips. His hands drew downwards, grabbing onto her buttocks to pull her body close again, encouraging her to move against him just so once more.

The need that swelled within him made him near ill with longing, and he lifted his head from the grass to press his mouth to hers once more—harder now, desperate to ease the red-hot coil of tension that burned within him. Guinevere drew back from his kiss and a string of spit broke between them as she sat upright, straddling his thigh. Breathless upon the riverbank, George gazed up at her with wonder, the summer sun crowning her head like a halo, its light dappled through the rustling branches of the willow above.

Her soft hands trailed down the breadth of his heaving chest and, upon reaching his waist, she threaded his long leather belt between her fingers. George could not break his gaze from her, utterly entranced by the sight of her in such a position and by the way she allowed her hands to wander his clothed body—right down to the swelling of his loins, where the fabric of his outerwear strained with want. He had known such arousal before, for it was a natural affliction of the flesh, yet never had he dared act upon it. The Church and its teachings had long made it clear that to touch oneself in such a manner was a sin most grievous.

To engage in such actions outside of wedlock was, too, a great sin and George felt a glimmer of guilt somewhere in his soul, as if his local priest were whispering in his ear to not be tempted by the forbidden fruit. However, once Guinevere lay her hand upon him, cupping the inflated front of his groin, all Holy sensibility vanished from his brain like smoke. His head fell back against the grass with a dull thud, a strangled gasp falling from his lips as he stared up towards the canopy of willows filtering the blue sky.

“Doth it pain thee?” Guinevere asked in a whisper just as uncertain, just as inexperienced. ("Does it hurt you?")

“Nay,” George choked out, heaving his head up again to steal a glimpse of her hand rubbing the shape beneath his garments, “Nay, ‘tis most…pleasing.” ("No, it feels pleasurable.")

A proud smile did come to Guinevere’s lips from his praise and encouragement. She stayed straddling his thigh with her hand rubbing over his groin for a moment longer until she began to hike up the fabric of his tunic and undershift, exploratory fingers itching for more. It was not uncommon for lovers to seek such delights by day—in gardens, in alleys of the city, or amidst the fields—ever longing for but a moment of seclusion. Yet the manner in which they now lay together, unbetrothed and in secret, bore the weight of great scandal. George glanced up the riverbank towards the path to confirm their isolation.

By then, Guinevere was pulling at the drawstring around his breeches to loosen the linen undergarments, her kiss-swollen bottom lip trapped between her teeth in eager anticipation. George’s chest was heaving as she reached within the linen fabric and guided out his cock. Her hungry gaze was all over him, taking in the sight of him and how her fingers wrapped around it like he was made for her to touch. No one had seen him in such a manner and neither had she seen a man in such a state of undress and they took but a moment to get used to the circumstance.

“God above,” she whispered, her voice near trembling with wonder, “I had not imagined thee thus—but now I find I cannot look away.” ("Oh my God, I had not imagined what you would look like this, but now I can't look away.")

George could only reach a hand up towards her and she followed his silent invitation to lean down and meet his lips in another searing kiss. His fingers tangled in the back of her hair and his lips locked with hers in heartracing symphony while her hand stayed firm around his dick and began to stroke him tentatively. He pulled in a shuddering breath and curled his fingers in the roots of her hair for something to grasp onto, his other finding the fabric of her kirtle over her waist.

No sooner did he melt into her kiss did she pull away again and she moved down his body just enough to wrap her lips around the head of his cock. George’s fingers tightened in her hair as his entire body twitched in surprise, eyelids fluttering as his eyes struggled not to roll with the unfamiliar pleasure. His head dropped back against the grass and he swallowed thickly, struggling to keep himself composed as she gently sucked on him with that sweet mouth of hers.

He had heard the tales often told by village friends at the alehouse—of their ventures to the brothels at the heart of Lynn and the pleasures the women there offered—but never had he reckoned to find himself upon the receiving end of such delights. And delight it was as he held the privilege of having the most beautiful woman in all of England treating him like the King himself. Guilt was the furthest thing from his mind as his hand, tangled gently in the back of her hair, guided her shallow motions up and down, whilst his other arm lay folded behind his head so he could gaze upon her through eyes heavy with pleasure.

“Never hath a man been so blessed,” George exhaled thickly, “Sweet mercy, Guinevere, thou makest me mad with longing.” ("I'm the luckiest man. My God, Guinevere, you drive me made with how much I want you.")

Guievere drew back with a proud smile as radiant as the blue skies above them and she left one more kiss to the head of his cock before she was standing up between his legs. For but a moment, George was stricken with panic and rose upon his forearms, near expecting her to take her leave then and there; it was clear he was in no fit state to return to her father’s house. Instead, he was privy to the way she grabbed onto the skirt of her kirtle and the white linen chemise beneath and hiked them up to bunch them around her waist.

His breath shuddered in his breast as he stared upon her skin revealed before him in the sunlight. Her blue-dyed stockings ended at her calves and were tied there with their drawstrings and contrasting her milky legs that continued higher and higher until they reached her feminine hips. With her chemise, her sole undergarment, drawn up out of the way, George held his gaze upon her naked figure, the first female body he had seen in such a manner.

Guinevere crouched back down towards the Earth, one leg on either side of his lap, and as she did, he sat up to meet her, craving to touch her and explore her how she had done with him. She straddled him and rested upon raised knees, their lips meeting instinctively, and his hand found its way between her glorious thighs, brushing through the coarse hair upon her mound before his fingers slipped lower. The soft gasp she breathed into his mouth from his touch had his dick twitching against his abdomen and he let instinct guide him as he caressed the source of her wetness.

She was leaking upon his fingers like water from the river that flowed past them, her hips moving with his hand as if seeking more of him. The awareness that no one had touched her like this had George’s heart racing in his breast, a sense of pride bursting within him, and his desire to make it enjoyable for her stirred in his very soul. It was the pleasure of sex that the Church deemed to be a sin but from stories from friends about their excursions to the brothels, it was nothing to shy away from. To be desired, to take pleasure, and to delight in life was no cause for shame. And as Guinevere framed his face in her delicate palms and kissed him with passion unspeakable, he wanted all of that and more with her.

With fingers blessed by her wetness, George reached down to wrap a hand around his stiff cock and helped to angle it where he knew it needed to be. He knew how it worked from life on a farm and from stories from friends and the shamed teachings of the Church, knowing to connect their bodies together in the most intimate way. Guinevere held one hand atop his shoulder and the other kept her skirts up as they worked to get themselves situated together until he was teasing across the heat of her cunt.

He had always been told by the world that man was the warmth and woman the cold—but as she lowered herself upon him, he swore that he had never felt heat like that of her body ever before in all his days. Guinevere gave a soft cry as she sheathed herself upon him, little by little, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic where it lay across his shoulders and back, her forehead pressed to his. George held her close, seeking to offer comfort and quiet assurance, though his mind nearly failed him for the sheer wonder of how tightly she gripped him.

“It aches,” Guinevere spoke vulnerably, her breath against his cheek, “but I want thee still.” ("It hurts, but I don't want to stop.")

George gazed up into her diamond eyes, his hands roaming tenderly over her hips as she sank fully upon his lap, and he answered her in a breath half-stolen, “Is this how it is meant to be? Then let it never end.” ("Is this what it's supposed to feel like? I don't want it to end.")

Her smile was beautiful and he tasted her euphoria upon her lips with a searing kiss, fingers pressing into the bunched up fabric of her skirts around her waist as if to draw her ever nearer. She moaned like heaven into his mouth and curled her body towards his, grinding against his lap in a way that had him coiling tight with pleasure. Their breaths fell as one, panting, longing, thrilled on their secrecy on the riverbank. It felt so good, he wanted more. Needed more. There was no going back now.

With cautious guidance, his hands at her waist began to move her in tender, shallow rises atop his lap, each motion gentle and unsure, while their breath mingled in gasps, mouth to mouth. George felt the searing pull of pleasure tightening in his loins, each of her movements driving him nearer to a peak almost too great to bear. He knew not what this fierce stirring within him truly was, and as much as it frightened him, some part of him, unspoken and wild, craved to chase it.

Only moments later—scarce five gentle bounces atop his lap—the fire within him rose to a terribly sweet pitch, and with a sound half-cry, half-prayer, he gave himself over to her wholly. Guinevere gasped as he spilled within her, his body drawn taut beneath her, the two of them clinging to one another with a desperation born of pleasure. George held his face buried in her neck, in her hair, holding her in place for a moment longer as he let himself return to Earth.

Neither spoke as their lips sought solace in one another, exchanging tender kisses between their breathless sighs, until at last she began to draw away. George’s hands remained at her hips, steadying her as she rose from his lap, leaving him limp and spent upon the grassy riverbank. Though they knew well there would be no consequence—for it was commonly known that both partners must find their peak for a child to be conceived—Guinevere still gave a small hop in place, as if to coax what remained from within her.

With her skirts still gathered in her fists, George watched as a pale, creamy substance—like that of smooth buttermilk—dripped from within her and onto the grass between her feet. But it was the smear of blood upon her thighs and between her legs that held his gaze most, the faintest trace, yet proof enough of what they had done. For a moment he hesitated as if guilty realization settled within his breast, knowing that once she were to be married off, she would no longer be able to provide proof of virginity, putting shame upon herself and her family name. It was a harsh truth, cold and unforgiving, and yet George would not dwell upon it. Instead, he let himself be soothed by the heavenly press of her lips as she leaned down to grant him a kiss, sweet and unburdened.

“We must return home,” Guinevere whispered between kisses, her skirts falling softly about her legs as she cradled his face in her dainty hands, “Father will be expecting us for supper.” ("We have to go home. Father will expect us there for dinner.")

“I know not how I am meant to go on,” George confessed, his voice low and sincere, “with my thoughts so sweetly plagued by the memory of thee.” ("I don't know how I'm supposed to carry on as normal when my thoughts are now filled with the memory of you.")

“We must go on in secret,” she vowed, “for I cannot bear to part from thee now that I have known thee so.” ("We must continue in secret because I can't imagine not doing this again.")

And who was George, to turn away such a vow as that?

Their quiet evenings of tutelage soon gave way to stolen kisses by firelight, the two of them tangled together upon the floor amidst scattered parchments and ink-stained quills, pouring their passion into one another with breathless restraint. Yet they dared not revisit the intimacy they had shared upon the riverbank, for never was there a moment when they were truly alone. Even during their evening sessions, the threat lingered—a creaking stair, a voice from above—the ever-present risk of a family member emerging unannounced.

Instead, they explored many pleasures together in other ways: wandering hands beneath clothes by the hearth, grinding together in a secluded corner of the guild’s courtyard, and stealing kisses in passing whenever possible. George repented often during his nightly prayers, knelt by his bed in the attic, hands clasped together, and praying for forgiveness to the Lord. It was perilous of them, but they could not stop. It was easy to believe they were destined for one another, and that made all seem right.

But reality fell upon them like an iron fist. George had found himself in the reception room one afternoon, having been sent to retrieve lunch from the cooking room for his fellow apprentices in the shop. On his way, as he so often did, he had crossed through the office to find Guinevere in his moment of respite from his toil. When she was found to be missing from her bookkeeping, he moved to the front window to look out upon the courtyard.

There, strolling side by side, was Guinevere and a nobleman not much older than he. He donned rich red garments and impressively pointed boots with the lengthy toes curled upwards, revealing his wealth and status through the most stylish footwear one could have. His Earthy hair was neatly bound beneath a matching crimson hat, and his handsome face was framed by a modest beard along a chiseled jaw. From the window, George watched as Guinevere walked beside the man, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm, speaking with him politely.

The nobleman admired her as they strolled, stealing glances at her beautiful face in the sunlight. George swallowed thickly, unease tightening in his breast at the sight. He had been aware that his master had been finding suitors for her but never before had George bore witness to such goings on. Now, stood at the window, he was filled with the realization that their shared passion in secrecy was unsustainable. It was only logical that her father should wed her to a man of noble standing, to ensure the shop’s prosperity and grant her a life of ease. Though Guinevere’s family dwelt among the better-off commoners, they were not rich, and so such an alliance was deemed most necessary.

Yet, as logical as it was, it felt not fair in the least. George had toiled the land since the day he reached his twelfth year, fated to a life of hardship and struggle as many in England were. He knew himself a steadfast worker, a worthy provider, and an honest man — and yet, none of these merits could weigh against the ease and splendour of noble birth.

His thoughts drifted to Lando from his brief stay at the inn in Cambridge, remembering his confession to thievery from the rich to give to the poor. For the first time in his life, George felt as though he understood. What had this nobleman in the courtyard done to deserve such a wonderful lass? He would merely take breath and the pleasures of the world should be bestowed upon him, while George and the majority of England toiled long days and still saw no such rewards. The feeling was evil in his breast.

Outside of Guinevere’s afternoons with her suitors, her time with George progressed like it always had. Between their lessons, he still carved her presents from his work in the shop, determined, if nothing else, to win her heart with the intricacies of his craft. For days, he set himself to the task of crafting another figurine, wielding his tools with quiet devotion and whittling with utmost care. At last, he presented to her his most treasured creation: a finely carved little horse. With a flowing wood mane and tail, it stood in proud stance upon whatever surface it was placed. Guinevere, upon receiving it, was all awe and delight—grinning by the hearth on yet another evening they stole together—and declared it her favourite of all he had made.

And, as always, it was presented proudly on her window ledge with all his other presents—silent tokens of affection lined up like a row of unspoken promises.

On a rare evening where they were not set to meet by the hearth, George took leave of his lodging to visit a local alehouse for a change of scenery. He had frequented a few since his arrival in London on those rare evenings where work was sparse and he found socializing with locals to be most enjoyable. Sometimes his fellow apprentices joined him but this particular night, he ventured out alone.

As he stepped over the threshold, the scent of spiced meat and ale hung thick in the air and the crowded space was filled with clinking of mugs and boisterous conversation over the lively lute being played in the corner. George kept mostly to himself as he navigated through the chaos to the bar and paid the alewife for a serving of brew with a single silver coin. With his metal cup in hand, he scanned the crowd for a vacant seat but he did not get very far before a hand came down upon his shoulder.

Startling, George spun around to see who had come up behind him, only to find himself face to face with a grinning Lando. His acquaintance grinned at him, “George of Lynn! God’s mercy, but it is a joy to see thee!” ("George from Lynn! My God, it is nice to see you!")

“Lando of Bristol,” George smiled and wrapped his arms around him in a friendly greeting, “What wind blows thee to London?” ("Lando from Bristol, what brings you to London?")

Lando laughed, “Thou didst speak of it so grandly, I thought to come again and see if thy praise held true.” ("You spoke so highly of it. I thought I'd come back to see if what you said was true.")

“It hath been treating me grandly.” ("It has been treating me well.")

“Come, let us sit and speak of our travels,” Lando offered. ("Come, let's sit and talk of what we've been up to.")

George followed him across the alehouse to a small table in the corner, away from the centre of chaos and noise, somewhere quieter for them to catch up. It had been a few months since they had first met at the inn in Cambridge and there was a lot to share. It was nice to see a familiar face in the bustling city of strangers.

Over ale and bread, Lando listened intently as George spoke of his arrival to London and the struggle to find a guild willing to take him in for no cost. He spoke highly of his master and the generous chance he took with him to welcome him into his home and his shop and how he had been learning so much as a carpenter. Entrusting of Lando, George also told him the basics about Guinevere, his master’s eldest daughter, and simply how he was infatuated by her since the moment he first laid eyes on her but she was expected to be betrothed to a nobleman.

Lando listened patiently to his every word, nodding or chiming in where the conversation allowed. When George was done, Lando set his cup atop the table in front of them.

“Thou lovest this maid, yet she is promised to another?” Lando questioned. ("You love this girl but she is promised to another guy?")

“A man hath not yet been chosen, but ’tis to be one of noble birth—for the good of the shop and to grant her a life of ease,” George replied flatly, his fingers idly tracing the wood grain of the table. ("A man hadn't been chosen yet but he's going to be a nobleman to benefit the shop and to promise her an easy life.")

“Nay, fie on that,” Lando scoffed, “Thy master singeth thy praises as a man and a worker—how can he think to wed his daughter to any but thee?” ("No, fuck that. Your master talks so highly of you as a man and as a worker...how can he think to marry off his daughter to any one but you?")

A flattered smile grazed upon George’s lips at the support and kindness of his friend, “I hath been thinking often about what thou hast told me in Cambridge; how the nobles steal from us commoners without thought.” ("I have been thinking a lot about what you told me in Cambridge; how the nobles steal from the commoners without thought.")

If for but a moment Lando’s face twitched into a smirk, George scarcely missed it. Instead, he continued.

“I cannot bear to think of them stealing love from me.” ("I can't stomach the idea of them stealing love from me.")

“It is not the nobles alone,” Lando replied coolly, “Thy master, too, be not without blame. Standing on the threshold of nobility with the wealth of his guild behind him—he holdeth power that thee and I may scarce comprehend. He is a man of trade, driven by coin and standing, as hungry for honour as any lord.” ("It's not just the nobles. Your master is also to blame. He's standing on the cusp of being a noble himself with how well off his guild is; he holds power that you and I can't even understand. He's a man for trade, driven by money, and he's as hungry for a title as any Lord.")

George pursed his lips in thought for a moment, letting Lando’s words settle over him. He had known that his master’s family were not nobles, were not blessed with a bloodline of riches and status, but they were at the upper end of the commoners; with a house in London and a successful shop and opportunities not often seen by many others. The reality of that realization settled heavy over George’s shoulders.

“But my master hath been most kind to me—he took me in as an apprentice when he had no cause to,” George protested, clinging onto the last shred of humility. ("But my master has been really kind to me. He took me in as an apprentice when he didn't have to.")

“Aye,” Lando acknowledged with a shug, “I say not that he is wicked—but he is blind to his own wealth, as any nobleman might be. He taketh thee in without coin, true, but neither doth he pay thee, nor would most masters. Yet think on it—he reaps the fruits of his apprentices’ labour and spendeth it as he will, for his own gain.” ("Yes, I'm not saying he's wicked, but he is blind to his own wealth as any nobleman. He took you in without payment, yes, but he doesn't pay you, neither would any other master. Think about it; he takes the rewards of his apprentices' labour and he spends it however he wants for his own benefit.")

George could only blink, “Nay…” ("No...")

“These guild masters make their fortunes on the backs of unpaid apprentices. ‘Tis free labour, no better than the toil of serfs in the fields. Our hands do the work, yet 'tis they who take the harvest.” ("These guild masters make their money on unpaid labour. It is free labour, no batter than the work of the slaves in the fields. Our hands do all the work but they take the rewards.")

“He giveth me a roof over my head and food to fill my belly,” George protested, though the surety in his voice had waned. ("He provides me with a home and food.")

“Aye, and thus thou art bound to him,” Lando returned smoothly, as though he had spoken such truths a hundred times before, “Leave, and thou risk hunger and a bed of cobbles in some piss-stained alley.” ("Yes, and so you are bound to him. If you leave, you will risk starving and sleeping on the street.")

George looked out across the alehouse, watching the cityfolk laugh and dance and talk amongst their groups, carefree, as society held so many fractures. So many of the men and women around them were workers just like them, just like most of the population of England, spending their last penny for a cup of ale and good company. Where were the rich? The guild masters, the nobles, the lords? Busy with their own folk with infinite ale and bread and fresh meat that was not a luxury as it were for the working class.

As though he sensed the unrest stirring within George, Lando laid a steady hand upon his shoulder. “’Tis why we rose up, why we set London alight last June and drew the King from his hiding place to heed our cries. ’Tis why Watt Tyler, the captain of our revolution, was struck down before mine own eyes, his head set upon a spike upon London Bridge. We give our lives for the cause of fairness, George. We seek not their suffering—but their respect. Man to man, as equals.” ("It's why we revolted, why we set fire to London last June and drew the King from his hiding place to hear our demands. It is why Watt Tyler, the captain of our revolution, was murdered before my eyes, his head put on a stick on London Bridge. We give our lives in the fight for equality, George. We don't want them to suffer, but we want their respect. Man to man, as equals.")

There was a fire that burned in George’s heart, one vastly different from the kind of heat that filled him on the riverbank a few weeks prior but no less intense. It was anger, anger stemmed from unfairness and the desire to chase justice. He knew he was not as brave as Lando, he could not outwardly storm into cities to demand change, but at the same time, he felt so helpless. Helplessness and anger fueled him strongly, craving to set things right in society but also in his own life. If he were seen as an equal, perhaps Guinevere could be betrothed to him.

George looked to Lando with sureness in his gaze, “What can a man like me truly do?” ("What can someone like me even do?")

Lando gave George’s shoulder a squeeze and then leaned closer, an elbow on the table and his hand falling to the back of the chair on which George sat. He spoke in a whisper tinged with hope, with blind sureness, “I am yet among bands of rebels who labour to uncover the deceit of the rich, but we lack proof to lay before the King’s court. Perchance thou mightst gain access to thy master’s ledgers and transcribe some of the entries—names of nobles, false taxes, bribes, aught and everything that might serve to condemn them and reveal the wrongful sharing of wealth.” ("I am still part of some groups of rebels who work to uncover the lies of the rich but we don't have proof to show the King. Maybe you can steal some of your master's ledgers and copy out the entries-names of nobles, false taxes, bribes, anything and everything that might help to reveal their hogging of wealth.")

The first thing that came to George’s mind was Guinevere and her meticulous keeping of the books for her father’s shop; her careful penmanship, her organized lines and ledgers, watching her scribe by candlelight. It would be betrayal to her and her family to steal her ledgers and hand them over to the rebels, but what choice did George have? Did he have a choice? Where did he want to lay his loyalties? With his people or with the woman he fantasized about but could never have?

“Think on it well,” Lando said, breaking through George’s restless thoughts, “Shouldst thou choose to aid us, I shall await thee by the blacksmith on London Bridge in a fortnight, after the sun hath set. Bring with thee copies of all thou canst find that may serve our cause.” ("Think about it. If you want to help us, I will wait for you by the blacksmith on London Bridge in two weeks, after the sun has set. Bring copies of all you can find that might help our cause.")

George nodded mutely and raised his cup to his lips for a measured sip.

Lando had made sure that George knew that he was not pressuring him to partake in this act of defiance which was appreciated but it only made George more unsure of what he should do. For a few days after they had met in the alehouse, he was plagued by the decision he was to make. He had always been one to follow the rules as laid out by society he was born unto and committing an act of utter defiance felt utterly wrong. He had known of the Peasants Revolt that Lando had partaken in the year prior and it was nationally known that the rebels did not succeed in achieving their demands they had fought for. So what would some measly papers from a carpenter’s shop do to make a difference?

Lying in his bed one night, George gazed upon the wooden beams of the attic where the apprentices slept, his mind thick with uncertainty. From the bed beside his, Alexander snored softly in the pale bath of moonlight streaming through the two small dormer windows above, and across the uneven floor, Oliver and Andrea had long since fallen into their own slumber. George tossed and turned, plagued by the weighty choice he was forced to make and how his decision would affect everyone he knew in different ways.

His troubled mind was broken by the creaking of the round staircase at the far end of the cramped attic, and George lifted his head from his pillow to gaze in that direction. In the darkened space, he could faintly make out a figure climbing the staircase and emerging into this chamber. He could recognize Guinevere’s silhouette anywhere.

She tiptoed across the floor to his bedside in the corner, and George cast a glance toward his fellow apprentices to be certain they still slept and would bear no witness to the master’s daughter coming to see him after dark. He drew back the thin sheet and bade her welcome, sharing daring smiles in the pale moonlight as she joined him. The straw and feather mattress rustled softly beneath her as she settled close beside him, tucked in the narrow space, face to face.

“What art thou doing here at this hour?” George whispered. ("What are you doing here so late?")

“I could not find rest,” Guinevere confessed just as softly, “I missed thee.” ("I couldn't sleep. I missed you.")

He smiled warmly, “I missed thee even more.” ("I missed you more.")

“Impossible,” she murmured with a playful tut, then leaned in to press her lips upon his before he could utter another word.

It was certainly one way to distract his mind from its internal noise and indecision, focusing instead on pouring his emotion into her kiss and the feel of her body against his. She grasped the back of his neck while his arms wrapped around her figure, melting into her touch and their familiar dance of lips. In only her chemise, Guinevere was so easy to touch, to feel the warmth of her skin through the linen, and to encourage him to bunch up the fabric a little more to get his hands on her properly.

He touched her everywhere he could beneath the thin sheet of his narrow bed, roaming her waist and hips and buttocks, bodies pressed chest to chest, until he guided her thigh closer to entangle her with him. His thigh went between hers like second nature and she pulled herself against it with a secure grasp around his shoulders, smearing wetness across the hem of his linen shift. George’s breath shuddered at the feeling and he pushed his mouth upon hers with unrelenting intensity as if he were willing himself to be pulled into her very soul.

The rustle of the straw mattress beneath them sounded like thunder in the silent attic, dipping and shifting beneath the faint ministrations of Guienevere’s hips. George could not stop touching her as if his hands were sewn to her body, addicted to the feeling of her bare, wet cunt against his thigh. He drew back from her lips to, instead, trail kisses down her neck and she tilted her head back to permit him wherever he pleased.

“Wert thou thinking of me in thy bedchamber?” George asked in a breath against her throat. ("Were you thinking of me when you were in bed?")

“Aye,” she near purred as quietly as she could muster, threading her fingers through the back of his hair to guide his head into the crook of her neck, her eyes fluttering shut at the feel of his lips and breath upon her skin, “and thy fair form…and all thou canst do with it.” ("Yes, and your body and everything you can do with it.")

“Mm, I can feel it—how wet thou art.” ("Mm, I can feel it. How wet you are.")

The words had barely passed his lips before she was pulling his mouth back to hers and swallowing up the lewd praises he spoke to her. In an instant, George shifted them under the sheet so she was laying beneath him, mouth to mouth, trapped between him and his bed in the attic of her father’s house. Her fingers tugged gently at the roots of his hair, as though to keep their lips joined and their limbs entwined beneath the sheets, until neither could tell where he ended and she began.

George could feel that unmistakable burning tension swelling within him again, the kind that only rose when Guinevere was near and when he had her like this: pliant and at his mercy. She did not complain and often—as was this very night—she was the one to be initiating such illustrious scandal between them. He would never deny her such pleasures, nor would he deny himself.

Their breaths fell shallow between fervent kisses, and they tried in earnest to keep silent, for the sake of the three other apprentices slumbering in the beds nearby. But their need was far too great to deny, and the mattress whispered beneath them as he drew her chemise up about her middle. He pulled his shift over his head in a smooth tug, desperate to rid himself of the suffocating linen, and she parted her legs for him while her hands caressed down his chest and he settled himself between her thighs. Without a word, he guided the head of his cock between her plump lips before finally easing himself within her with a trembling breath.

Guinevere stared up at him in the moonlight, her arms nestled beneath his, hands splayed across his shoulder blades, and a soft gasp escaped her lips as he sheathed himself within her. He held her gaze as he filled her wholly, their bodies, their very souls, joined once more. It was different this time, with him above her, than it had been by the banks of the Thames those weeks past. There was a tenderness in it, a deeper heat, and George felt his heart quicken in his breast at the way she clung to him and at the way she gazed at him from beneath her lashes.

As though drawn by some transcendent force, George began to roll his hips against hers in slow, measured thrusts and the flutter of her lashes and the catch in her breath at each movement sent a thrill of pride down his arms. He cradled her there upon the linen-lined mattress and kissed her with all the fervour in his heart.

When breath was needed, they parted only so far as to rest their brows together, remaining close as he ground into her with slow, tantalising thrusts. Though they strove to remain quiet, Guinevere could not help the soft sounds that slipped from her lips—angelic ahs and gentle mms in time with each deep thrust as he filled her fully—and he had not the heart to bid her silence. He merely hushed her softly to remind her the importance of their discretion; they were not alone.

Even still, his hand slipped down between them, finding its way to where they were joined, and he pressed his fingers firmly to the rise of her flesh. Her breath caught in her throat, as though the touch alone pleased her so greatly it took her by surprise, and her hands clutched tighter onto him as he began to rub her generously. George near thanked Heaven for all the raunchy alehouse chatter and the talk among men of how women much delight in being rubbed between their legs, for the way such a simple thing made her clutch at him and writhe against his bed was unlike nothing else he had ever known.

She was warm and wondrously tight around him, and yet as he kept his hand moving in time with the slow and consistent press of his hips, she only seemed to grow tighter still. His breath grew ragged, his control slipping fast, for it was growing ever harder to keep on as the pleasure began to crest within him like a wave nearing its break; inevitable. George bit his lip so hard he almost drew blood, desperate to keep himself quiet no matter how intense it all felt.

Regardless, Guinevere let a soft cry break from her throat as her head tipped back against the bed and her nails bit into the flesh of his back. George muttered a curse beneath his breath and swiftly pressed his palm to her mouth, striving to smother her whimpers and heavy breaths, to not risk waking his fellow apprentices. Her snug, quickened heartbeat throbbed between her thighs, drawing him swift into the height of his pleasure, and he sank his teeth gently into the flesh of her shoulder to muffle his own sounds.

They shared a quiet moment of respite, catching their breath and letting the silence linger, that the slumber of the three young men across the attic be not disturbed. After but a moment, George withdrew from her and turned onto his back beside her, and without a word, she nestled at his side like a contented cat.

George did not wish to let her return to her chamber now that he held her beneath his arm. For a while, they felt unburdened and true—her head upon his chest, his fingers idly combing through her silken hair, their breasts rising and falling in time—free to be as one. Beneath the hush of moonlight, in the dust-laden attic, and with the quiet that came from the slumber of his fellow apprentices, they were not wholly alone, yet it was the nearest they had come to solitude in many weeks.

Guinevere seemed in no rush to return to her bed either as she relaxed in his arms and traced shapes over his bare chest with her fingertips, tracing the faint dusting of hair between his pecs and swirling circles around his nipples. Her touch felt so gentle, so right, and George could have laid there for years, just holding her and being touched by her. His mind was empty apart from thoughts of her and only her.

To silently seal his devotion, he turned his head upon his pillow and placed a lingering kiss to her flushed forehead. He could feel her cheek turn up with her smile against his chest.

“I shall need brew an herb-tea come the morrow,” Guinevere said softly, breaking their quiet contentment. ("I'll need to brew a herbal tea tomorrow.")

They both knew well the risk they had taken by meeting their peaks in unison; risking conception of a child out of wedlock. The only safeguard lay in a certain concoction of tea passed down through generations of women. Many ladies had sworn by its power, and George had heard whispers of it in the towns and along the city streets.

“Mm, perhaps I shall take a cup with thee,” he murmured into her hair. ("Mm, maybe I will have a cup with you.")

Her quiet laugh was as sweet as honey on the tongue.

“I adore thee,” she breathed, as though the words were a vow, “I would lie with thee for a thousand summers more and couple so sweetly it would stir envy in all of England.” ("I adore you. I would lay here with you for a thousand more summers and make such passionate love that all of England would be jealous.")

George chuckled faintly into her golden hair, whispering in reply, “How that would please me greatly, my fair one.” ("I would love that, my darling.")

Guinevere tilted her head back upon his shoulder so as to be able to admire his face in the darkened attic, sharing in his content smile before she stole it with a kiss. His arm tightened around her, drawing her nearer, pacifying her with his lips until she was satisfied. They stared into each other’s eyes, tangled beneath his sheet, before his hand found hers and he intertwined their fingers.

“Thou wouldst make a lovely bride,” George confessed. ("You would make a lovely bride.")

It was a thought barely more than a whisper, almost unheard if she had not been watching his lips move.

“Thou wouldst make a lovely husband,” she echoed, as though she knew just what he yearned to hear to quiet his thoughts, “More than any noble who might seek to woo me with gold or silver.” ("You would make a lovely husband. More than any noble who would try to win me over with gold or silver.")

“Dost thou mean it?” asked George. It was almost embarrassing to him how timid his voice sounded, so unsure. ("Do you mean it?")

Guinevere gave his hand a squeeze in hers, “Certainly.”

He knew it was perilous to speak such words to her—to utter a vow that would bind them as man and wife, had there been a witness to avouch it—but the truth of his heart spilled from his lips, “I will take thee as my wife.”

There was a moment of silence as if Guinevere was allowing his words to settle, to war with herself whether she dare risk the response. She did not take her eyes away from his gaze as she replied, “I will take thee as my husband.”

George’s heart was racing within his breast and he pulled their joined hands to his mouth to rest a kiss upon her knuckles before leaning in to take her lips with his. Her arm wrapped around his shoulders to draw him nearer and they sealed their declarations of marital bliss with a passionate kiss. George meant what he said, he really did, and although society was trying to will them apart, he would have broken a hundred laws just to keep her heart in his hands.

Guinevere had to return to her bedchamber a while later, needing to sneak out before the household would rise at sunup. George chased her lips as she stood from the bed as if not wanting to bid her leave and she smiled into his kiss and pacified him every time. With one more squeeze of hands, he watched her tiptoe back to the curling staircase and disappear below.

With a sigh, George laid back upon his pillow and folded his hands across his chest, feeling the racing of his heart beneath his palm. His cheeks felt warm from smiling, from sharing such lovely words, and from holding his beloved near. He would do anything for her; and if that meant bringing down the strict rules of their society to do it, then so be it.

From a few paces away, the mattress beside him rustled and George held his breath to feign slumber. But Alexander, who had turned to gaze upon him from across the moon-bathed floorboards, was already long awake. He tucked his hands beneath his cheek, housing an amused smirk.

“Well, lad,” spoke Alexander, startling George greatly, “thou playest a bold game indeed.” ("Well, mate, you're playing a dangerous game.")

George stiffened, the realization of being found out sending a chill down his spine and he dare not speak in fear of incriminating himself farther. He had always gotten on well with Alexander but would he be one to trust with such a secret?

“Prithee, tell no soul of this,” George pleaded in a rushed hush. The last thing he needed was for Oliver and Andrea to rouse from across the attic and lend their ears to the matter. ("Please, don't tell anyone about this.")

Alexander played with him a little more, as if enjoying watching George squirm, “Hast thou taken leave of thy senses?” ("Have you lost your mind?")

George propped himself upon one elbow on the mattress, turning to Alexander in desperation. “Nay, we are drawn together with such force—as though the Lord Himself hath ordained it. It meaneth no harm. Speak of this to no soul, I beg thee, Alexander.” ("No, we are drawn together as if God made us for each other. There's no harm. Don't tell anyone, I'm begging, Alexander.")

“Lying with our master’s daughter outside of wedlock? ’Tis a sin, George; a sin against God, and a sin upon this house.” Alexander’s tone was serious but not angry, as if he were an elder offering sound life advice. ("Sleeping with our master's daughter outside of wedlock? It is a sin George; a sin against God and a sin upon this house.")

“We have yet to find a remedy, but we shall,” George said softly, “In time, we hope to wed.” ("We haven't decided what we're going to do but we hope one day to get married.")

Alexander tutted but his small smirk gave him away, amused by the sneaky goings-on of his friend, and as he rolled back over to return to his slumber, he assured him teasingly, “Thy secret shall stay with me, yet I fear for thee both—and for thee most of all. Tread carefully, else our master shall have thee hanged in the square.” ("Your secret is safe with me, but I'm worried for both of you...and you most of all. Be careful or els eour master will have you hanged in the square.")

True to his word, Alexander spoke not a word of what he had seen and heard that night in the attic to anyone in the household. In an unspoken way, the secret seemed to draw the two young men closer, and they came to lean on one another more often between the long hours in the workshop and the quiet evenings above. And, because of Alexander’s honest warnings of what a sin George was committing, George felt even stronger about punching holes in the upper echelon of society that was risking to take his beloved from him forever.

No more than a week later, George found himself, once more, awake in the middle of the night. Yet it was not restlessness that kept him from slumber, but rather the stirring anticipation of what was soon to transpire. Once he was certain the household slept soundly, he rose from his bed, padded softly across the creaking attic floor, and descended the staircase to the main level of the homestead. By grace or fortune, he was not intercepted.

The study was just as it always was: neatly tidied after the end of the day. George knew he must be cautious of what items he took and exactly how he would put them back to avoid suspicions in the morning. So, he took one leger at a time, opened it upon the writing desk in the moonlight alongside a fresh piece of parchment, and readied the quill. George repeated this routine nightly, copying one page at a time from ledgers or business books or anything else he could find in the study that could help the cause, and then hid his copied parchment beneath his mattress.

It felt like a whole new world now that he could make sense of words; being able to open pages and understand the things he was seeing. Despite Guinevere’s generous tutelage, he wasn’t quite yet completely literate and fluent but he copied everything anyway; even making sure the words he did not know were copied in shape and form. He wondered if Lando—who had come from means worse than he—could even read what he would be giving him or if he had a whole group of people who could read it for them.

A fortnight since he had come across Lando in the alehouse, George readied himself for his journey to meet at their scheduled time and location. Having been permitted to excuse himself from the family dinner with the reasoning that he had a desire to go for a stroll instead, George was upstairs in the attic while the family dined. Guinevere’s concerned gaze had followed him out of the room.

George packed his satchel with the copied parchment, tied in a roll with twine, and made certain it would not slip free from his belt during his journey. With quiet haste, he slipped out to the guild stables, where his steed had been kept and the stablehand helped him ready the horse. Once he had mounted, George rode off toward London Bridge without so much as a backward glance. He dared not dwell upon the weight of what he bore at his belt. Part of him prayed there was worth in those pages for Lando and his company—and yet another part clung to the hope that his master was as innocent as he had always believed.

As assured, Lando was waiting outside of the blacksmith’s shop on the bustling bridge when George approached. Lando housed a smile as he pushed himself away from the wall to greet George as he dismounted, “I had not thought thou wouldst come.” ("I didn't think you'd come.")

“Nor had I,” George confessed. ("Neither did I.")

He took the reins of his steed in hand and followed Lando down the narrow alleyway between the two buildings until they were shadowed by the structures. Once they were out of view from the public, George unfastened his satchel from his belt and drew forth the rolled parchment, placing it into Lando’s outstretched hand.

His friend pulled at the twine and unrolled his offering to give the context a brief glance. With a furrowed expression of concentration, Lando read a few lines before his face began to mould into a proper smile. He rolled the parchment once more and tucked it hastily into the satchel at his side, “This is wondrous, George. I thank thee.” ("This is great, Goerge, thanks.")

“There is more,” George confessed softly, casting a glance about in case any ears lingered near, “If thou hast need of it.” ("There's more, if you need it.")

“Aye,” Lando replied with ease, “Anything thou hast for me.” ("Yes, anything you have for me.")

George nodded once.

“Shall we meet here once more in a fortnight’s time?” Lando asked. ("We'll meet again here in two weeks?")

George gave another nod, as though his tongue had forsaken him, his thoughts instead held captive by the words Guinevere had once whispered to him in the stillness of night. It had been told to him that this cause was meant for the greater good of the common folk—but in his soul, it felt anything but right. Lando did not seem to notice his hesitation and, instead, his eagerness to leave was fueled by the gift now tucked within his satchel. He bade George take his leave and promised to meet again for another delivery before he disappeared into the darkened city and the crowds that filled its streets.

The family had already gone to bed by the time George returned home, settled his steed, and slipped quietly upstairs to the attic. He remembered not the journey home nor the climbing of the staircases, nor even the saying of his nightly prayers before resting upon his narrow mattress. Additionally, he scarcely recalled the following day in the workshop, as the hours blurred between carving and whittling and idle talk with his fellow apprentices, his mind torn and at war within itself over the choice he had made.

Even still, he found himself copying more ledgers by the moonlight in the office that following night, his hand moving as if by its own nature, and easy routine. The words no longer made sense, the numbers were useless to him, and his mind shut him out of the process entirely. If there was no connection to his task, perhaps he would feel less guilty.

“George?”

The ink smudged across the parchment with how strongly George startled and his head turned briskly to look over his shoulder towards the passageway to the office. There, with a candelabrum in hand, stood barefoot Guinevere in only her linen chemise, her soft face furrowed in confusion. George felt as though he had been dunked in the river in the dead of winter. He sat there, frozen.

Guinevere took a step into the room, her voice tentative but firm, “What art thou doing?” ("What are you donig?")

George glanced back at the writing desk where he sat, parchments strewn before the open ledger from which he had been copying. The quill was still clutched, guilt-ridden, in his hand. He parted his lips to speak, but no words came—only the rustle of trembling fingers as he began to shove the papers beneath the book, as though to hide them from sight.

By then, Guinevere stood at his side, already peering over his shoulder.

“I, uh,” George stammered, “I am practicing our lessons.”

“Nay, thou art copying my books whilst the house slumbers.” ("No, you are copying my books while everyone is asleep.")

She reached past him to grab one of the half-filled parchments he was trying to work on and he dare not stop her. Instead, he hung his head, guilty, as she read the lines he had copied in his messy penmanship. After a moment, she tossed the parchment back onto the writing desk.

“Why art thou copying our ledgers?” she demanded, her voice firm, unwavering. ("Why are you copying our ledgers?")

“Miss Guinevere,” George faltered, words tangled on his tongue as he looked up at her, “I—I did not mean—”

“Speak not a lie to me,” she cut in sharply, her gaze burning into his, candlelight flickering across her face, “I would sooner hear the cruelest truth from thy lips than suffer a falsehood.” ("Don't lie to me. I would rather hear the cruelest truth from you than have you lie to me.")

George drew a steadying breath before he spoke, his voice low with the weight of confession, “A lad I met upon my journey to London...he hath ties to the rebels who still fight in the wake of last summer’s Revolt. He seeks to bring to light the wrongs done unto the common folk—buried beneath coin and title and the unpaid labour of apprentices, bound to their masters. He asked me for copies of the ledgers, to aid him in his cause against such mistreatment.” ("A man I met on my journey to London, he has ties to the rebels who still fight in the wake of last summer's Revolt. He wants to bring awareness to the wrongdoings done to the commoners; buried beneath riches and title and the unpaid labour of the apprentices who are tied to their masters. He asked me for copies of the ledgers to help him fight against this mistreatment.")

“Mistreatment?” Guinevere echoed, “Mistreatment unto whom? My father was generous enough to take thee in without asking a penny in return—and this is how thou dost repay him?” ("Mistreatment? Mistreatment of who? My father was generous enough to take you in without demanding a penny in return and this is how you repay him?")

“It is not about thy father, it is about the exchange of money in all of England, the nobles and the wealthy guilds who take from us as commoners.” ("It's not about your father, it's about the exchange of money in all of England; the nobles and the wealthy guilds who take from us a commoners.")

“And what of me?” she continued, “I entrusted thee with my body, my heart, my very soul—and behind my back, thou takest all I have given thee, even the learning I shared with thee, and use it to strike at my family? To wound the very house that sheltered thee?” ("And what about me? I trusted you with me body, my heart, my very soul, and you went behind my back to take all that i have given you, all that I had taught you, and you use it to go against my family? To hurt the family that cared for you?")

“Nay, Miss Guinevere,” George turned upon his stool to face her, taking her hand gently in his own, “Thou art most dear to me, and all that I spoke to thee the other night—I still mean it, deeply and truly.” ("No, Miss Guinevere, you are the most important thing to me and all I that I said to you the other night I still mean, deeply and truly.")

She drew her hand away from his with a force that felt as though she had struck him. George recoiled slightly, staring up at her firm expression in the darkened study by the light of the candle in her grasp. Perhaps this was all a dream and he would wake up to the ceiling of the attic above him rather than the heartbreak etched into every line of his beloved Guinevere’s features by his own hand, his own choice.

Steady and chilling, she spoke down unto him. “How canst thou claim to speak truth when thou hast gone behind my back in such disgraceful manner? Our shop survived the fires of last year’s rebellion, and now thou wouldst set them alight anew within our very walls.” ("How can you tell me you spoke the truth when you have gone behind me back in such horrible ways? Our shop managed to survive the fires of last year's rebellion and now you want to light them again from the inside?")

“They take everything from us!” George cried, his voice edged with desperation, pleading with her to see his side while cautious not to raise his voice enough to rouse the rest of the household, “Our livelihood, our coin…our love. Thy father swears to betroth thee to some noble—one of those men thou canst hardly stand—for the sake of business. But what of us, Guinevere? Why can I not live for mine own sake? Why canst not thou?” ("They take everything from us! Our livelihood, our money, our love. Your father promises to marry you off to some noble-one of those men you can hardly stand-for the sake of business. But what about us, Guinevere? Why can't I make my own life? Why can't you?")

“It is not that easy, George,” Guinevere sighed heavily.

“Then make it so!”

As if snapping under his pressure, Guinevere replied sharply, “I cannot! I am a woman!”

George shut his mouth, staring at her flushed cheeks in the candlelight, the fierceness in her gaze staring upon him like glass. The study fell into a silence broken by nothing but their emotional breaths.

Guinevere took a cleansing inhale before continuing, softer, “Our fellow commonfolk—thy fellow peasants—may indeed have little say beside the nobles, this is true. But I? My fate is not mine to shape; ‘tis scribed by my father, my elder brothers, and one day, my husband. I cannot even dream of saddling my steed and venturing across England to start anew, for I am bound to men. I cannot refuse my father when he chooses whom I shall wed, not when he sees good fortune in the match. I do not wish it so...but it is.” ("Our fellow commoners-your fellow peasants-might have little power against the nobles, yes. But me? I have no say in my life. It is chosen by my father, my elder brothers, and, one day, my husband. I can't even dream of getting on a horse and traveling across England to start fresh because I am bound to men. I can't refuse my father's decisions when he chooses who I am going to marry, not when he sees good fortune in the match. I don't like it, but it is what it is.")

George bowed his head at her explanation, his heart aching in his chest at their reality; their reality that he could try so hard to change but he was powerless to do just that.

She continued, “I am fortunate that my father hath been generous in his matchmakings, and I have thus far been allowed to decline the men he hath chosen. But I know not how long such grace shall last before he begins to insist. I wish to spend what time I may with thee—fervently, wholly—before that hour comes. But I beg of thee, do not make it harder than it must be. Pray, do not.” ("I am lucky that my father has been generous with my matches and he's allowed me to decline some of the men he has chosen. But I don't know how long he will allow me to keep declining before he starts to insist. I want to spend what time I have left with you before that time comes. But I beg you, don't make it harder than it has to be. Please, don't.")

Tears burned at his eyes, heavy and unyielding, and George shut them tight, willing them not to fall. His heart ached for her as if she were slipping through his fingers in that very moment, how everything he had thought was right to keep her had failed. Was she giving up on him? Giving up on a possibility of a future with him like they had whispered about in his bed that one night? He could not bear it.

“Prithee, George, commit not such a betrayal,” Guinevere pleaded when he did not speak in turn, her voice trembling with hurt, “I swear unto thee, my father doth run an honest trade—I know it well, for I keep his books with mine own hand. He giveth fairly to the Church and lends aid to those in need. Do not lay his head upon the block for false cause, I beg thee, or I will have no choice but to turn thee in.” ("Please, George, don't commit such a betrayal. I swear to you, my father runs an honest business. I know this because I keep his books myself. He donates to the church and those in need. Don't put a target on his back for no reason, please, or I will have no choice but to turn you in.")

George gazed up at her with pleading in his shimmering eyes, “I know thy father to be kind and just—I know him to be a good man. I expect no foul harm to come to him, nor to thee.” ("I know your father is kind. I expect nothing bad to come to him or to you.")

But Guinevere was firm and unrelenting in her request, “Swear to me that thou wilt not continue to copy the ledgers nor provide them unto the rebels.” ("Promise me that you will not continue to copy the ledgers to give them to the rebels.")

George hung his head, his hands still clutching hers. The ache in his chest spoke to his guilt of deceiving her so and it reminded him of the unsettled feeling that stirred within his breast once he had passed over the first sets of parchment to Lando.

His silence cast doubt in her, and she spoke cautiously, “George…didst thou already pass word unto the rebels?” ("George...did you already pass information to the rebels?")

He nodded, still holding her hand in his, pressing it to his forehead as though in penance, head bowed low with shame. She lowered herself before him, that she might meet his gaze in the severity of the conversation. The candle she held cast a warm glow upon his face, lighting the tears that welled in his eyes.

“Thou didst not scribe thy name or our family name within those pages…didst thou?” she asked him seriously. ("You didn't write your name or our family name on those pages, did you?")

George shook his head.

Guinevere let out a sigh of relief, “Good. So they cannot trace the betrayal back unto thee.” ("Good. So they can't trace it back to you.")

“I meant thee no harm, Miss Guinevere. I only did what I believed to be right; but I see now I was mistaken.” George whispered earnestly as he met her eyes. ("I meant no harm, Miss Guinevere. I only was doing what I thought was right. I now see I was wrong.")

She slipped her hand from his to cradle his cheek with her warm palm, “I know. Only, I cannot bear to lose thee, George. Thou must tread with care, do not be swayed by the speak of the rebels. Thou art in good hands with us, I swear it upon my soul.” ("I know. I just can't imagine losing you, George. You have to be careful, don't be tempted by the talk of the rebels. You are in good hands with us, I promise.")

“Forgive me, my fair one. I cherish thee more than words can tell.” ("Forgive me, my darling. I cherish you more than I can explain.")

Guinevere leaned in and pressed her lips to his, sealing his apology with a kiss. George breathed her in, a mixture of relief and adoration flooding his chest, and he framed her fair face with his callused hands, as if to hold the moment still. He lingered in the silence of her mercy, unmoving, until she drew away first.

He watched as she rose to her feet and reached for the parchment upon which he had been writing. Without a word, she held its corner to the flame in her hand and, together, they watched as the fire took it—curling its edges, blackening ink and fibre—until it vanished to ash and fell upon the floorboards at their feet, leaving not a trace of the scribe behind. Even that simple action left a flicker of ease over George’s spirit, as if she had destroyed his betrayal and was allowing them to start afresh.

“I shall never betray thee again, so long as I draw breath,” George swore earnestly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her gently to stand between his knees. He looked up at her, chin against her chest, eyes glassy with promise, and she reached down to brush her thumb across his cheek. ("I will never betray you again as long as I'm living.")

“I know,” she whispered.

The Sunday sun blessed the city of London, drawing George and his fellow apprentices from the confines of their abode to the cobblestone streets on their day of rest. The four young men—with their limited means—meandered through the depths of the city and explored the various market stalls that were dotted throughout the various clearings and squares between winding streets.

George had felt more at peace since Guinevere had discovered his secret and they had a moment to share in the moonlight where he had promised her that he would never again lift his quill against her father’s name and business. She had not spoken a word of his betrayal to her father, and she had made it plain to George that so long as he kept his word and refrained from further scribing, the matter would remain between them. Additionally, in the week since, he had thought often of Lando and had resolved that he would still meet him at their agreed-upon time—though only to tell him that he could no longer provide what was being asked of him. The last thing he wanted was to wrong Lando too and, above all, his friend deserved the truth. George knew he would understand.

If anything, the venture to the city square offered a well deserved break for George and his fellow apprentices from their weekly toil in the carpentry shop after morning mass. As they walked through the stalls, George looked out for something to buy for Guinevere as a kind token of his appreciation and, between the two of them, of his apology and his admiration. A booth of freshly cut flowers caught his eye and he paused to offer the gardener a courteous greeting before stooping to smell their colourful blossoms.

“George!”

The call from Alexander pulled George from his momentary reverie and he looked up to where his friend was walking briskly over to him.

“There was an execution this morning,” Alexander told him hurriedly once he approached, his voice disconcerned, “the criminals have been left to hang in the middle of the square with a note from King Richard.”

“King Richard?” George’s eyes widened and he peered past Alexander as if to try and see what he was speaking about. Without another word, he rose from the cobblestones and followed his friend farther into the main square of London.

It wasn’t often that criminals were captured and so when they were, public execution was used as a way to deter the public from committing the same crimes or else they would risk facing the same fate. George had never seen a real execution before nor the results of one and so his curiosity was piqued to see the results that were heinous enough to require written warnings from the King himself.

Oliver and Andrea were already amongst the thin crowd gathered in front of the wooden gallows, staring up at the three deceased men who were suspended by ropes around their necks. Their ankles were tied together and their wrists were bound behind their backs, heads bowed as if facing God with their penance and all of their garments were frayed and faded as if they were, too, peasants. George barely fell to a stop beside his friends before his gaze fell upon the ill-fated young man on the right of the trio of criminals, his head of unruly curls lolled forwards with the break of his neck. From where the sun cast its rays upon his pale face, George’s suspicions were sealed.

Lando.

Without thought, George pushed his way through the crowd towards the gallows to read the parchment tacked to the platform by hand of the king. In formal penmanship, it read:

He tore his gaze from the note and lifted his eyes to the three men strung up before him, his stare drawn—unwillingly, painfully—to the one on the right: the friend he had known for only a fleeting moment in time. Part of him wanted to slice the rope and pull him down from the gallows and breathe life back into him but he dare not be questioned as an accomplice. And that was exactly what he was: an accomplice. He had provided Lando with the documentation that held the intention to go against society, against the Crown. It could have been him up there, hanged beside him, lifeless eyes staring into the Sunday crowds of the city square.

Guinevere’s words echoed in his mind, asking him if he had written his name within the pages he had passed on to Lando. He knew he had not, but the thought of what it might have meant for him if he had sent a chill down his spine. George stared into Lando’s unblinking hazel eyes, so devoid of the impish glee they once held. A man might believe himself invincible until the moment the reminder of death looked him in the eye.

A hand came down heavily upon his shoulder and George startled just as Alexander’s voice cut through the midday silence, echoing in his ears, “George? What is the matter?”

George could barely manage a reply, his tongue betraying him, no words seeming to be suitable for the circumstance. He had not realized how much he had risked by joining Lando’s team and suddenly, despite his desire to fight back against the nobility and their ability to take everything from George’s hands without remorse, nothing felt worth it. Yes, he would give his life up for Guinevere, but this was not the way. It was a startling reminder of where his loyalties lay.

“Didst thou know him?” asked Alexander, now flanked on either side by the concerned Oliver and Andrea. ("Did you know him?")

Swallowing back the bile in his throat upon his final glance of his deceased friend, George turned on his heel and pushed past his fellow apprentices, and broke into a run back towards the homestead without a look back.

London brushed past him in a blur of stone and timber and nothing but the sound of his boots hitting the cobblestones filled his ears in steady time with the rapid beating of his heart. George felt like he was suffocating, like his loose linen outerwear was squeezing his throat by the hand of God. It could have been him hanged there in the square for all to see. Maybe it should have been him. The thought kept repeating in his mind over and over like a hymn.

The courtyard of the carpenter’s guild felt like an oasis the moment he crossed beneath the stone archway into his shadowed gardens. Panting and flushed, George pressed a palm against his breast, feeling the thud of his heart against his ribs as if trying to break through, and he steadied himself with his other hand against the trunk of a tree. His eyes were narrowed into eery tunnel vision as he stared down at the cobblestone path and trimmed foliage of the gardens by his feet, the city spinning around him and stealing every breath from his body.

He could not get Lando’s lifeless stare out of his mind.

In fact, he was so shaken that he had not even noticed that he was not alone in the courtyard. Across the gardens, upon one of the wooden benches handcarved by the guild, sat Guinevere with her most recent suitor—the same gentleman in red as George had seen with her previously—and both of them were eyeing him in concern. When she called his name through the summer breeze, he did not hear her.

Instead, his body lurched forward and he bent at the waist as he emptied his stomach into the flower bush at his feet. George spat loudly into the soil to rid his tongue of the bitter taste left behind and he wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand.

“George!”

The sound of Guinevere’s voice rang loudly in his ears and the hurry of her feet across the path followed soon after. He could not manage to raise his head, keeping himself bowed in shame against the tree that kept him rooted in place.

Guinevere rested a hand upon his back, her other grasping onto his bicep, her touch a relief after the sickening shock the day had brought, her voice soft as silk, “What aileth thee? Art thou unwell?” ("What is the matter? Are you ill?")

“Nay,” George rasped as he stood once more, not wanting to worry her, “I am well enough.”

“Surely something ails thee, to make thee cast up thy breakfast upon the roses,” Guinevere said, concern laced in her voice. Her hand held firmly to George’s arm as he stood as if to offer him balance, unbothered by the watchful eye of her nobel suitor standing just a pace beyond. ("There most be something wrong to make you vomit in the rose bush.")

Yet, the man held an expression of equal concern as hers, and he offered, “Might I fetch my doctor? Perhaps some bloodletting or leeching might be of help to restore thee to full health?” ("Should I get my doctor? Maybe some bloodletting or leeching might help restore you to full health.")

“Nay. Nay—pray, leave me be,” George murmured as he stumbled past them, his hand pressing gently to the man’s chest to guide him aside, “I am well enough. I ask only for rest.” ("No. No, please, leave me alone. I am fine. I just need rest.")

“George—” Guinevere called helplessly as she watched him hurry himself towards the house on ungraceful feet and he disappeared inside but a moment later.

George dreamt of Lando from the moment his head was laid to rest upon his pillow that afternoon. He had not been around his friend much since their first meeting but the grief still lingered and weighed upon him like lead on his heart. It was not a fair way to go; not for a young man who meant so well, who only wanted to aid the populace. He had met a cruel fate and one that George could not stomach.

No one bothered George the rest of that Sunday, leaving him to rest, alone, in the attic. Guinevere likely had told the family of his ailments and, the generous people they were, did not protest his slumber. Instead, by sun down, as the brightened attic faded into orange and pinks through the light from the small windows, the stairs finally creaked.

George turned his head to see who was coming, only to see Guinevere emerging with a bowl cradled carefully in her hands. He could not help the eased smile that grazed his solemn lips at the mere sight of her. When she saw that he was awake, she, too, shared in his moment of contentment with that soft smile of hers that could light up his days.

“I have brought thee supper,” she said gently.

He sat upright as she perched upon the edge of his bed, reaching out for the bowl of steaming stew she offered. The scent alone reminded him how long it had been since he last ate, and he let out a soft groan of relief, “Thank thee, my fair one.”

She watched him raise the bowl to his lips and take a gracious sip before she said, “Alexander hath told me thou and the others did see an execution in the square today. Was it that which unsettled thee so? My heart was heavy with worry.” ("Alexander told me that you and the others saw an execution in the square today. Was that what made you so unsettled? I was worried about you.")

George kept his gaze downcast into his bowl as he struggled to find the words to affirm her suspicions but, finally, he offered a nod. He raised his gaze to her sweet face, dusted pink by the fading sunset, and he spoke, “Aye, the lad I met upon my journey—the one I told thee of the other night—was hanged for treason. For conspiring against the Crown…and the nobility.” ("Yes, the man I met on my journey-the one I told you about the other night-was hanged for treason. For conspiring against the Crown...and the nobility.")

“Ah,” Guinevere hung her head, her eyes closed for a moment as if letting the heaviness of his words wash over her. When she lifted again, she said, “And thou didst think it might have been thee?” ("Ah. And you thought it might have been you?")

George could only nod and he hid his emotion behind another sip of his soup.

Guinevere continued, “’Tis why I bade thee cease all dealings with him. I would not have thee suffer a fate so tragic.” ("That's why I told you to stop the deals with him. I don't want you to have the same thing happen to you.")

“‘Tis not fair,” George choked out as he clutched his bowl in his hands and stared down at the warm broth within. “He was no wicked man.”

“I do believe that he was not,” Guinevere assured him as she reached over to wrap her slim fingers around his forearm, her thumb caressing the tender skin there.

The two sat in silence for a moment as if sharing the grief that lingered between them. Even her company alone eased the weight in George’s chest and he appreciated even the faintest of her touches to ground him back in steady reality, staring down at how her thumb stroked the dip of his elbow so kindly.

And then, as if he had not heard enough on that day, Guinevere spoke plainly, “Charles wishes to wed.”

George looked upon her with slight confusion, not recalling the name she had spoken.

“The suitor from today,” she told him in a breath, her voice faint and her face void of any strong emotion as if to leave him to reckon the weight of her words, “He has been visiting me often and he declared that he wishes to wed and father now insists that I may not decline his offer.”

“Nay,” George exhaled in disbelief and moved suddenly to place his bowl upon the small table beside his bed, allowing him both hands to clutch hers, “Hast thou agreed?” ("No...have you agreed?")

Guinevere stared at his hands holding desperately onto hers as if never wanting to let her draw away and she replied softly, “Nay, not yet. Not formally, at the least.”

“But wilt thou?”

“I must.”

“Thou must not,” pleaded George. He took his hands out of her to grasp her face instead, swiping his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks in the quickly fading light of the dusty attic in which they sat, staring into her eyes as if to catch any hesitation in her diamond irises. “Prithee, my fair one, give not thy heart to another.” ("You must not. Please, my darling, don't give your heart to another man.")

“My heart hath ever belonged to thee, my beloved,” she murmured and grasped his wrists as he framed her face. ("My heart has only ever belonged to you, my beloved.")

They leaned in together until their foreheads touched, and they shut their eyes tightly, silently willing the world, their circumstances—everything—to be less cruel than it was. After but a moment, George closed the space between them, pushing his lips onto hers in a tearful kiss and she clung onto him with all the passion she could muster. Fingers pulled at clothing, skin, hair, anything to will their lover impossibly closer, wanting to accept each other as one being for the rest of time. They had bound themselves together in lust, in sin, and now were being torn apart by the cruelness of their society.

Had George not loved God so, he would have cursed Him for cursing him to a life such as this.

George knew that no words he could offer would be enough to sway society’s order or win him Guinevere’s hand. He had come perilously close to sharing the same fate as Lando, and ever since, his mind had been a storm of thoughts—desperate schemes to turn everything around for the sake of the woman he loved. Nothing felt quite right, everything fell short. It was easy to doubt your worth when you had nothing compared to the grandeur of a nobleman.

So, as life returned to some semblance of painstaking normalcy, George threw himself back into his work, spending long hours in the shop and toiling along with his fellow apprentices. Besides, the labour was a welcome distraction from his heartbreak—or at least, it was, until his hands, moving on their own accord, continued to craft gifts for Guinevere. He carved her figurines of all her favourite things, each one a quiet confession he had been silenced from speaking aloud. They were proof of his heartbreak that came with the reality that they would never be truly able to be together. It was a realization that George knew he had to accept, no matter how painful.

But soon his workman's hands were whittling something far more precious than any figurine, moving as if by the guidance of God, carving and sanding and polishing to perfection. Within two days, a small wooden ring was polished in the palm of his hand, engraved with hand-made carvings of branches of a willow tree and, on the inside, etched with his name. Just a glance at his creation had his heart thudding within his breast as he sat at the workbench, surrounded by his fellow apprentices—each as clueless as the next to the tempest stirring within him.

Alexander was focused on the piece of furniture he was constructing at the opposite table, Oliver and Andrea talking amongst themselves about how to achieve a design they had been working on together at the tool bench, and George knew that in that very moment, Guinevere was about to leave to house to be betrothed to a man that was not him. The realization hit him like a strike of lighting and the speed at which George stood from his stool sent it toppling over with a crash. The other apprentices looked over at him just as he rushed to the staircase and hurried down them.

George knew that without anything to his name, it was unlikely her father was to be swayed, but, even still, he would not back away without a proper fight. If it ended with him banished back to Norfolk then it must be God’s will.

Guinevere and her father were in the reception room, preparing to leave, when George emerged from the shop with such haste that both of them looked over in surprise at the interruption. Now that he was there, face to face with the both of them, George froze. He had not thought this out, not written talking points or arguments or anything he knew he wanted to say and should say. Instead, all he had was the wooden ring clutched in his palm and all the love in his heart that he wanted to pour out to the woman before him.

His master spoke first, “Is something amiss, lad?” ("Is something wrong, son?")

“Thou canst not go,” George said earnestly. ("You can't go.")

Guinevere stood at her father’s side with a gentle expression on her face, staring at George almost as if she could anticipate what he was about to do and, yet, being equally as terrified for what he was about to do and what its outcome would be. Although George was there to face her father, he could not take his eyes off of her, drowning in the seafoam eyes that he had fallen for so strongly. He could not bear to let her walk out that door to be betrothed to another man. He would not be able to live with himself had he not tried; he would sooner be strung up in the city square.

Looking between them, his master asked, “We cannot go? And why ever not?” ("We can't go? And why not?")

George took a steeling breath and turned his focus to the gentleman to whom he owed everything and to whom he now risked bringing great dishonour. Squaring his shoulders, hands clasped behind his back, he began, “Sir, thou hast been most kind and gracious to me since mine arrival at thy threshold last season, and I hold myself ever in thy debt for such generosity. The courage with which I did knock upon thy door that day hath granted me the honour of labouring in thy esteemed shop beneath thy wise instruction, and so it is with that same resolve that I come now to stand before thee.” ("Sir, you have been so kind to me since I came to your home last season and I consider myself forever in your debt for such generosity. The courage it took to knock on your door that day allowed me the honour of working in your shop, under your wise instruction, and so it's with that same courage that I come now to stand before you.")

“Very well, lad. Speak thy mind—but be swift about it.” the master replied as if his own mind were already half out the door and in the details of the impending betrothal. ("Okay, son. Speak, but make it quick.")

There was no turning back.

“Sir, I am in love with thy daughter and it would be my greatest honour in life if thee would allow us to wed.”

Guinevere, although partially expecting such a declaration upon his brash entrance into the reception room, still let out a soft gasp of surprise. Immediately, her gaze flicked to her father.

George did not back down as he watched the way his master’s expression changed from calm and casual to something uneasy, something almost unreadable. Despite the racing of his heart and the churning of his gut, he held the man’s gaze still, unmoved, though the silence between them throbbed like a festival drum within his ears. For a moment, George might have believed the man to strike him by the way his countenance furrowed into that of distaste and he shifted his weight almost menacingly.

Not wasting a moment wherein the gentleman might speak him down, George pressed on, “I have naught to offer but mine heart and mine hands, this well I know. In all manner, I am unworthy of thy precious blood. I am but naught when set beside the noblemen thou wouldst see her wed unto and I cannot promise a life of riches nor title.” ("I have nothing to offer but my heart and my worker's hands, I know. Because of this, I know I am not worthy of your family. I am nothing compared to the noblemen that you would rather marry her off to and I can't promise a life of riches or title.")

His master’s voice was firm, “George—”

“Nay, sir, I pray thee,” George broke in, desperation trembling in each word as he presented unto them the modest wooden ring he had carved and engraved that week in the shop, “I have naught to offer, yet I vow before thee and the Lord that I shall love her until He calleth me home. I shall love her with all that is in me; I shall labour without cease that she be fed and kept in comfort. She shall be the greatest blessing of my days, if thou wouldst grant me the honour of thy consent.” ("No, sir, please. I have nothing to offer but I promise before you and God that I will love her until I die. I will love her with everything in me. I will work tirelessly so that she is fed and comfortable. She will be the greatest blessing of my life, if you will give me the honour of your consent.")

Guinevere gazed upon the ring in his hands as though he was presenting to her the Holy Grail itself. Yet in truth, it was but a humble piece of carved wood—the edges still jagged in proof of his unskilled hand—and yet, the weight it bore far outweighed any royal jewel or sacred relic. He saw in her eyes that she had not foreseen his declaration, as though she had resigned herself to their secret love being forever put to rest, but the faintest curl of a smile upon her supple lips eased the tempest within his breast.

By then, their seclusion in the reception chamber of the city house was broken as Guinevere’s six siblings peered from around corners and from the chambers above, eager to catch word of the commotion. Even Alexander, Oliver, and Andrea had drawn near from the shop, lingering at the threshold of the study to lend their ears. Despite the gathering crowd, George’s focus remained on his master as he stood his ground, ring outstretched between quivering fingers, watching how his lips were drawn tight with mounting emotion.

Then, the gentleman took a step closer to George and in a voice low and firm, with a demand to be heard and understood, he spoke, “I took a chance on thee when thou didst beg for apprenticeship, and I gave up much that thou mightst stay and learn beneath this roof. I have permitted thee to consort with my children, to wander the streets at thy leisure, and to share both meals and mass with this family. I have granted thee far more than a man of thy lowly station could ever have dreamed, and yet here thou standest before me, to declare that it is still not enough?” ("I took a chance on you when you begged me for an apprenticeship and I gave up a lot so that you can stay here and learn. I allowed you to interact with my children, to wander the streets whenever you pleased, and to share meals and mass with my family. I have given you far more than any man of your means could have ever dreamed and yet you stand here and tell me that it's not enough?")

George swallowed, forcing out, “‘Tis more than enough, sir, I do not wish—” ("It is more than enough, sir, I don't wish-")

“Then speak not!” his master scolded.

His sudden raise of voice caused George to flinch, though he did not shrink away. Rather, he held himself firm and upright as though he were a knight bound for battle, unyielding in his presentation of his gift. Even as his master stepped forth again, pressing into his space, George did not step aside.

The gentleman stared George right in the eyes as he warned him with a voice like venom, “Thou hast no right to meddle in the affairs of our house, nor to dictate what we should or should not do. To betroth my daughter to a nobleman is a fortune few of our standing do attain. I shall not allow a lowly serf to thwart such a worthy match.” ("You have no right to meddle in the affairs of our house or tell me what we should or shouldn't do. To marry my daughter to a nobleman is a fortune that families such as ours would be lucky to have. I will not allow a stupid slave to ruin such an important opportunity.")

Despite the blow his words did cast upon George’s breast, he could only turn his gaze upon his lover with pleading desperation in his eyes, “Guinevere—”

“Nay! Speak not unto her!” his master cut in once more, his voice loud and echoing through the timber-trimmed homestead, “She is thy master’s daughter, and thou shalt address her with due honour!” ("No! Don't speak to her! She is your master's daughter and you will address her with respect!")

A pace or two behind her father, Guinevere could only bow her head, her eyes shutting tightly as if to will this moment to be over. She knew her place well; in society and in her home. She had everything to lose. Despite this, George had nothing to lose and he did not lower the hand in which he held the wooden ring, presenting it, still, towards the chest of his master.

George did not avert his gaze, neither from Guinevere nor from her father, and when he spoke, his voice was low but unwavering, “With all the honour in my soul do I address her, sir. For she is not merely thy daughter, she is the keeper of my heart. I seek not to shame thy house nor rob her of fortune, but to offer her a love that no title nor gold could weigh against.” ("I address her with all the respect in my soul, sir. She's not just your daughter but she is the keeper of my heart. I don't want to shame your house or steal her from a life of fortune, but I want to offer her a love that no title or money could compare to.")

“Thou showest no honour unto my daughter, nor unto this house,” his master rebuked with a sneer, “’Tis plain I have been too kind to thee…treating thee as a son, placing trust where none was due. I did strive to turn mine eyes from it, but thou hast brought shame upon me and the kindness I did extend and thou still beg for more.” ("You show no respect to my daughter, or to this house. It is clear that I've been too kind to you, treating you like a son, trusting you where I shouldn't. I tried to ignore it, but you have brought shame to me and my kindness I gave you and you still beg for more.")

The papers his master then drew from the satchel at his belt made George step back in shock. There, within the gentleman’s grasp, were the parchments upon which he had copied the ledgers, the very same he had entrusted to Lando but days before his execution. The papers were tossed to the floor at George’s feet. Guinevere made almost a pained sound, as if she could not bear to witness this any longer.

The master declared loudly, “The mayor hath returned these copies unto their rightful owner once the traitors were taken; I would not believe there dwelt another within my very walls. I defended thy name and kept thee under my roof despite this. I should have handed thee over, let them string thee up in the market square!” ("The mayor returned these copies to their rightful owner once the traitors were taken. I couldn't believe that there was another traitor within my walls. I defended your name and kept you in my home despite this. I should have handed you over and had them hang you in the square!")

“I made a grievous mistake, and I shall bear its burden unto my dying breath, sir,” George replied, his voice both loud and laden with earnest plea, “Yet, though my past be stained, my heart is true and steadfast. I beseech thee, grant me to wed thy daughter so that I may honor her all my days and prove my worth by my love and service.” ("I made a horrible mistake and I will face that until my last breath, sir. But although I have made this mistake, my hart is true. I plead with you, allow me to marry your daughter so I can honour her for the rest of my life and prove my worth through my love and devotion.")

George had scarce let the final words escape his lips when the gentleman stuck him across the cheek with such might that his head was forced to turn. The sound echoed through the homestead and George paused but a moment before raising his fingers to touch his reddened cheek.

The words his master spoke echoed in his ears as he nursed his stinging cheek, “Thou hast brought shame upon my household. Thou shalt return to Norfolk at once and never speak of this family again, or else I shall see to it that thou meetest the same fate as thy friend.” ("You have brought shame onto my household. You will return to Norfolk at once and never speak of my family again or else I will make sure you meet the same fate as your friend.")

“Father!” Guinevere all but sobbed over his show of anger, clutching onto his arm as if to physically restrain him from laying another hand upon the young man before him.

George raised his eyes unto his beloved, and in their meeting gaze, it was as though both did grasp their fate in that very moment. It had all gone far too wrong; there would be no salvaging themselves from the wreckage. Not like this.

“Sir.”

The sound of Alexander’s voice cutting through the tension was an unexpected reprieve.

As the eldest and most seasoned of the apprentices within the household, Alexander bore his position with solemn pride, never once daring a misstep that might tarnish his standing. Yet now, as he stepped forth from the study where he and the others had lent their ears, the confidence that often marked his countenance gave way to a grave and weighty seriousness. He spared George but the briefest of glances.

“I would not overstep mine own place, sir, yet I find myself in a trial of conscience and must speak a truth I do know—one that may well alter thy judgement in this matter.” ("I don't want to overstep, sir, but I find myself needing to speak the truth as something I know might change you mind.")

The master—still red in the face with fury—eased but the slightest to hear him out, “Speak, lad.”

Alexander cast a fleeting glance unto Guinevere, then another to George, as though measuring the weight of the moment, as though pondering whether they had any knowledge of that which he had long kept to himself and, if by hope, what he said was going to help them in their pleas. George, overcome and laid bare by sorrow, could summon no thought as to what his companion did now allude to.

So Alexander spoke, “Upon a night wherein I found no rest, I did bear witness to thy daughter stealing into the attic, where she and George did exchange those sacred words meant only for the sacrament of marriage. By making myself a witness thereto, I am afraid to say, good sir, that by law and holy rite, these two are already wed.” ("One night when I couldn't sleep, I witnessed your daughter sneaking into the attic where she and George exchanged those specific words meant only for marriage. Because I witnessed this, I am afraid to say, sir, that by law and by God, these two are already married.")

The master’s face stiffened, his brow furrowing and countenance darkening as the truth of Alexander’s words took hold. His gaze darted between Alexander, his daughter, and the man he had all but cast out.

In a word, low and laced with near fury, he echoed simply, “Wed?”

No one dared to speak as the man processed this revelation. George and Guinevere exchanged a silent glance as if waiting for the axe to fall, Alexander right with them in fierce duty to protect. He knew full well what it was to have one he loved torn from his grasp. Though it were under other cause, he dared not allow such a thing to befall another.

The master turned to Guinevere then, the betrayal in his eyes sharper than steel, “Didst thou think thy father's roof so low that it might shelter deceit? That thy heart was thine alone to give, without heed to name or duty?” ("Did you think so poorly of this household that you thought you could lie? That your heart was yours to give without thinking about your name or your duty to this family?")

“Father, prithee—” Guinevere started. ("Father, please.")

But the man was not finished. He then turned upon George, who stood as if awaiting his judgement, “And thou, who camest to me with nothing—I gave thee place, labour, and shelter. And in thanks, thou dost not only share my ledgers with rebels, but takest my daughter as well; without my word, without my blessing?” ("And you, who came to me with nothing. I gave you purpose, work, and shelter, and in thanks, you not only share my ledgers with rebels but you take my daughter as well without my blessing?")

George rushed out his reply, “I meant no harm, sir. I love thy daughter more than life itself—”

“Thou will speak of this to no one,” the master cut in, his voice demanding, speaking to those in the room and those who were lending their ears from around corners and up staircases, “Everyone in this family will take this to their graves. And thee—” ("You will tell no one about this. Everyone in this family will take this to their graves. And you.")

He turned upon George then once more, pointing a furious finger at him.

“Thou wouldst do well to say thy prayers, for I shall turn thee over to the authorities—and thou shalt hang as a traitor…a thief to this house.” ("You better say your prayers because I will be turning you over to the police and you will be hanged as a traitor and a thief to this house.")

George thought another strike might have wounded him less as the agony his master’s threat thrust through his heart was unbearable. He staggered back a pace, and Alexander, powerless to defend for he held no moral high ground against their shared master, laid a hand upon his back to steady him. Hath this been the end to which it hath come? Hath George journeyed all the way to London to meet his early fate? He would have given his life for Guinevere, though never had he thought it would come so soon.

“Father!” Guinevere all but shrieked, putting herself between the master of the house and the man she loved. “Thou canst not!” ("Father, you cannot!")

He was unmoving, brushing her off with a cold, “Step aside, Guinevere, thou art in no place to speak on this matter. Thou hast shamed me and sullied the name of this house. Consider thyself lucky if Charles still doth wish to wed thee given the hysteria with which thou hast composed thyself.” ("Step aside, Guinevere, you cannot speak to this matter. You have shamed me and tainted the name of this house. Consider yourself lucky if Charles still wants to marry you given the hysteria you have composed yourself with.")

Guinevere was not one to be told off easily, not in matters she held dear to her heart and Goerge had learned that quickly about her over the months they had spent together. Instead, she raised her voice louder, raising her voice to her father, “I will speak to this matter! Thou shalt not send George to his execution—I forbid it!”

There was a pause as the intensity of her words settled upon the household.

Her father’s eyebrows raised in disbelief at her tone and his reply was like fire, low and collected but laced with bitter poison, “Oh? Thou forbid it? What madness hath seized thee that thou think’st to speak this way to thy father?” ("Oh? You forbid it? What madness has come over you that you think you can speak to your father this way?")

“Love, Father! Love hath seized me! I love him just as much—if not more—than thou didst love Mother all those years ago, when thou didst fight for her!” Guinevere thudded her hands upon her father’s chest in desperation, fingers curling within the fabric of his cloak, “’Tis not right to be so cruel to him now, not when he hath been so brave to come forth and face thee.” ("Love, father! Love has taken me! I love him just as much, if not more, than you loved mother all those years ago when you fought for her. It is not right to be so cruel to him now when he has been so brave to confront you.")

His response was immediate, “Bring not thy Mother into this—God rest her soul. She would be ashamed of the way thou hast behaved.” ("Don't bring your mother into this-God rest her soul. She would be ashamed of how you are behaving.")

“No, she would not! Mother loved thee! She loved love itself, and she often spoke to me of how I must find someone I love to wed as she had done. I do not love Charles. He is a fine man, a kind man, but I do not love him!” ("No, she wouldn't! Mother loved you! She loved love and she told me often how I must find someone I love to marry like she did. I do not love Charles. he is a fine man and kind but I don't love him!")

Her father grabbed her wrists in his hands, pulling hers away from his chest and the way she had tugged upon his garments, “And thou hast gone behind my back to utter wedding vows to a man without my blessing. Thou knowest full well the weight of such words, and yet thou didst it regardless.” ("And you have gone behind my back to share wedding vows with a man without my blessing. You knew the weight of those words and you said them regardless.")

“Aye!” Guinevere pressed on, her voice near hysteria, fanning the flames, not backing down for even a moment, “I spoke vows to him, I took it upon myself to kiss him in shadowed corners and couple with him in secrecy, and I knew he copied the ledgers and kept silent. I am as guilty as he. If thou must have him hanged, then hang me with him!” ("Yes! I shared vows with him, I kissed him when no one was looking, and I had sex with him in secrecy! I knew he copied the ledgers and I kept silent! I am just as guilty as he is. if you must have him hanged, then hang me with him!")

Her father's face drained of colour, as though her words had struck him across the chest. For a moment, George might have thought his master would fall unconscious as Guinevere laid everything out for him to bear witness to.

“God above…” her father breathed, near staggered, “Dost thou even hear thyself, child? Hast all sense left thee? Thou wouldst cast away thy name, thy station, thy very soul—for him? Thou speakest of coupling in shadows and swearing secret vows as though it were naught but sport. Hast thou no shame? No honour? Thou gave away thy maidenhead to a man to whom ye were not betrothed? Under my roof? I raised thee better than this, Guinevere. I raised thee as a woman of God, of respectability. ("Good Lord...do you even hear yourself, child? Have you lost your mind? You would throw away your name, your standing, your soul, for him? You speak of sex and vows as though it were just some game. You gave away your virginity to a man you were not married to? Under my roof? I raised you better than this, Guinevere. I raised you as a woman of God, of respectability.")

“Were I to do justice, as I ought, I would have thee locked away for thy disgrace. But I shall not hang thee, daughter—not for his sake. Nay...he shall bear the weight of what thou both have wrought, what he hath stolen from thee and from this family. Perchance I shall find mercy enough to spare his life, but he is no longer welcome beneath this roof. I shall cast him out at once, to return to Lynn with haste, before my mercy wavers. ("Were I willing to do what I should given the circumstances, I would have you locked away for disgrace. But I will not have you hanged, daughter, for for his sake. No, he will carry the weight of you both have done, what he has stolen from you and from this family. Maybe I will find mercy to save his life but he is no longer welcome under his roof. I will send him back to Lynn as soon as possible before I change my mind.")

“As for thee? By week's end, thou shalt be sent to the priory, there to worship no man but God, and to reap thy penance for thy sins and thy shame. The sisters shall see to it thy life is set upon a holier path.” ("And as for you? By the end of the week, you will be sent to the priory where you will worship no man but God, to reap penance for your sins and your shame. The nuns will make sure your life is set on a holier path.")

“The priory? Father, I would rather be hanged!” Guinevere shrieked.

“Enough!” the man boomed, “Not a word more from thee, child!”

Guinevere, finally, held her tongue. She turned then upon George with a countenance of sorrow, tears in her diamond eyes, and he felt his heart ache at their reality. Neither spoke a word more.

His master closed the conversation with a firm demand of his newest apprentice, “George, I shall spare thy life for the sake of my daughter and her madness. Yet thou shalt depart at once. Gather thy things and be gone before the hour is out.” ("Goerge, I will spare your life because of my daughter and her madness. But you will leave at once. Gather your things and be gone within the hour.")

“Aye, sir,” George bent at the waist in a feeble bow before turning on his heel and brushing past a stunned Alexander towards the staircase. The younger siblings were hidden around the corner at the top, having listened in, but George did not spare them a glance on his way by, his head hung in agony and shame.

No one joined George within the attic as he packed his satchel, not even his fellow apprentices. Instead, he stood at his bedside alone, wood shavings still clinging to the material of his tunic as he clutched the wooden ring in his hand and stared down upon its delicate engravings. Never before had he felt such pain as this, such agony in his breast as if his heart had been stabbed. His life might have been spared by Guinevere’s pleas to her father but perhaps death might have eased the pain with which he was plagued.

The sound of footsteps creaking upon the stair had George frantically tucking the ring into his satchel, and he called over his shoulder, “I make haste!” ("I'm hurrying!")

“’Tis but I,” said Guinevere, her voice so meek it scarcely sounded her own. ("It's just me.")

George turned at the sound of her voice, gazing upon her as she drifted cautiously over the floorboards towards him. He longed to reach out, to draw her near for one final farewell, yet he dared not, lest he provoke her father further. Instead, he spoke softly, “Thou shouldst not be here, alone with me.” ("You should not be here alone with me.")

“My sisters keep watch for me,” Guinevere whispered, “Father hath gone to speak with Charles—to call off the betrothal.” ("My sisters are keeping watch for me. Father has gone to speak with Charles, to call off the betrothal.")

“I am sorry,” George exhaled, bowing his head, “I should not have made such a reckless declaration. I hath ruined thy life.”

“Nay,” Guinevere’s hands framed his face, her touch warm, familiar, and she guided his head up to meet her gaze, “Thou didst no such thing. There is naught more romantic in all of England.” ("No, you did no such thing. There is nothing more romantic in all of England.")

George scarce could summon a smile at her gentle words, gazing deep into her eyes as his hand took hold of one of her wrists, his calloused thumb soft upon her tender skin.

“I mean it,” he spoke, “I love thee. More than all things in God’s fair land do I love thee.”

“I love thee too,” Guinevere echoed, drawing his face close, that she might steal a kiss from his supple lips.

When they drew apart after but a moment, they pressed their brows together, eyes closed, as though striving to hold fast the memory of their lover’s touch.

Guinevere spoke once more, “Take me with thee.”

George drew back with a timid smile at her bold plea, his hands falling to clasp hers between them, “I would not stir thy father’s wrath further.” ("I do not want to make your father more upset.")

“I cannot bear to live without thee,” Guinevere begged, her voice steady and sure, “Nor can I endure to spend my days as a nun, now that I have tasted the blessing of thy body. I need thee, my beloved—prithee, take me with thee.” ("I can't bear to live without you. And I can't bear to spend the rest of my life as a nun, now that I know what it is to experience the pleasure of your body. I need you, my beloved, please, take me with you.")

“Take thee with me back to Lynn? And then what?” George questioned. It was a fair thought in theory, but how might reality bear it? To bring her home to be a farmer’s wife, when she had been raised with such generous means in London?

“I know not, nor do I care,” Guinevere insisted, wrenching her hands free to cast her arms about his shoulders, drawing his body close to hers, “I care not where we go nor what we do. I want nothing but thee—all of thee—in any manner.” ("I don't know and I don't care. I don't care where we go or what we do. I only want you -all of you - in any way.")

George’s mind spun with ideas of how to make sense of this, how they were to make a life for themselves from this. He had not even completed a year of his apprenticeship, although he had learned much in the months he had been present, and she was literate and a great bookkeeper. Nothing felt sure, nothing felt easy.

“I hear Lynn is a prosperous tradestown,” she continued, dreams and hope bright in her voice, which George ached to grasp, “Or Norwich? ’Tis almost as great as London. We could go anywhere, George—prithee, say we shall.” ("I hear Lynn is a prosperous tradestown. Or Norwich? It is almost as great as London. We could go anywhere, George. Please, say we can.")

With his arms around her waist, hands splayed across her back, he asked in a breath, “Is it true that we are wed?” ("Is it true that we are married?")

“We spoke the sacred words to one another. Those words do bind man and wife, no matter the place or circumstance. And though we might have been pretending, with Alexander as our witness, there is no doubt.” ("We spoke the sacred words to each other. Those words bind man and wife, no matter the place or circumstances. And we might have been pretending but with Alexander overhearing, there is no pretending anymore.")

George’s eyes traveled all over her soft face, taking in every freckle across her nose and cheeks, the shine of her eyes, the colour of her lips. His wife.

He drew away and turned toward his satchel, then drew forth the wooden ring he had carved for her. Without bidding, she held out her hand, and he slipped upon her finger the token of his love, before closing her fingers about it and drawing them to his lips to place a kiss upon them. With the ring upon her hand, their matrimony was sealed in that dusty attic in the sweltering summer heat of London.

“I want to make a good life for us,” he confessed earnestly, “I want to make right by thee.”

“Thou shall. I know it.” Guinevere assured with ease.

“Wilt thou give up all for a life with me?” ("Will you give up everything for a life with me?")

“My father hath already forced me to give it up. I would rather have only thee than naught at all.” ("My father had already forced me to give it up. I would rather have only you than nothing at all.")

And so he kissed her again with every ounce of passion and life in his veins.

When they parted, she hurried off to her chamber to pack her own bag, leaving George to finish his. Despite the pain of ending his apprenticeship early on such soured terms, his heart raced in his breast with the thrill of what was to come; to spend a life with his beloved.

They met once more in the reception room where her siblings and the other apprentices waited, her sisters standing watch by the front window to spy their father’s return. As if all were on their side, well-wishes were exchanged and tearful goodbyes shared. George and Alexander embraced longer than was common, and even Guinevere’s eldest brothers—who had taken time to warm to George’s unexpected presence in their shop—bade him farewell with kindness.

The steed was readied by the stablehand and George mounted it before he lent a hand to raise Guinevere behind him upon the saddle. Alexander, the only one who had joined them outside, passed up George’s bow and his quiver of arrows and helped get him sorted for their journey. And, as if that were not enough, he then held forth his small satchel of silver coins as a parting gift.

“Alexander, I must not,” George declined politely, knowing full well how little apprentices earned.

“Prithee, George, I insist,” Alexander pressed kindly, “So that thou mayst live the life I could not.” ("Please, George, so that you can live the life I could not.")

George relented and accepted the coin and Guinevere helped him fasten the satchel to his belt as he thanked him with a soft, “Thy kindness and friendship are much obliged.” ("I appreciate your kindness and friendship.")

“God bless thee,” Alexander smiled, stepping back from their steed to grant them leave in haste.

With a final glance back at the homestead where their paths had first crossed, George and Guinevere set forth upon the London streets, their course aimed toward their new life beyond. They carried with them nothing but the necessities: coin, some bread and lavender, a change of garments, and, of course, safely tucked within Guinevere’s own satchel, the collection of tokens and figurines George had made for her.

The greenery of rural England welcomed them from the stone confines of the city walls, breaking out into rolling hills and lust forests beneath stunningly blue sky. Despite the tumultuous afternoon they had experienced, a sense of peace settled over them, putting distance between them and the people who threatened to rip their love apart. George could only trot onwards.

Guinevere’s arms were around his waist, holding tightly onto him as they rode through the countryside, wooden ring on her hand and her head resting against his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her body against his, the gentleness of her embrace, and the protective swell in his breast gave him purpose. He truly would give it all up for her—and he did—and what a lovely thing to know that she would do the same in return.

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alyygx · 10 days ago

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Video Confessions - Bob Floyd (Part 1)

Synopsis: When Bob Floyd lets Fanboy borrow his phone to record a video he has no idea that it will capture his deepest darkest secret...that he's in love with you. Little does he know that his confession was recorded until he lets you watch the video.

TW: Hangman being a huge jerk, Bob getting angry and defending the reader, alcohol consumption, swearing, girls in the boys locker room.

A/N: I haven't written anything in a while so I apologize if I'm a little bit rusty. This fic is dedicated to @geminiwritten for inspiring me to write again and for being an amazing friend! If anyone wants to send me a request for something written or for a photo edit just shoot me an ask!

Also, there's no use of y/n but I did have to use y/cs (your callsign).

I fully intended this to be one long fic but Tumblr is not allowing that so instead I will be posting this in several parts.

Word count: 1,966 words (total fic 7,043 words)

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

It was an overcast Spring day. A thin layer of clouds stretch across the sky turning it a hazy gray. But the sun managed to shine still through gaps in the clouds. Casting golden rays over scattered spots on the ground. The squad was currently in a briefing; Maverick was droning on about flight stats and performance. But you barely heard a word of it. So zoned out at this point it was all you could do to keep your eyes open and pretend to be paying attention. You were sitting in your usual seat next to Rooster and behind Phoenix and Bob. A horrible choice on your part really purely for all the potential distractions that spot held for you. If Rooster wasn't whispering little quips to you forcing you to stifle a giggle, then you would catch yourself either staring out the window to your right or straight at the back of Bob's head. Personally, you preferred when you'd get lost in thought gazing out the window. At least then your thought topics usually somewhat stayed relevant to flying or missions or squad drills and exercises. But when you stared at Bob, well let's just say your thoughts were almost never work related. God, that man had you thinking so many "what it's". You see, you've secretly been in love with Bob Floyd since the day you joined the squad. He was the first one to come welcome you and genuinely seemed happy you were there. You both became fast friends after that. You had been on a previous mission with Phoenix years before so it was only natural that you were so close with her WSO, right? Rooster and you, well, you've known each other since your Navy OCS days so of course your friendship immediately picked up where you guys left off. The rest of the squad was welcoming enough. Fanboy being the most enthusiastic of the bunch. In the almost year you'd been a member of the Dagger squad they all really have begun to feel like your family. Your home away from home. It was amazing to you the bonds you've been able to form during your time in the Navy. A little surprising even considering how your social life was before you enlisted...non-existent. Lord, knows how much time had passed with you absentmindedly staring into space before you were suddenly snapped out of it at the sound of Bob's voice. Damn, that man had such a hold over you and no one had a single clue. At least you hoped no one did.

"Hey, you ok?" He asked, while leaning over to pick up the pen he just dropped. "Yeah I'm good. Just trying to make it to the end of this brief without falling asleep. Geez, Maverick is doing a lot of lecturing today. I fear it may be a losing battle." You smiled, trying your best not to make your rising heart rate obvious when he smiled in return and stifled a laugh. He retrieved his pen and turned back in his seat, beginning to resume taking notes. You on the other hand could feel your face flushing. God, I hope no one can see. You thought. I probably look red as a tomato. You sighed softly. It was just about that time that Maverick started wrapping up and eventually dismissing you all for the day. "Thank goodness. Any longer and I'd definitely have started snoring." You leaned over and commented to Rooster. "I wouldn't have been too far behind you." He said laughing. Everyone was getting up from their seats and heading to the locker rooms. "It's finally the weekend!" Phoenix exclaimed, coming over to your side so you both could walk to the girls locker room. Being the only two girls in the squad you both did this pretty much on a daily basis. "Yeah. Thank goodness. I need a break from all these lectures we've been getting lately. My brain's exhausted!" You replied. "We're still hanging out though, right?" She asked. "Of course! I already bought special snacks and everything. What time were you planning on coming over tomorrow?" You were so excited about the girls day you guys had planned. Not that Phoenix was a girly girl like you were but you two still got together every couple of weeks to drink wine, watch movies, and gossip about things...mostly the squad. "Umm probably just before lunchtime. That ok?" She answered. "That's perfect." You replied, noticing Bob coming up from behind and falling in step with you both. "Big plans tomorrow I hear. You're lucky. I have no idea what to do with myself tomorrow." He said grinning. "Well, I'd like to invite you Bob. It's just -" "Girls only Floyd." Phoenix interrupted laughing. "She's mine tomorrow. Find your own friend." Nat added and you could've sworn you saw Bob blush. What was that about? You wondered entering the locker room with Phoenix.

Before you knew it it was Saturday and Phoenix was due at your apartment any time now. You were dressed in lounge clothes complete with your hair pulled into a loose messy bun. Comfort was the name of the game today; relaxation and comfort. Nat arrived not long after carrying a bag of Blu-ray's and chocolate. "I brought only movies with hot guys in it. If we're going to unwind then we're going to do it right." She laughed. "No arguments from me. Which shall we start with?" You asked, taking her bag from her and peeking at the discs inside. "This one!" She exclaimed, pulling it from her bag and walking straight over to your Blu-ray player and popping it in. "You know I do have Netflix and stuff, right?" You commented, puzzled as to why she insisted on bringing discs in the first place. "Yeah. I know. But none of these movies are streaming and I'm definitely not paying to rent them when I have perfectly good Blu-ray's we could watch for free." She said, turning from the tv to go flop down on your couch. "Makes sense." You replied, shrugging your shoulders. "You want wine?" You asked, suddenly feeling like a glass. "Sure. Go ahead and bring in the snacks to." She flashed you a smile and you giggled to yourself. "Yes ma'am." You mockingly saluted her and headed into your kitchen. It didn't take more than a few minutes before you were back in your living room, wine and snacks in hand, and settling into your couch next to Nat. "So..." She started, grinning at you with a playful look in her eyes. "You still got that massive crush on Bob?" You nearly choked on your Merlot. "What!?" You coughed. "Who says I have a crush on Bob?" You tried to cover. "Oh, only everything!" Phoenix commented. "I'm amazed no one else has picked up on it. It's so obvious!" She exclaimed. "How so?" You asked, hoping it was things that you could easily fix. "Oh, like how you stare at the back of his head with a dopey look on your face when we're in the briefing room, or how easily you blush at the sound of his name, or how quick you are to want to do things for him." She answered, a huge grin plastered on her face. "It's called being a good friend and I don't blush at the sound of his name!" You retorted. "Oh, yeah? Then why are you blushing right now!?" She asked. "I'm not blushing!" You exclaimed. "You totally are! Go look." You stood and walked over to the nearest mirror. Damn, she got you there. You totally were blushing. You sighed and walked back to your couch. Opening some of the snacks and covering yourself in a blanket. "Let's just watch the movie." You said. "Yeah ok. But this conversation isn't over." She pointed at you still grinning ear to ear. The rest of your girls' day went amazing. You ate too much junk food, drank a few glasses of wine, and laughed with Nat talking about frivolous things. Before you knew it it was late and Nat was saying she was tired and ready for bed. You insisted since you two got a little carried away with the Marlot that she should stay the night and she agreed. "Goodnight." She yawned. "Night Nat." You replied, heading to your room to get ready for bed.

The rest of the weekend was a lazy blur and before you knew it it was Monday again. Time to head back to work. You thought as you audibly groaned at your blaring alarm clock. It's not that you didn't absolutely love your job and your squad, it's just that lately Maverick has been doing a lot of talking and you were itching to get back up in your plane and fly. Not that you didn't understand that lectures and briefings weren't an important part of your job, they definitely were, but a whole week's worth of them back to back for the entire previous week had you bored out of your skull. It was a much sunnier day that day when you finally arrived on base. You grabbed your stuff from your car and began making your way towards the locker rooms inside only to discover an out of order sign posted on the girls locker room door. "What's going on?" You asked Nat as you joined her at the locker room door. "From what I heard a pipe burst. We're going to be stuck sharing with the boys until it's fixed." She said, groaning and rolling her eyes. "How exactly is that supposed to work?" You asked, clearly confused. "Apparently, they've sectioned off part of the boys locker room with screens for us girls to use." She shrugged and walked away towards the boys lockers. Yeah, that's gonna stay private. You thought to yourself. You made it to the boys locker room and hesitantly pushed open the door and as Nat had said a screen greeted you sectioning off about a third of the room. A paper sign with an arrow taped to the front screen stating "Girls only this way". Just great. You thought, rolling your eyes. You took a deep breath and stepped the rest of the way into the locker room allowing the door to fully close behind you. Once inside you were met with some whistles from some of the men already inside causing you to turn and look. Upon doing that you met Bob's gaze and he offered you a soft smile and a wave. You waved back and prayed the blush you could feel spreading across your cheeks wasn't noticable. "Don't pay attention to those idiots." Rooster began, only slightly startling you. "They've been whistling at literally every girl that's walked in here today." He put a reassuring hand on your shoulder before walking over to his locker and opening it. You took that as your cue to continue heading to the designated girls area to get ready for the day; noticing that Bob was still watching you as you began walking away. "There you are!" Phoenix exclaimed. "You were right behind me I thought you got lost! I was about to send out a search party." She laughed. "No. This just all feels awkward. Guess I was just hesitant." You said, digging into your bag ready to just get changed and get the heck out of there. Once you were changed into your flight suit you stuffed your khaki uniform into your bag and locked your bag into one of the extra lockers. Then headed back out towards the locker room door completely unaware of the fact that once you left the screened area that Bob's eyes were back on you watching you leave.

#bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #top gun maverick #alyygx

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the-californicationist · 21 days ago

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The Redeemed

Dark!Arthur Morgan/Fem!OC

Low-Honor Arthur Morgan is alone in the world, wandering like a dark ghost, haunting the wilds from New Austin to Saint Denis. He likes being alone, it suits a murderous old bastard, and that's all he wants to be. That is, until he meets her: the pretty little thing that he just can't do without.

MDNI / violence / kidnapping / sexual coercion / masturbation

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

The cold wind burned Arthur's nose and throat, making every breath raw and painful. Even though he had come all the way down to Saint Denis, the usually sweltering swamp had acquired a layer of frost this season. A five hundred year freeze, they said. The chill kept the residents of the city indoors, as did the late hour, and Arthur found himself alone, his horse’s hooves making haunting echoes on the shining cobblestones below him.

He'd taken to wearing black after he'd killed Dutch last spring. He told himself it would be fair warning to all those who saw him coming. The man in black, in his black saddle, on his black mare… Hadn't the Good Book described him well enough? He was the Devil, and death was the only thing left he had to give to the living.

But the living still had plenty to give him. Right now, he was filthy. Robbing that last train had been messy work, and there was the blood of strangers drying on his hands. He craved warmth, he needed a wash, and he wanted to drink. So, he headed to the Bastille. He wouldn't be welcome, per se, but Arthur knew that - with enough coin - any door would open.

The stable was nearby, and he bought his horse a scrub down as well. As he handed the reins to the trembling hands of the young boy, he patted her nose, purring his goodbye to her,

“That's my girl.”

The skinny kid led his horse away, and Arthur turned his eyes to the gleaming saloon about a block down the street. The lamps were lit, and as he approached, he could see a few old geezers playing cards, but otherwise, the parlour was deserted. He pressed his way into the room and headed straight for the bar, the ringing sound of his spurs disturbing the peace.

“Mr. Morgan,” the barkeep announced his presence, his eyes growing wide with fear, “How can I help you, sir?”

Arthur watched as a drunk man in a red vest lay down his coins and chugged the rest of his whiskey just to escape from his presence. He tried to hold back a resentful sneer. Instead, he addressed the barman,

“Bottle of whiskey, a room for the night, and a bath. Hot, with soap.”

“Yes, sir,” the barkeep tried to control his reaction to the amount of money Arthur had just lay down on the counter, and offered an upsell, “Would you like some company for your bath, sir? One of our beautiful ladies would be happy to accompany you. Their hands are… skillful.”

Arthur didn't react, but he met the barkeep’s gaze and held him there, scrutinizing him for just a moment too long,

“Sure.”

“Wonderful,” the barman was sweating across his brow, and his voice shook, “I'll send her right up. Here's your key, sir.”

He trudged up the stairs, waiting until he was out of the main hall before taking off his hat and coat. Once he found his room, he stripped the rest of the way, making sure to hang his gun belt within reach of the tub.

The water was hot from the roaring fire, and Arthur knew they'd seen him coming. They'd learned their lesson about him, hadn't they? Hadn't everyone?

Dutch’s death had crackled across the skies from Ambarino to Austin, and the news had spread like wildfire. The Van der Linde gang was no more, and Arthur Morgan had become an army of one. He'd dealt with the Pinkertons, the O’Driscolls had been long-cold in their shallow little graves, and the law couldn't find a bounty hunter brave enough to touch him. And anyone they did find, usually some hotshot up-and-comer, was sent home to his mother in a pine box. No one wanted to run with him, and they sure as shit didn't want to run against him, and so Arthur haunted the lands like the ghost that he was, robbing when he needed money, hunting when he needed food, and sleeping under the open sky when he got tired of it all.

He wondered about what kind of company the discerning ladies of the Bastille would keep with him. Arthur was used to the look of terror in their eyes, and he was also used to them wanting to hurry things along. They assumed he wanted more than just a bath, and after a rushed, weak-fisted handjob, even an ugly sow could make him come. He took pleasure in painting the sweating breasts of yet another paid harlot with his seed, but unless he was willing to fork over at least five dollars, he wasn't invited to share their bed.

He spotted himself in the mirror, turning to view his reflection as if he was looking at a stranger. He used his thumb to pull at his cheek, moving the skin back and tightening it against his bones.

“Ugh, you ugly bastard,” he grumbled.

Naked and filthy, he lowered himself into the clawfoot tub, letting the heat soak through his bones. After a few moments of calm, he heard the handle turn on his door, and he reached down for his revolver.

“Oh!” A startled girl leapt back, pulling the door shut again.

“Come in,” Arthur spat, “And lock it behind you.”

She cracked the door open, her bright eyes looking down at his hand as he put his gun back in its holster, squeezing herself into the room, balancing a tray in her hands. She had his whiskey with her, a clean glass, and a few bottles of oil and soap for his bath.

“Good evening, sir,” her voice was heavily accented. Arthur guessed she'd been born here in Saint Denis, “My name’s Sabine. Would you care for some company this evening?”

She was new. Too young. Couldn't be more than twenty. Too sweet. Her movements were too slow and elegant. Her cheeks were shining, smooth, and rosy. She was still bothering with rouge. But the top of her chemise was lilting and open, and by the way a yellow, mouth-sized bruise was healing on the edge of her collarbone, she was woman enough to understand her role.

“Sabine,” Arthur dragged out the name just long enough to get under her skin, “Pour me a whiskey and do what you came in here to do, girl.”

He hadn't meant to sound quite so cruel, but he was tired. And he was indeed cruel. Better to make sure she understood that before she got any ideas.

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, doing everything she could to avoid his eyes. Or maybe it was his brutish face she couldn't stand.

No matter. Arthur lay back, listening to her break the lid of the whiskey, pouring him a generous dram, and laying the glass carefully on his table. She was fiddling around with some of her oils and washcloths, but Arthur kept his eyes closed, preparing himself for the depressing efforts of another scared whore.

When her hands went to his face, he actually gasped, starling her. She was sitting above him, her features upside down, her hands holding two globs of shaving foam.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she apologized for nothing, just knowing that she should, and he shrugged her off.

“Givin’ me a shave, are you?”

“Yes, sir. Is that alright?”

God, she was naïve. As the razor began to pass smoothly over his jaw, Arthur cursed the barkeep. Why couldn't he have just sent him some grizzled old bitch with a scar on her face and a mean right fist? That's what he needed right now. He needed to get off and get as far away from this little lamb as he could.

“Ain't there anyone else? Who's workin’ with you, girl?”

She looked worried now, not scared, and she shook her head,

“No, sir. No one.”

“Don't lie to me, darlin’,” Arthur pulled his teeth back in a snarl, and he furrowed his brow as he looked up at her, studying her face.

She was not quite a Gibson girl, although she had enough hair to do it. Her bodice and skirt were just a touch out of fashion, and they fit her a bit too tight. Borrowed clothes. Her eyes were large and dark like a doe’s, but she had a dainty mouth situated below a flat nose with pouty, porcelain doll’s lips. Her complexion was not pale, nor was it deep, and she was not ruddy nor sallow. She was healthy, big-boned, and if he watched the muscles in her arm as she moved the razor across his flesh, she may have even been athletic.

“It's only me tonight, sir. Should I be doing something different? Mister Rougeaux said you would take a bath, and I thought -”

“Hush,” Arthur grumbled, “Just get on with it, then.”

He would ignore the ache in his cock for now. The throbbing hunger between his legs was reacting only to her innocence, a coyote sniffing out a wounded fawn. Untilled soil. A clean soul for his collection.

After she was done scraping away at his beard, she applied some salve, and it stung his flesh with cooling mint and alcohol. He felt her fingers press his skin in small circles, massaging his temples and brow as if he might deserve such gentle touches.

“What's your name, sir?”

“Why do you need to know it?” He sniped, groaning as her hands moved to his neck, washing and oiling and kneading him like dough. He heard her sigh, and then he changed his tune, taking pity on her, “Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”

That should do it. Anyone who didn't know his face knew his name. He was waiting for her to have forgotten a towel or needing to go check on something in the kitchens so that she could make her escape. But, she simply hummed quietly to herself,

“Morgans are my favorite horses.”

“Are they?” Arthur asked slyly, setting up a trap, “And do you know how to ride well?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” she smiled genuinely, wetting the cloth and moving to cleanse his chest, blissfully unaware of what her careful stroking was doing to his prick below the bubbles, “My father taught me when I was a young girl.”

“Mm,” Arthur grunted, refusing to abuse her further, dropping the threat of his innuendo.

She moved on to wash his arms, the water turning murky from his many sins. He'd dunked himself in a river or two while he was living out on the land, but she seemed intent on getting every pore and wrinkle sparkling clean, like a mother on Sunday morning, scrubbing her reluctant babes before they were presented to the Lord.

It amused him that there was almost nothing sexual about her intentions but that her very purity made her seem like a ripe, low-hanging fruit. The way she labored over his flesh, scrubbing him and breathing hard to make him feel good… He imagined her efforts and attention on his heavy phallus, working him and working him and working -

“Do you have a horse, Mr. Morgan?”

“Jesus Christ,” he sat up in the tub, his splashing making her sit back and wait for him to settle, “That's enough. Go on, get out of here, girl.”

“But, your bath -”

He turned on her like a cougar, full of teeth and fury,

“I said go.”

Sabine settled herself in his gaze, dropping her eyes and preparing some sort of pitiful plea,

“Mr. Morgan, I -”

“Leave me in peace, darlin’. For your own damn good.”

“Yes, sir,” her voice turned cold.

She stood, gathering up her tray, and moved for the door, unlocking it with trembling fingers and slipping through it, her skirt tail getting snagged on the corner as she made her escape. Clumsy little lamb.

Arthur stooped, dripping and naked as he climbed out of the tub, plucking the little bit of torn blue fabric from the edge of the door, seeing where the cheap cotton of her skirt had ripped on its edge.

It was big enough to fit in his palm, and as he looked at it, he noticed the little white stitches that decorated the lining. Good girl. Trying so hard to do what's right. Stitching your hems, painting your cheeks, and scrubbing nasty old devils for half a dollar.

He slid the ripped fabric over the head of his cock, teasing himself with it. The wetness that was already drooling from his tip stained the fibers, darkening them before his eyes. He wrapped it around his shaft and started to pump himself up and down, rubbing her skirt over his sex, imagining that it was her warm, tight cunt instead. He wished he could feel her curls, the softest hair between her legs, wished he could taste the way her pleasure soaked into her there, rubbing his nose in it like a bad, bad dog.

He punished his cock, humping himself through his own callused hand, slipping his head into her skirt, letting the rough feel of the fabric make his skin flush hot.

“Sabine…” he hissed, picturing those doe eyes looking up at him from below. He'd teach her how to place her mouth just so.

All at once, he felt the lightning surge in his blood. Around the edge of his vision, blue and gold flashes invaded his senses. The only thing he could feel was her hot little mouth, the phantom of her in his mind, and then... His hips jerked forward as he spent himself onto the floor of the room, ruining her scrap of forgotten fabric, feeling his slick come soak into its folds.

“Ungh… goddamnit.” Arthur stumbled, leaning back on the edge of the tub, rubbing himself raw, making it hurt on purpose, “You sad piece of shit.”

The room spun. He was out of breath, and when he looked down at what he'd done, he was frustrated with his weakness, although he couldn't say he was surprised. Oh well, nothing a drink couldn't cure.

Arthur fell asleep after half of the bottle was gone and the pink streaks of dawn were already painting pictures on the ceiling. When he finally awoke the next day, he was hung over and feeling even worse than when he arrived.

His head throbbed, and his cock ached, flagging at full mast like a hungry pup, expecting a treat, wanting to scarf down a bowl of innocent little lamb for breakfast.

Why'd she have to be so sweet?

It disturbed him that she was his first thought this morning - afternoon? What time was it?

He quickly fitted himself into his clothes, noting that they'd been laundered and returned to him somehow. They'd been pressed.

Had she come in here? Did she see…

The little scrap of blue fabric had been placed on his side table, laundered and folded with his socks like it belonged to him all along. It was cornered like a handkerchief, and his heart broke. He really was a fucking monster.

He hurried up with his clothes, tugging on his gun belt before hurrying down the stairs. The bar cleared out when all of the men saw him coming, some of the patrons going so far as to flee the establishment, unwilling to be caught in the wake of his wrath.

“Mr. Morgan, how was your stay with us?” The barkeep was careful with his words.

“Fine. Pour me a drink. And I want whatever’s cooking back there.”

Suddenly, a pair of brown eyes peeked around the kitchen door at him, and he could see her face through the slats. On the edge of her cheek, a black bruise was painted fresh by someone’s hand.

“Hey!” Arthur shouted, and she disappeared, the bartender putting up his hands like he was being robbed.

“Mr. Morgan, please,” the man begged, “Have a seat. I'll bring you-”

“What happened to her? Sabine!” Arthur shoved past the coward and barged into the kitchen.

It was warm in there, and the sweating bodies of a chef and two maids jumped at his intrusion. He spotted her just on the other side of the blazing hearth, sinking down onto a stool, her back turned towards him.

Arthur spun her around, and when he saw that she was covering her eyes, spilling tears, he pulled down her wrists to get a closer look.

She couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, she stared down at the floor, hot shame darkening her features.

“Who did this to you?”

Sabine shook her head, unwilling to give up the bastard. So, Arthur turned his attention on the others.

“I ain't gonna repeat it.”

His words burned like spitting brimstone, threatening and sinister in his throat. He looked around at all of their faces, trying to find the weakest link. Finally, he settled on a chubby maid. She was crying, too, and it looked like her own bruise was healing now rather than freshly earned.

Arthur stood, his boots scraping the wooden floor. He sidled up to the woman, pinching her chin in his hand roughly. It shocked her, and she stared up at him wide-eyed, giving in instantly,

“Mr. Rougeaux don’t like it when we don't stay with the Johns. Says it ain’t polite to… leave a man… high and dry…”

Arthur’s blood pumped through his veins like steam through an engine, and he was just about ready to blow. He turned to the kitchen door just in time to watch the barkeep stumble back into the main room, scrambling to escape.

He followed him out, watching as he tried to make excuses as he fled, muttering awful mess of sorry and forgive me… it was all the same bullshit he usually heard. Arthur drew his gun and fired from his hip, tagging the man in the foot and watching him fall down the stairs of the front porch, bleeding onto the stony path.

“No! No, please! You can have her for free. Just take her. She won't run to the law. She won't complain! She's easy. I swear, please. Please don't -”

Five more shots rang out into the mid-morning air. People gasped, but everyone stood very still. And no one moved against him. An entire saloon-full of people stood frozen in the cold February air, watching his every move, counting his every breath.

“Bring her out,” he said in a measured, even tone.

The maid, the one he had pegged for a coward cried out when the fat, sweat-stained chef ducked back inside the saloon to do his bidding. But, she was not as cowardly as he thought. He'd just put five bullets in Rougeaux’s skull, and yet the plump little maid was strong enough to tug on his arm, pleading with him,

“Don't do it, Mr. Morgan. She's just a bit down on her luck. Please, don't take her away.”

Arthur yanked his arm out of her grasp, standing tall above her, fixing his hat on his head,

“She safer here with you? No. I don't think so. You just wanna keep her around so you can feed her to another dirty old bastard that comes to town.”

Right on cue, the chef produced Sabine who, to her credit, was stone-faced and standing board-straight. He imagined Marie Antoinette walking to her guillotine. Joan of Arc climbing to her stake. Persephone descending the many steps down to the Styx. A pretty little sacrifice to the Devil himself.

He reached out for her wrist and dragged her with him, walking her down the street to the stables. Only when the big, black eyes of his mare came into his view did he wonder what the fuck he was doing. Where was he taking this girl? Into the woods? To rob more trains with him?

No. There was only one place for her. Arthur lifted her up into the wide black saddle, helping her tuck her torn skirts under her rump before climbing in behind her, spurring his horse away from the stable, loping out onto the street, speeding off towards West Elizabeth.

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #dark!arthur Morgan #low honor arthur morgan #this isn't my usual fandom but yall got me riled up

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prythianpages · 1 year ago

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one shots

angst= `♡´ fluff = ☁︎ smut= ☪︎

↠ I've Been Waiting For You ☁︎ `♡´ | After centuries of waiting, Azriel finally meets the one he's been longing for. His mate. (this is kinda inspired by Alice & Jasper from twilight.) | bonus part

↠ A Field Of Dandelions ☁︎ `♡´ | Your High Lady calls upon you. requesting a remedy that only you know how to make. It requires specific ingredients found between the courts of spring and autumn and you're in need of an escort. Unfortunately for you, she assigns her Shadowsinger to accompany you. The Shadowsinger who hates you...or so you thought.

↠ Be Safe ☁︎ | you are on your way to Day Court when Azriel stops you. After the two of you fall victim to Cassian's and Mor's teasing, Azriel realizes why he can't just let you go.

↠ Be Patient ☁︎ | After the mating bond snaps, Azriel follows you to the Day Court, spending seven agonizing days yearning to tell you about the bond.

↠ When I Kissed the Teacher ☁︎ | After crushing on Azriel for almost a year, Nesta dares you to kiss him during Valkyrie training.

↠ In My Eyes | Rhysand's Sister reader`♡´ | Azriel has lost you once and when unseen circumstances bring you back to life, he will not lose you again. Even if it means going against his family.

↠ 'Cause It Was Always You ☁︎ | After eavesdropping on multiple conversations, Azriel finally gathers the courage to confess his feelings to you, thinking he's on the verge of losing you.

↠ Goodnight ☁︎ | Azriel has a night time confession.

↠ Tonight, the Light of Love is in Your Eyes `♡´ | You find yourself in the middle of a political affair, where you seek refuge in a dance with Azriel. And in the spur of the moment, Azriel tells you he loves you for the first time.

↠ A Light That Never Goes Out `♡´ | The aftermath of Azriel kissing you in front of everyone in the Court of Nightmares. (Part two to the fic above.)

↠ Next to You `♡´ | The world is ending and Azriel does all he can to be next to you.

↠ Beautiful Stranger ☁︎ | Azriel gets injured while spying in Spring and meets someone he never thought he would. His mate.

↠ Hopelessly Devoted | You're hopelessly devoted to Azriel, suspecting he’s your true love. Meanwhile, Eris is hopelessly longing after you. aka Eris being your mate but you're too infatuated with Az to notice.

↠ Price of Fate `♡´ | Azriel confronts your father after your sudden disappearance.

↠ Take Me Home ☁︎ | When Azriel gets drunk, he forgets he has a wife.

↠ Kiss It, Kiss It Better ☁︎ | Even the strongest need a little extra loving sometimes.

↠ Protect `♡´ | based off of the quote mentioned above, "I have the sword to protect you but not the crown to have you."

series

🗡️ = ongoing , ⚔️ = completed

↠ Hopelessly Devoted to You 🗡️ | masterlist of interconnected one shots based off of the one-shot listed above.

↠ Fate, Up Against Your Will 🗡️ | Rhys’s sister OC

↠ Azriel x Green Witch ⚔️ | A series of imagines that is based from A Field of Dandelions.

↠ A Court of Shadows & Moonlight ⚔️ | Rhy’s sister oc | Daughter of the Night Court’s High Lord. Half Illyrian. Half High Fae. Rhysand’s little sister. A Dreamer. Only few know her as Valeria and only one knows her truth. She is the moon, a lonely girl cratered by imperfections, and he is her night, the one who helps her shine bright.

↠ Give 'Em Hell | beron's daughter oc 🗡️ | Beron Vanserra is a man with many sinful secrets but there is one that desires to punish him. His daughter. His true firstborn and heir to the Autumn Court. *currently on hold*

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #acotar fanfiction #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #azriel imagine #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #azriel x oc #azriel x rhysand's sister #azriel fluff #azriel angst #azriel smut #azriel fanfiction

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sleepylaing · 3 months ago

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Énouement

You are something hot on my eternally cold hands. You are the spring morning sun, while I am the fall raindrops dripping down the glass. You are something loving on my eternally cold self. You are something important on the infinitely insignificant me. You are everything, and I've never had much,

which is probably why I want you so deeply.

a/n: it's a fem!reader (disguised as a student furin) × suo. there's definitely a backstory here that hasn't been written yet and I'm not sure anyone wants it written at all. so this is just my OC and her interactions with others. let me know if you want a part two or something. and please don't take it too seriously

ch. 1 — Adronitis.

The classroom door swings open, almost flying off its hinges. Many of the students are distracted from their work and turn to hear Enomoto's booming voice. A silent Kusumi walks to his right and only a grumpy Kaji reluctantly follows.

“All right, you brats, listen up! You're going to clean up the town today, got it?”

A rumble of angry voices spreads through the classroom. “Again? But we cleaned up a few days ago,” someone says, and the rest of the class agrees.

“Shut up, you bastards! Are you men or what? I want every garbage can shining and the streets clean! Kaji will check it personally, won't he, Kaji?”, Enomoto turns to the uninvolved Ren, whose look was anything but interested. He catches his eye, stubbornly for a few seconds, then sighs hopelessly, looks around the classroom with a heavy gaze, and nods in agreement. Enomoto grins contentedly and rests his arms at his sides.

“Mop in hand and get to work! Tsugeura, Sugishita, help us with the heavy stuff, Kiryu, get the brooms, Sakura, you take care of the garbage collection, Nirei, please supervise, the rest of you help those I just named,” the vice captain says, but then his gaze glides over the students until it stops on two specific figures.

“Akashi, stop snoozing and leave Suo alone!” he shouts indignantly, and everyone hurries to turn in the direction of his stern gaze. “Just because you haven't gotten a punch for your insolence yet, doesn't mean you should! You'll soon be glued to each other. Hey, Suo, do something!”

You didn't move an inch and continued to snuggle into Suo's neck. You felt warm, comfortable and good. You didn't want to leave.

But apparently your senpais had other plans for your sweet, long-awaited sleep.

You frowned, picking up Enomoto's familiar timbre through the haze of rapidly slipping sleep. Something about cleaning, mops, and Kaji-kun again. The usual.

Your eyes are still closed. You don't want to get up. Suo's skin was soft — softer than any pillow you've ever laid on, his neck was nice to snuggle against, and he always smelled good: some kind of tea you didn't know the name of, the subtle scent of his cologne, and a little bit of shampoo. It was the perfect place to take a nap, especially when Hayato didn't seem to show his displeasure at temporarily serving as your pillow and held you almost weightlessly, allowing you to lean almost entirely against him.

“It's okay, Enomoto-senpai,” Suo says with an angelic smile as Enomoto's disgruntled look slowly starts to burn you alive. “It's just that Akashi-kun is a bit tired. Don't worry, we'll be right over. I'll personally make sure that he does all the work.”

Suo's expression definitely sounded reliable and convincing enough for the vice captain to calm down a bit and stand behind you. You snorted mentally. Of course Suo's voice would make sense against such an unreliable you. Anyway, you're grateful for the extra minutes of sleep.

Your peace doesn't last long, though.

As Tsugeura walks past you, he grabs your shoulders and tries to pull you away from Suo, whose serene smile fades for a moment. “Akashi-kun, get up now! You'll sleep through everything. I still want to compete with you in paper throwing, but I can't if you're still lying on Suo-kun like that!”

As a tough guy, obviously one of the strongest in the class, he manages to lift you up almost effortlessly, but you're not so easy either: you cling to Suo with a deadly grip and don't want to let go, and you moo long and protesting:

“Noooo... Tsugeura-chan, let go...”, sleepily, unintelligibly, you burn Suo's ear, and finally you struggle to open your eyes. The first thing you see is someone else's red lobe, but you don't dwell on it. “I promise I'll throw papers with you, just don't torture me.”

“What a drama,” Kiryu comments sarcastically as he walks past you.

“Akashi-kun always has a hard time getting up. Especially if he slept on Suo-san before,” Nirei says, thinking he's softening the situation, but in fact it's the opposite, encouraging Tsugeura to pull you down even harder.

“Hup!” he shouts, and in the next moment, you're already standing unsteadily on your feet. Your hands are still frozen in the air, clutching at the emptiness.

At this moment, Hayato finally raises his voice.

“Thank you, Tsugeura-kun, but enough,” he says, and his tone is impeccably warm as always, but you can detect a hint of irritation in it. “We'll take it from here.”

Taiga looks at him for a while, then at you. After he has decided something, he calms down and nods in agreement. “Well, I'll go then, senpais are waiting for me. Akashi-kun, I'll meet you at the dumpster.”

“Thank you Tsugeura-chan, you're such a gentleman. This is a great place to meet.”

“You know why, don't make me look ridiculous!”

“I had no idea,” you smile sweetly at him, and he, accepting the challenge, smiles back broadly as he leaves the classroom.

Suddenly, you turn around from the strange chill at the back of your neck to find a motionless Suo staring at the door. You can't remember ever seeing him stare at anyone or anything like that, but he thaws out after a few seconds anyway. The clinging gaze returns to you.

Suo's smile is infinitely gentle, but you can't help but feel that something is wrong with it.

“Shall we go?” he asks and you nod in agreement.

***

“You're more distracted than usual today,” Suo observes as you yawn again, not even bothering to cover your mouth with the palm of your hand. You've fallen behind the others, so he leans over to you and asks quietly: “Working late again, Hoshi-kun?”

You squint at him. As always, awfully smart.

You never told him that you work nights, too.

That's okay. It wasn't really a big secret. Especially from Suo.

You moo in agreement, lower your head and kick a pebble under your feet boredly. Suo's interested look eats away at your cheek like acid. He's obviously waiting for you to continue. Waiting for you to tell him more. You don't understand why he's so interested, but you give in and answer him calmly.

“I've had to work more lately, but I can't go out during the week because of school. I had to go out at night. So now I sleep when our teacher blinks, when my desk decides to be a little softer than a rock, and when you sit next to me.”

Suo's ruby eye flashes with pleasure at your last words. You don't see it. Too engrossed in the candy store sign with the announcement: 45% off Tuesdays and Thursdays. Too bad it's Friday, you mentally sigh.

“Did I satisfy your curiosity, Suo-chan?” you turn to him. You try again to understand why he was so interested, but trying to understand Hayato Suo is almost like trying to learn every language in the world in one day.

He's an enigma. But who says you're better?

“As much as it raised new questions in me.”

“Оh. Really?” you answer sarcastically. Your short ponytail had become quite disheveled during your nap, so that the blonde strands now fall over your eyes. You wrinkle your nose slightly, but keep your hands warm in your jacket pockets.

“Yeah.”

Someone's warm fingers gently touch your forehead. They tuck disheveled strands behind your ear with precise, careful movements. Hayato's fingers linger on your cheek longer than they should.

He does it quietly, naturally, and you say nothing, content to let the hair stay out of your face.

“Why do you need money so badly, Hoshi-kun?”

The question hits you like a bucket of boiling water down your throat and another bucket of ice water on your head.

“Don't all humans need it?” you laugh softly at the end. “I'm just thinking about my future, Suo-chan. I want to save for college.”

The lie falls from your lips as easily as hundreds of others before it.

The heaviness in your chest wraps itself around another layer. Another one of hundreds of others.

And even if Suo catches you at it, he doesn't say anything.

“You can tell me. I want you to know that I'll always listen to you, Hoshi-kun.”

No, I can't.

I can't tell anyone, no matter how much I want to.

“I will, Suo-chan. You don't have to worry.”

You both know that you are lying again.

Suo lets you do it, smiling brightly.

You don't want to admit — not even to yourself — that your heart trembles as you see his smile. Like he understands. Like he doesn't judge.

Like he really cares.

You find the strength to smile back weakly.

next chapter →

#wind breaker x reader #suo hayato x reader #wind breaker #hayato suo x reader #windbreaker #wbk x reader #enouement

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boiledkwamaegg · 20 days ago

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Skyrim and its disconnect from Nordic nature

Hey everyone, this is a pretty long read and kind of unrelated to any OC or art stuff, but I got really passionate about Nordic nature and seasons and how Skyrim as a game fails to capture its beauty and reality. Despite the length, I'm not very serious about this, I'm not an expert on ecology or anything and I know it's all just fantasy and I love Skyrim for that, so don't get on my ass about how I'm nitpicking, that's not the point of this post. I just wrote this for fun! Everything is under the cut.

One of my biggest peeves with Skyrim is that the ecology and weather in the game is kind of idealized and fantastical. I don't know, the environment is really beautiful, and some places look harsh and gray, yes, but it feels like it's a bit too scared of showing "ugly" things, forgetting that usually the "ugly" wet grayness of Nordic nature is what makes it so beautiful. I'm going to get back to that statement soon, stay with me. In the game, there are no seasons, which I'm assuming was purposefully cut out in order to save time when making it, but it takes away *so much* of the experience of living in a Land of Really Cold. The sun sets at the same time every day of the year, the same flowers bloom everywhere all at once, some places are in an eternal state of autumn, and some places never get relief from the frost. I don't know, to me it's boring, and almost a little uncanny.

Like, one of the things we usually miss out on in open world games is that the world around us is alive, the world around us changes without us, and we need to adapt to it. Let's take something as simple as the sun. See, in the arctic circle and close by, nights are incredibly fucking bright in summer, and it often drives me a bit insane because I like to sleep in the dark. However, in winter the sun is only up for like 6 hours. Usually when the days start getting darker, maybe you feel a bit of relief, but you also start feeling this kind of dread about a quickly approaching period of Dark and Cold. If you work or study, chances are you don't really see the sun for weeks or even months during winter, because not only is it often cloudy, the sun isn't up yet when you go to work, and it's already set when you come home. And then, on a random Tuesday in March, when you're going home, you notice the sun for the first time in ages, and you just stand there, basking, celebrating the fact that you got through another long harsh winter. And then you have like two months of normal amounts of light, until soon you can't sleep again.

Seasons were pretty important to people in the past, they dictated how you would work, the amount of food you had, religious celebrations... I feel like nobody in Skyrim really talks about how bad weather can cause famines, or how a simple blizzard can make traveling impossible, or how seasons affect the animals you hunt. In spring you sow fields, in summer you tend to your crops, and in autumn you harvest. And winter? In winter you fucking survive.

Let's get back to the ugly wet grayness I mentioned. Most Finnish nature photography I see only captures the sun shining through the trees into the water in summer, vibrant orange forests in autumn, and the northern lights above snowy hills in winter. But like, what about when you go to actually walk in the forest and it's kind of lightly raining and gray, what about in spring when the snow melts and there's water everywhere and the grass is flat and yellow, what about when that one single week of autumn where everything is vibrant is over and the trees are barren and everything is brown, and what about 4pm in January when the darkening sky paints everything you see a deep blue. It's cold, it's wet and it's gray! And honestly, that's what I call the Land of Really Cold, and that's really beautiful to me - because it's real, everything you see changes in a cycle, and the good and the bad moments don't last forever. It comes and goes, and you start to appreciate every moment for what it is. Nordic nature is melancholic, and I don't think Skyrim as a game can quite capture that.

One of my favourite things about winter is when there's a field and the frozen tall grass and weeds kind of stick out of the snow. And let's talk about that, actually. See, snow isn't just some white frozen mass, sometimes snow is wet, and that's when you can make snowmen and throw snowballs at your friends, but in colder temperatures it doesn't clump up like that anymore. I think Skyrim can't capture the beauty of freshly fallen snow either, how soft it is, how sometimes trees are so covered in this blanket of it that the branches hang next to the ground. The game forgets how exhausting it is to trudge through knee-high fields of it, how sometimes you can't see a slippery patch of ice underneath, and how sometimes further into winter the snow gets this kind of hard shell on top that cracks when you step on it. And yeah, ice is fucking treacherous, you actually need proper boots in order to move around. Speaking of proper gear, it's really funny how poorly dressed some of the people in Skyrim are.

Anyway, I don't think it's a huge deal, like I said in the beginning of the post, these are just my own thoughts, and the landscapes and views in Skyrim are indeed very gripping and beautiful in their own sense. But like, I would love to see Whiterun covered in snow, or Windhelm in summer, or the Rift in any other season than autumn. I could talk about this more, about how eerie it is to spend a quiet midsummer night sitting by a still lake, how the yellow grass in spring quickly turns light green, how even the ugliest rock in a forest always beats the mundane city life, but I would digress, I've said what I needed to. Nature is alive and you can't just stop it from changing - when you do, you take away the life from it.

#MASSIVE WALL OF TEXT #kwamaeggrecipes #nature photography #skyrim #tes skyrim #tes v skyrim #tes #tesblr #elder scrolls #the elder scrolls #nordic #nordic nature #skyrim ramble

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phyrolight · 1 year ago

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Working on Characters! Only got some basic designs down, still need to work on armor and probably gonna redesign Eris at some point. Here’s some Lore:

Eris Lyca Spring: The guardian of Accord. She’s very much your typical hero character, and the second shortest in the group. She’s also the main character in the series, as her mission is to gather the other guardians and make friends with them, she also ends up killing a god with them as well.

Iris Shining Iridescence: The guardian of Discord. The realist and honest member of the group. As the kingdom of Discord is an ever changing place of destruction and surprises, Iris has learned to always keep her guard up and observe her surroundings. Unlike Eris, Iris prefers to use weapons over magic, as destruction is inevitable if she does. Iris prefers to stalk in the shadows and use weapons like daggers and crossbows, though occasionally will use a sword. Iris cannot open her left eye due to the burn she received. She also has a burn on her right shoulder and is missing her left arm.

Indigo Orion Silver: The guardian of Shadows and Light. As the stoic and mysterious guardian of the group, he isn’t quite the talker and normally lags behind the group, unless Sparrow is nearby. Indigo is the most skilled at weapon use, only rivaled by Iris. Indigo, in contrast to Iris, uses swords and spears and sticks to confrontation over stealth. He has a deep respect for Iris and Sparrow, and has a hard time warming up to the other two guardians.

Sparrow Avisa Marquez: The guardian of Earth and Air. They are the calm and quiet member of the guardians. They are the most in tune with their emotions, as one little upset can cause earthquakes and a sudden thunderstorm to emerge. This results in them not really being emotive and trying to say as little as possible. They have a tendency to let others talk over them and generally hate confrontation. Sparrow was born blind but uses their magic to guide them, however, it doesn’t always work and they need someone else to assist them.

Rowan Kekoa Blaze: The guardian of Water and Fire. Rowan is the jock of the group. While not the strongest magically, she is the physically the strongest, even able to lift every member of the group single handedly. She is very active and talks quite a bit, to the chagrin of Indigo and Iris. Rowan also has a fiery temper and a short fuse, resulting in many heated arguments and accidental fires, something that Iris especially doesn’t take too kindly. This ends up being an insecurity for Rowan, and it causes her immense amounts of distress when it happens. Luckily, Eris is there to keep her in high spirits(and in love)

Heights:

Eris: 3’6

Iris: 4’8

Indigo: 2’4

Sparrow: 8’10

Rowan: 7’0

Relationships(romantic)

Iris and Eris

Iris and Indigo

Iris and Rowan

Eris and Rowan

Sparrow and Indigo

#ocs #character art #my art #my ocs #art #gonna start taging names now #Eris Lyca Spring #Iris Shining Iridescence #Indigo Orion Silver #Sparrow Avisa Marquez #Rowan Kekoa Blaze

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antlershade · 3 months ago

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new ych available on bluesky 🌃

🐦"a spring-themed YCH with a touch of realism. The sun's shining outside, and the birds are singing, but your fursona or OC has bills to pay."

#furry art #furry YCH

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bobohu4eva · 1 year ago

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Golden

Part 1/2

Characters: Reader x Baekhyun

Genre: College AU, Baekhyun as an adorable art student and campus heartthrob, shy OC, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, angst, eventual smut

WC: 8.3k

Warnings: Harassment, alcohol consumption

Masterlist

The streets of Seoul set your mind ablaze in all their bright, manicured chaos.

��It had been three years since your first time in the city, but again it sucked you right in without as much as a glimpse of hesitation. Not unlike you with a bowl of your favorite ramyun.

The American midwest had its charms, if you looked hard enough, but your eyes were getting tired. The city had always been more your speed, and Seoul was, in your mind, the absolute best there was. When the opportunity finally came to spend your last year of college at Korea University you eagerly took it.

No matter the area, the time of day, or one's specific interests, there was always a good chance that something uniquely enticing was just around the corner, waiting to be discovered. Getting bored wasn’t an option, even for those who might crave it every now and then.

Patience, like boredom, was not on the menu in Seoul either. Ppalli-ppalli is what they call it, ‘quickly-quickly, the culture that drives the city to cater perfectly to the needs of those as antsy, or really just anxious, as yourself. It’s hard to overthink for hours when there is so much constantly changing and happening around you, demanding your attention. You found that profoundly comforting.

Independence had always been a strength of yours, so the first several weeks flew by, but by the third week, and then the fourth, even you got a little lonely.

After a few years studying the language, your Korean was decent. Passable. But fluent, you were not. Ordering in restaurants, reading directions and street signs, that was no problem, but having to make any kind of meaningful conversation was humbling, to say the least.

It was a relief to finally get a roommate, Heejin, another senior at the university. She was thrilled to practice her English with you, and you your Korean with her.

Before you knew it the semester was starting, and right on your first day of classes, you noticed him. Surrounded by a large group of friends all laughing together, he was at the center in all his beauty.

It would be hard not to notice him, really, given his clothing. They were unusually colorful, in contrast to the muted neutrals most Koreans favor, and were often dotted with what looked like paint stains, mainly shades of yellow and gold. In the crowded lecture hall, he was a sliver of sunlight against the sea of black, brown, and gray.

He wore round glasses, which framed kind, puppy-like eyes the color of your favorite chocolate. The dark curls of his hair were perfectly fluffy, and his lips perfectly pink. Moles and freckles decorated his nose and cheeks generously.

You struggled not to stare. He was just so pretty. Especially when you saw him smile. Just the sight of him laughing at a joke you hadn’t even heard, brought a smile to your face.

He was shining, glowing, radiating so much warmth you’d blissfully forgotten the still looming chill of early spring.

“That’s Baekhyun, he’s a studio arts major, pretty much every girl I know has a crush on him. I get it, though, he is super cute, he seems really nice, too, though I don’t really know him myself.” Heejin told you, when you asked about him that same evening.

Against your better judgment, or any rational thought, really, you let yourself be drawn to him, taking your seat the next day in the row directly in front of his. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you couldn’t help it, listening in on him and his friends' conversations before class started. He was whitty, charming, and effortlessly funny, though he never made jokes at anyone else’s expense, like his friends did. He seemed like a genuinely sweet guy, just like your roommate had said. And basically every girl on campus saw it too, along with how devastatingly cute he was.

Despite feeling relatively confident in the subject matter of all your classes, you still did your best to fade into the background and avoid being called on by the professors. Trying to sound smart and confident wasn’t something your Korean skills (or still slightly fragile psyche) were up to yet.

But as fate would have it, you couldn’t avoid talking in class forever. At the end of the second week, during your last class of the day, you were called on to answer something pretty simple, yet you still ended up stumbling over your words, sounding awkward at best.

You easily picked up on the snide comments and snickers coming from the girls behind you. Back home you would’ve thrown her a mean side eye at the very least, but now you just kept your head down. Making enemies so early on here couldn’t be a good idea. Not only that, but you knew Baekhyun would be witness to all of it.

“Sumin, it took you three tries to pass elementary English, talking about someone else’s language skills is wild.”

His voice was just as lovely as the rest of him, so you didn’t even have to turn around to be sure who’d said it, but you still did. There was a small reassuring smile on his lips, and a pout on hers. He’d said it so casually, like it was nothing, but it definitely meant a hell of a lot to you.

She was gorgeous, and you’d wondered in the past if there was something going on between them. But Baekhyun didn't appear all that impressed with her, at least not the way she clearly was with him.

You kept replaying it in your mind, until finally class was over, and you headed quickly towards the door, worried you’d be hearing more rude comments.

“Hey! Y/n, right?”

“Huh?” Too shocked to fully react, you spun around to see him walking straight towards you.

“I’m Baekhyun, sorry about my friend earlier. You’re an exchange student, right?” His English was nearly perfect, the slight accent he had making him sound even more endearing.

“Yeah… Thank you, by the way. How do you know my name?”

“Well, you do kind of stand out. In a good way though.”

He was grinning, looking gorgeous as ever, even in a simple red tshirt and jeans, dotted with the usual colorful specks of paint. Now that he was standing so close to you, you got a good idea of how tall he was, and although he wasn’t the biggest, most muscular guy you’d ever seen, his shoulders were surprisingly broad, and his arms looked sturdy. As your eyes stayed glued to his form, your mind wandered off, thinking about how lovely it must feel to get a hug from him.

It occurred to you then that he must’ve asked someone about you, the same way you’d asked about him.

“I do?” You asked, starting to make your way towards the building’s exit.

“Well, yeah, there are other foreigners going here too of course, but I’m sure most of them don’t get as much attention as you.”

You blushed, not wanting to read into it too deeply, but you wondered if that was his way of telling you that he thought you were cute.

“I don’t know about that…”

“So, where are you headed now?” He asked, holding the door as you both left the building.

“Back to my dorm, that was my last class of the day.”

“Same, can I walk with you?”

“Sure, it’s a little far though.”

He shrugged, “I don't mind.”

As he accompanied you across campus, you couldn’t help but wonder why he was being so nice. He seemed like a nice person, of course, but he didn’t know you at all. You weren’t even an artsy type like he was.

“You’re an art student, right? Is that why some of your clothes have paint on them?”

He nodded, a big beautiful smile on his face. “My favorite is oil paints, and they stain like crazy so now I just let it happen, I kinda like the way it looks.”

“I like it too.”

“Yeah? Maybe I could paint on your clothes too sometime.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t think I could pull it off.”

“What? Of course you could, if I can then you definitely can.” He teased, swaying slightly as he took his next step, letting his shoulder brush your own.

It was troublingly easy for him to make you blush, and you hoped he didn’t notice just how flustered he was making you, without even really doing anything.

“What about you? What's your major?”

“International business, I've wanted to move here for years, and that major was recommended to me for this exchange program.”

“Well, I'm glad you finally made it.” He grinned, warm and lovely, and if you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought that he was flirting with you. “You're from America, right?”

You nodded.

“What made you want to move to Korea?”

“My favorite professor back in the states was Korean, she told me that she thought I would do well here, and introduced me to the culture, the language, all of it. I eventually came here for a week-long spring break thing, and ended up liking it a lot.”

Even from the outer echelons of your gaze, his smile was still bright as ever, those beautiful kind eyes fixated on you with intent. You couldn’t look back at him, not yet, your fragile heart needed time. He wondered why the architecture of the surrounding buildings suddenly became of such keen interest to you.

“What about you? Why art?”

He shrugged, “I've always been the creative type, ever since I was a kid. I can’t really imagine doing anything else at this point.”

“I'd love to see some of your work, if you'd be willing to show me.”

“Of course!” His face lit up even more, somehow, and he immediately pulled out his phone, opening up a photo album of his recent projects and handing it to you.

You assumed he’d be pretty good just based on how popular he was, but when you got a good look at some of his work, it stopped you dead in your tracks. You froze, swiping through some of the pictures, speechless.

“Do you like them?”

You let out a short laugh, more in disbelief than anything else. “Are you kidding? These are amazing, you’re so talented.”

Most of his paintings were dreamlike scenes bathed in yellow and gold, bright shapes and colors coming through in the most beautiful ways, creating so much atmosphere and movement, even just through the screen of his phone. They all depicted people, mostly women, just going about their normal lives, but the colorful and abstract nature of his style made it all so much more alluring to look at. Without a doubt, he had a real gift.

He just shrugged, “I do my best.”

You were a little disappointed to reach your dorm so soon, and have to tell him goodbye, though he assured you he would see you in class. For the first time, you actually looked forward to it, the promise of seeing him and his wonderful smile again making all of your previous uncertainty melt into comparative irrelevance.

When the next class period came around, you’d expected to hear him sit down behind you with the rest of his friends. You did hear his friends sit down, talking among themselves, but he walked right past them, sitting down next to you instead.

He started asking you about the homework, totally casual, and you had to act like you weren’t internally screaming the entire time. You acted as normal as you could, all the while feeling Sumin’s eyes like sharpened pencils stabbing into the back of your skull.

Eventually class started, and that took your mind off things at least a little, but as soon as the professor dismissed everyone Baekhyun was once again asking if he could walk you home, and of course, you agreed.

An awkward silence filled the air as you tried to find something to talk about, but just having him there next to you made you so embarrassingly shy, you could hardly think straight. As he held the door for you, that disgustingly sweet fluttering sensation filled your belly, and while familiar, you’d never experienced it to such a degree.

“Do you have a favorite painter?” You eventually blurted out. It was the first thing that came to mind, and to your relief, he seemed excited to answer.

“Yeah! I mean, there are a ton that I love, but the one I’m most inspired by in my own work is Gustav Klimt, the way he combines art nouveau, with more classical and Japanese influences, it's so cool. I try to do something similar, but with a more Korean flair. He was really controversial during his time too, but he didn’t care and just did what he liked anyway.”

“Why was he controversial?”

“Well…” He cleared his throat, and you swore, for a second, it looked like he was blushing. For once, he wasn’t looking at you, seemingly avoiding eye contact himself. “Many of his really famous pieces are of women, usually without clothes on. There’s a lot of symbolism around sexuality and eroticism, so early 20th century Austria labeled his work as pornographic.”

“Oh?”

“Well it was the 1910’s!” He replied, maybe a little too quickly, “One rogue boob was enough to thoroughly scandalize them, you know what I mean, right?”

You smiled, comforted by the fact that he actually seemed to be the one getting flustered now. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Different time.”

“He was ahead of his time, for sure. That's one of the things I love about him and his work.”

He just kept gushing about the different pieces he liked best, showing them to you on his phone, talking about the different motifs and what it was about them that he loved. It was so sweet, his enthusiasm for it, and you took it all in happily.

You could listen to him talk about art all day long. You could see the sparkle in his eyes, the passion and excitement he had for it, and you were almost jealous of him, that he was so great at something that he loved so much. Sadly though, you soon made it back to your dorm again. However this time, when you turned to start walking up the steps, he stopped you.

“Wait, um, if you wouldn’t mind, could I get your number?”

You stared back at him for a minute, happy but surprised, before nodding. He handed you his phone and you added your contact, heart beating rapidly, trying your best not to look as excited as you felt.

When you reached your room, you saw the first text from him, one of the paintings he’d shown you. It was the same colorful yet overwhelmingly golden color scheme you’d seen in his own work, and depicted a man kissing a woman on the cheek. The racing of your heart took several minutes to return to a more normal pace.

As the semester went on, he always sat with you, and always walked you home. It took you another few weeks to really start opening up to him, but as you gradually did, his kind and warm demeanor made you feel at ease. He asked you about your family, your hobbies, whatever he could to get to know you better. You told him about your love for music, your favorite artists, and he always listened intently. He’d check out songs you recommended, and singers he’d never heard of, seeming as eager as you to get to meet again and discuss them more in depth.

Even as you talked to him about more personal matters, he never made you feel judged, always keeping an open heart and mind. That was another thing about him that you grew to admire.

You loved Seoul, and Korean culture, but learned that people could be more judgemental, and on the basis of quite superficial matters. Not only that, but these judgements were perfectly acceptable to express, adding an extra layer of pressure to everyday life. Baekhyun, however, didn’t partake in any of it.

Despite how attractive, popular, and as you came to learn, wealthy, he was, he never talked down to anyone. Jokes of that sort, that were normal to basically all of his friends, he wouldn’t react to, noticing the way he’d steer the conversation away from such topics when they came up.

He was accepting of everyone, regardless of their status, appearance, or various other factors. He was friends with basically everyone, too. As he’d walk with you he would always be greeting people left and right, giving everyone a smile and a friendly wave, never once ignoring someone or showing any condescension. He was just good.

His kindness, as lovely as it was, unfortunately also made you realize how not special you were to him. It was simply in his nature to be kind, even to those who might not deserve it, or could get the wrong idea. It was obvious how many girls had crushes on him, and though it never contained any malicious intent, he flirted with basically all of them. It was just part of his good nature. When he could tell someone liked him, he liked to make them happy. He never purposely misled anyone, or got their hopes up, but you still saw it happen time and time again. He would compliment a girl, and she would get all flustered, just like you had, wondering if maybe he really did like her, only to be disappointed when he did the same to her friend. If he wasn’t such a goddamn sweetheart he probably would've been labeled a playboy long ago, but everyone could clearly see that he wasn’t like that. Sleeping around wasn’t something he seemed to do either, though he definitely could’ve if he wanted to.

All of that being said, you still fell hard for him. It felt silly, being so infatuated and getting so flustered around him due to his sweet words, knowing that there wasn’t anything special about the way he treated you. He was that sweet to all of the girls, and you couldn’t even be mad at him for it, so you learned to hide how you felt. At least you wouldn’t end up looking like a fool that way.

Walking to class in the mornings always felt like such a chore, especially ever since Baekhyun had started to accompany you on your way back home everyday. You missed his company, and it was usually still quite cold, too, something you hated. Getting to listen to music uninterrupted was the only part that brought you some solace.

One morning was particularly stressful for you, having overslept the day before an exam, already late to the very necessary hour of studying you’d planned before going to your first class.

You were walking quicker than usual, headphones on, focused on making it to the library. However none of that seemed to deter the guy who started walking alongside you, now talking at you, motioning for you to take your headphones off.

Annoyed as you were, you didn’t want to be rude either. You took off the headphones, telling him, “Sorry, I’m kind of in a hurry.”

He didn’t seem to care, and when you started putting your headphones back on, he grabbed them from you.

You stared at him, clearly pissed off and in slight disbelief, but still, he just kept walking, now uncomfortably close to you. “I’m Jaeyong. I’ve seen you around, you’re really pretty. My dad basically owns this whole place, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” You tried to take your headphones back, but he kept them out of reach.

You’d seen him around campus too, surrounded by a posse of other rich kids, though they weren’t the kind Baekhyun associated with, and it was easy to see why. You immediately had a bad feeling about the guy.

“Can I get your number? We should go out sometime, I only date foreign girls. You guys are way less stuck up than the girls here, more open minded.”

Oh lord. You’d been warned about guys like him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Come on, don’t be a bitch. At least give me your number.”

You ignored what he said, trying again to get ahold of your headphones, and he still refused to give them back.

“You’d be lucky to go on a date with someone like me, you know.”

“Sorry, but I’m not interested. Can I please get my headphones back now?”

“What? You have a boyfriend or something?”

He’d been following you long enough that you were already in front of the library, and you really didn’t want him to follow you inside. For your own sanity, but also to spare the other students the annoyance, knowing he likely still wouldn’t shut up.

Unfortunately when you didn’t go inside, he ended up backing you up to the side of the building, blocking you into a corner.

“You can get your headphones back if you agree to go on a date with me.” His face was so close to your own you could smell his breath, turning away from him, refusing to respond. “Come on Y/n. You know you want to.”

The greasy smirk on his face made you feel sick. You didn’t remember ever giving him your name.

“I really need to go study.”

“I said, don’t be a bitch. It would be really stupid of you to reject me.” He spat, a jarring change in his tone.

He was no longer smiling, either, clearly getting frustrated with you. Fear started to take over, and you decided you could get new headphones later, you just needed to get away. You tried to get past him, but his hand on your shoulder shoved you against the side of the building roughly, painfully, and panic quickly set in, tears forming in your eyes. He didn’t even seem to care that there were other people around, clearly confident nobody would bother to stop him.

He was talking again, and you could hear the malice in his voice, though you were too scared to even really tell what he was saying anymore, cheeks now wet, repeating again and again to please just leave you alone. Your shoulder ached, still being held against the brick wall hard enough that you knew it would bruise.

Your eyes were squeezed shut, shaking your head, and suddenly the hand on your shoulder was gone. You collapsed to the ground, only vaguely aware of the voices around you.

There was a cacophony of “Leave her alone”, “Mind your business”, “Fuck off”, and more coming from only a few feet away but you just sat slumped against the wall, wishing it would all go away.

The sudden touch from a pair of hands taking hold of your own made you jump. You finally opened your eyes again, and to your great relief, it wasn't the guy who’d been bothering you, it was Baekhyun.

“Y/n? Are you okay?”

A pair of concerned eyes met your own, feeling his thumbs as they softly ran across the backs of your hands. You stared back at him, dumbfounded, too stunned to speak. He was crouched down in front of you where you still sat against the wall, the other man nowhere to be seen.

“Please say something.”

“I- I don’t know.”

You didn’t notice, but Baekhyun grew increasingly aware of the people starting to gather around. His grip on your hands tightened and he pulled you back up to your feet, disappearing into the library with you. He made his way into the first empty study room he could find, his hand still firmly holding your own.

Now that you knew you were actually safe the adrenaline finally began to wear off. Baekhyun pulled out a chair for you to sit, so you did, and he soon followed. He moved so he was facing you instead of the table, and you tried to do the same, but when you braced yourself against the table and put even the slightest pressure on it, pain shot up towards your shoulder, making you wince.

He caught on right away, moving your chair for you.

“Are you hurt?”

Embarrassment slowly took hold now that you’d come to realize the gravity of the situation. As much as you didn’t want him to worry about you, you knew you couldn’t just lie, either.

“It isn’t too bad, I’ll be okay.” You were avoiding his eyes, growing more and more shy by the second. “You should get to class, I need to study anyway.”

“What?”

The softness and confusion in his voice pierced through your heart, even with only that one word. He was moving closer, and you hadn't even realized that you were still crying, not until his thumb began to gently wipe your tears away.

You were painfully aware of the rapid increase in your heart rate, as well as the redness spreading across your cheeks. He was so close now, his hands delicate on your face, looking at you with those beautiful brown eyes swimming with unease, still so worried about you.

His eyes moved to your shoulder, and his hand to the collar of your sweater.

“Can I..?”

You nodded, turning that side of your body towards him, and he slowly moved the fabric aside.

Seeing how his eyes widened, you looked down, and saw the blue and purple bruises for yourself.

“You are hurt. Let's get you to a nurse.” He said as he stood, but you stayed seated.

“Baekhyun, it's ok, I can go by myself later, you don't have to do all this.”

“Yeah, I do. I want to help.” He said, and held out his hand, beckoning you to get up and go with him. His eyes met yours, holding your gaze with intent. You couldn’t say no to him, not when he looked at you like that. His hand was warm when you finally took it, gratefully accepting his kindness, bashful as you were.

His hand stayed holding yours the entire way to the health services building. It wasn't far, but you still noticed the looks you got, especially from other girls.

You assumed that Baekhyun would leave for class once he dropped you off, but he didn't. He took a seat with you as you waited for your name to be called, and soon enough, you were being led down the hallway, with him still by your side.

“Sorry, your boyfriend can't come in the room with you.” Said the nurse, and you and Baekhyun exchanged nervous glances, though neither said anything to correct her..

He sat himself down in a nearby chair to wait, and you followed the nurse into the room. When you returned, he still wore that same nervous expression, asking, “How bad is it?”

His sweetness brought a long overdue smile to your face. “Not bad.” You said, and pulled your sweater aside to show him the tape and bandages. “No heavy lifting for a few weeks, and I should try not to move it too much, but nothing serious.”

Finally, you saw him ease up a bit, showing you a small smile as well. “Can I walk you to class?”

You nodded, and he was once again by your side as you headed across campus, though this time without his hand holding yours. As much as you tried to deny it, you missed the feeling. Once or twice you felt his hand brush up against your own, and you wondered if he was thinking the same thing, but you knew you shouldn’t get caught up in those kinds of thoughts.

“I don’t want to intrude, but if you’d like- I mean, if it would make you feel more comfortable, I could walk with you in the mornings, too, and between classes.”

As he said it his eyes were fixed on his hands, fidgeting with a ring he had on.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you late, or be a bother.”

“It’s no problem at all! Really, I think I would also feel better, just knowing that you’re safe.”

“Oh..I would like that, yeah.” You found yourself looking down at the pavement, blushing, mind once again wandering off, the sickly sweet feeling fluttering within you. When you turned onto a larger road, you didn’t miss the way his hand gently took hold of your good shoulder, positioning himself between you and the street.

You went on to text him your class schedule, and he happily agreed to walk with you wherever you needed to go, though you still found it hard to believe that he wouldn’t end up making himself late as a result. He seemed so happy to do it, though, you didn’t question him any further. When you thought about the very real possibility of running into Jaeyong again, you were grateful you’d have Baekhyun by your side.

He waved you goodbye when you got to class, and when it was over he was in the same spot, already waiting for you.

It went on like that for the rest of the day, with him being his usual wonderful self. You could tell that he was trying his best to brighten your day after it started so badly, and you appreciated it more than you could put into words. During your last class, he was joking around more than usual, complimenting you more, making you smile every chance he got. When it was finally time to say goodbye for the day back at your dorm, you didn’t want to let him go.

The next morning, true to his word, he was there waiting for you when you walked outside. Instead of heading towards campus, though, he insisted you sit down on the closest bench, “I have a surprise for you.” He said.

You played along, sitting down, following his directions to cover your eyes. He seemed to rummage around in his backpack for a minute, then set something down on your lap.

He gently took hold of your wrists, moving your hands aside, and you finally got a good look at the surprise he’d prepared.

It was a pair of headphones. The same model you’d had, but the newest version. Your old pair had been expensive enough, you almost couldn’t believe that he actually spent the money on a replacement.

“Do you like it? I tried to get your old pair back yesterday, but that asshole broke them.”

As much as you wanted to fight him and insist it was too much, he looked so excited, the smile on his beautiful face so pure, you just couldn’t bring yourself to do so. You grinned back at him, standing up to throw your arms around him without a second thought. The way he hugged you back was just as amazing as you’d always imagined it would be. He was warm, his chest and arms firm in the most comforting way, and even the way he smelled was addictive. His embrace was nothing short of perfect, and it took everything in you not to whine when it inevitably came to an end.

“Thank you.”

“I know how much you love music, so I figured a nice pair of headphones would be pretty important to you.”

“It is, this is so sweet, I don’t even know what to say.”

He grinned, a teasing look on his face, “I wouldn’t mind another hug, if that’s easier.”

Your smile told him more than enough. This time, he was the one to pull you in, and he held you even tighter, letting the embrace linger for a moment longer. You put the headphones in your backpack, and started walking to class.

“You know I think that's the first time I've ever heard you call someone an asshole.”

“Well he really, really is.” He laughed. “I couldn't stand him even before he did all that. It's not the first time he's done that kind of thing either, but nobody ever stops him since his family donates a ton of money to the university and is on the board of directors.”

“That's awful..”

“Yeah he's the worst. How's your shoulder?”

“It only hurts if I put pressure on it or move it wrong, it’s really not too bad.”

You didn't have the heart to tell him that it did kind of hurt when he hugged you, but you'd happily deal with the slight discomfort of it, if it meant you'd get to do it more often.

He seemed to catch on anyway, only lightly holding onto your good side when you got to class and he told you goodbye. You wondered if he'd been thinking about holding you the same way you had been for weeks, now that he seemed so keen on it.

Every time he was sweet to you, you felt yourself falling for him even harder. Just walking with him was enough to turn you into a giddy mess, gradually falling in love with every little part of him. Whenever you felt especially shy, you would ask him about different art projects he was working on and he would show you, going on and on about what inspired it, the different motifs and themes. His voice always calmed you down after a little while, but by then, you'd usually be home or at your next class.

For days you thought about inviting him over, telling yourself you'd finally just do it, but always chickening out at the last minute. With how he treated you, you started to think that if he was alone with you, he might actually make a move. Maybe.

It wasn't until the end of midterms that you finally worked up the courage to invite him in.

He asked what you were up to that evening, as he usually would, and you told him that you were just going to study for the exam the next day, in the class you shared with him.

“Me too.” He said, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read as you got to the entrance of your dorm.

There was a moment of awkward silence as you both stood there, not yet wanting to let him leave, and it seemed to you that he didn't want that either.

He moved closer, about to hug you goodbye when your hand landed on his shoulder.

“Wait-”

He froze, swallowing, glancing nervously at the door.

“If you’re just gonna study tonight too, would you want to maybe come inside and study together?”

You braced yourself for the rejection, already dreading the excuse he would make, so it came as a surprise when he showed you a big dazzling grin.

“That sounds great, sure.”

You didn't miss Heejins face when he walked through the door with you, raising her eyebrows suggestively with a grin on her lips as soon as his back was turned.

“Baekhyun, this is my roommate Heejin.”

He smiled and greeted her, and you knew she'd be bombarding you with questions as soon as he was gone again.

You led him to your room, getting out your textbook and settling in on your bed, with him right next to you.

Part of you hoped that he wouldn't be all that keen on actually studying and you'd be able to just talk and hang out. Maybe, he would even make a move. Unfortunately though, he really did want to study.

Even as you both studied in silence, he somehow still managed to make the room feel far hotter than it realistically was. You felt his eyes on you more often than seemed normal, and a few times you'd looked back up at him, but he'd always quickly returned his attention to his textbook. He kept inching closer to you as well, every brush of his shoulder or thigh against your own increasing your heart rate.

You probably stole a few too many glances at him too, but he just kept drawing you in. Every detail of his face looked so kissable, your mind drifted away from your class work, wishing he was in your bed as more than just a friend.

Every time he would turn a page his hands caught your attention. The mole on his thumb was so cute, you thought, just another part of him you found yourself becoming obsessed with.

Hours went by in what felt like minutes, and when you both started yawning, you decided to call it a night. He hugged you again before leaving, only holding onto the side that wasn’t hurt.

You were proud of yourself for actually taking the initiative and inviting him in. The way he’d kept looking up from the textbook at you, more often than felt normal, kept replaying in your mind. As much as you didn’t want to fall victim to his charm only to be disappointed later, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he really did like you the same way you liked him.

You couldn’t get him out of your head as you got ready for bed that night, and even as you tried to go to sleep, his soft smiles and the way his thigh brushed against your own consumed your thoughts. Your mind wandered off, wondering how he’d react if you made some kind of move on him, though you knew you’d never actually have the confidence to do so. The idea of him reciprocating any of it, kissing you, touching you, almost seemed like it would be worth it. However the possibility of rejection, of losing his friendship, was still too scary for you to consider it.

It was well past midnight when you finally started dozing off, but the sound of your phone pulled you back to reality. For a second you considered just ignoring it until morning, but something inside told you not to. It must've been intuition, because when you did look, it turned out to be a text from him.

Are you awake?

You replied pretty much right away,

Yeah, why?

Can I call?

Sure

Fuck. Before you even had the chance to properly freak out, his caller ID was flashing across the screen. You picked up.

“Hi, y/n. Sorry to call so late, I can't sleep.”

“No worries, is everything okay?”

“Yeah.. I think I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh…”

“Is that weird to say?”

“No! I mean, you could call me at any ungodly hour and I'd probably still pick up, to be honest.”

The words slipped out before you had any real chance to think about what you were saying, and true as it was, you were still grateful he wasn't there to see how hard you were blushing.

“Really? That's awfully tempting… I might end up keeping you up a lot, though. Heejin’s gonna hate me.”

You laughed as quietly as you could, “She has her own bedroom, she'll be fine.”

“Thank you again, by the way, for inviting me in today.”

Your cheeks ached with how hard you were smiling, staring up at your ceiling with the phone pressed to your ear.

“It's nice to have some company. I always get so distracted when I try to study by myself.”

“Well, if I hadn't put it off for so long I probably would've just talked the whole time. I don't know if I'm really a good study partner, but if you want company again just let me know.”

“Well next time don't procrastinate so much, dummy.”

“So you're cool with me distracting you?” You could hear it in his voice, the way he grinned as he said it.

“Maybe a little..”

A brief pause.

“Did you have a boyfriend, back in America?”

The sudden question caught you off guard.

“No.. why?”

“Just wondering, I guess… I mean that must be hard, right? Having all your loved ones so far away.”

You wondered if you should tell him, but decide it would be best to just be honest.

“Okay that wasn’t entirely true. I was seeing someone, but he wasn’t a boyfriend and I knew I wanted to move here, so I ended it. I do miss my family and friends, but I still talk to them basically every day.”

“What about when you graduate? Are you gonna move back?”

“No,” You giggled, amused with how concerned he sounded, “Hopefully not, I like it here.”

“Thank god”

“Why? Would you miss me?”

He was quiet for a moment, dropping the teasing tone and answering with surprising tenderness.

“Of course I would miss you.”

“Oh.. I would miss you too.”

“Awww, cute.” You could practically see the shit-eating grin on his face.

“Baekhyun!”

“What?”

“You can be such a little shit, you know that?”

“How am I a little shit?!” He gasped, though even over the phone, you could tell he was just being his usual dramatic self.

“You get a kick out of fucking with me!”

“I wasn’t fucking with you! I just genuinely think it's cute that you would miss me, that’s all.”

“You can’t tell, but I’m rolling my eyes.”

“What? I’m not allowed to think you’re cute?”

There was a long pause, and you considered if you should really believe him. It wasn’t that you thought he was being dishonest, you just didn’t want to set yourself up for disappointment.

“Baek…”

“What?” His voice was once again soft, bringing with it a tightness in your chest.

“Nothing.. It’s just late, I guess, I’m pretty tired.”

For a while he was quiet. You would’ve given anything to know what was going through his head right then.

“You’re right.. I’ll let you get some sleep. I’m glad you were still up when I texted you. Goodnight, Y/n.”

“Goodnight.”

As much as it pained you to hang up, inevitably staying up much much later now that he’d given you so much to think about, his flirting just wasn’t something you knew how to handle. Even if he really did like you, why didn’t he say something more than just playful flirting? It would be a dream if he actually confessed to you, but it was exactly that; just a dream. That was clear enough considering how openly he flirted with other girls around you.

The next week he was his usual friendly self, walking with you, joking around, though you felt he’d pulled back a bit on the flirting. Part of you was relieved, since it turned you into a blubbering mess, but of course you also missed it.

He did still keep calling you though, often late at night, when he said he couldn’t sleep. A few times, you’d both even passed out with the call still ongoing. He told you that talking to you calmed him down, and once, he’d even said that he wished you were there with him. You’d laid awake nearly all night, wondering how he’d meant it. Did he just want company? Did he hate sleeping alone? Or did he also want something more than just friendship with you? Either way, until he said something more concrete, you wouldn’t be the one to ask.

It was during one of those late night phone calls that he invited you to a friend's birthday party. It was at a popular club near the university, and at first you weren’t going to attend, but he managed to talk you into it. After all, he would be there. Alcohol and music also meant dancing, and the possibility of dancing with him was enough to ensure that you’d be there too.

He wasn’t able to walk you, since he had to help set everything up, so you ended up going alone. Which wasn’t a big deal, in theory, but as someone who’d always been on the more anxious side, it still made you uneasy. Seoul was very safe, that wasn't the problem, it was what would happen once you got there that worried you. Baekhyun was your only friend there. You didn’t want to be a bother and hang onto him all night, since the rest of the guests were basically strangers to you.

When the time came you wore your favorite outfit, and stepped into the subway towards Hongdae with all the confidence you could muster.

You arrived a little later than the time he’d told you, not wanting to seem overly eager, and to your relief he already seemed to be waiting for you. When he pulled you in for a hug it was tighter than usual, and the smell of tequila on him was pronounced. You quickly took a shot with him, wondering how many he’d already downed prior to your arrival.

The club was still relatively empty, but that didn’t seem to bother Baekhyun as he pulled you towards the dance floor. You protested, and he pouted.

“I don’t really dance, at least not when I’m this sober.”

Seconds later another shot of tequila was pressed into your palm, and Baekhyun clinked his glass to yours, spilling a little, before you downed them in unison. Before you knew it, he had you on the dance floor.

It was your first real night out in Seoul, and it left you every bit as breathless as you’d expected. Now happily drunk, you danced with him, back pressed to his chest, both his hands on your hips.

Any worries you’d had about the amount of alcohol being consumed were long forgotten. You just let the music guide you, swimming in the euphoria of his hands on you and the closeness of your bodies.

When his warmth behind you disappeared, you spun around to search for him. Without him as an anchor, everything became far more overwhelming. There were more people now, the crowded space growing warmer, almost suffocating, until he burst through with a grin on his gorgeous face and two cups of water in his hands.

You hadn’t even realized how dearly you needed it until he’d appeared, grateful to drink something other than tequila. When one of your favorite songs began, and you beamed at him, and he beamed back at you even brighter. He remembered, of course he did. He knew all of your favorite music, because you’d told him so much about it.

Now as you danced, you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. His hands gripped your waist, and your arms were slung around his neck, swaying to the familiar beat, getting lost in the drunken haze of it all. You realized then that he was staring at you just as intensely as you stared at him.

This is what it’s all about, you thought to yourself. Letting go completely, enjoying the music you love, and sharing it all with your favorite person. His smile shone so brightly, and you mirrored it, unable to imagine a more perfect moment.

You hardly realized it when he began to drag you off the dance floor. The song had long ended, and as the speakers became more distant, his voice became clear.

“Y/n?”

His eyes were bigger than ever as you looked up into them, in awe of their gentle downward slope, their deep brown color, the sincerity always behind them.

“Baekhyun?”

“I want to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

“I..” He trailed off, still looking at you, seeming to lose his train of thought. “You… You look really pretty, you always do, but especially right now.”

It was nothing he hadn’t told you before, but it still hit you harder than ever. For a while you just held his gaze, until in a burst of blind, drunken, confidence, you moved closer. You stood on the tips of your toes, and ever so softly, you let your lips meet his blushing cheek. Before the confidence could wear off and you’d start to second guess yourself, you pulled him back onto the dance floor.

You both downed a few more drinks, your attention devoted fully to each other. It was silly, now, to think of how worried you’d been about coming here. You hadn’t had this much fun in ages.

Eventually you had to excuse yourself to find a bathroom. You stared into the mirror as you fixed your lip gloss, wondering if Baekhyun had a mark on his face, from where you’d kissed him earlier. You liked the idea of other girls knowing that you’d been there.

You held onto the sink with an iron grip, closing your eyes for a second to steady yourself, all too aware of the way the room spun around you. Drinking this much wasn’t like you, but you were having so much fun, you didn’t care.

The bright flashing lights and hoards of strangers were disorienting, especially in your intoxicated state. You ended up on a sort of balcony, overlooking the dance floor, trying to find Baekhyun somewhere among the crowd.

When you finally spotted him, your heart sank to the pit of your stomach. He was dancing with Sumin.

Everything that happened next felt like it went by in slow motion.

Her eyes broke away from him, scanning the room, and briefly met yours. You saw her throw her arms around his neck. She kissed him, and he kissed her back.

The music seemed to wane into a dull buzz, sudden dizziness causing you to stumble. It took you a minute to get your bearings again, but when you did, you pushed your way through the crowd and out onto the street without a second thought.

It had started to rain. The smell of wet concrete was your only company as you walked towards home, a cruel, painful pit swallowing you from the inside.

Baekhyun didn’t like you like that, of course he didn’t. He was like that with all the girls.

Part 2

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