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avastrasposts · 4 months

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A Baker's Dozen - Nine

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Pedro boy number nine is waiting in the wings but I need to add some warnings before anything else. This chapter contains mentions of blood, a small injury and fairly detailed description of cleaning said injury.

I want to dedicate this chapter to @leslie-lyman and her wonderful Stranger at my Gate fic which I absolutely love and gave me a new found love for this Pedro character. ❤❤❤

Series Master List

You’re not often scared in the bakery, even though you often work early mornings and late nights. But when you suddenly hear the rattle of the dumpster outside your back door, and a muffled gasp as if someone’s in pain, your heart flies into your throat. It’s been dark for a few hours, evening coming early as the heavy rain refused to let up. You’re clearing up after preparing for next weekend’s wedding cake, and it’s already late when you’re startled by the sound. Grabbing your rolling pin, you carefully nudge the back door open and peer out into the dim light, rain dripping down from the eaves of the building. The glow of the street lamps don’t reach too far and most of the back yard is cast in shadows, made even dimmer by the heavy rain. But you see the source of the disturbance straight away, a man is crouched down by the dumpster, his hand held tight to his chest as he curses in a low voice.

You clear your throat lightly, “Umm, are you ok?” you ask.

The man immediately snaps his eyes to you and straightens up, his hand still cradled against his chest, but his other hand drops to his hip and for a fearful second you think he’s reaching for a gun. But his hand pats his side and when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for he quickly scans the ground around him and curses again, giving an exasperated sigh and briefly glancing up at the sky.

You’re not sure if you should slam the door shut and lock it, but the way he winces when the movement jostles his hand keeps you from retreating.

“Is your hand hurt? Do you need some help?” you ask, still only opening the door a little bit. The man sighs again and nods, looking up at you.

“I think I cut it when I fell,” he replies, looking down at his hand and carefully unfurling his fist.

“Ok…” you say, trying to figure out what to do, let an injured stranger into your kitchen late at night, or just call an ambulance?

“How bad is it?” you ask, “Can I see it?”

The man nods and cautiously holds out his hand, but doesn’t make a move to come closer, and you suddenly realize that he looks a lot more hesitant than you feel, his eyebrows are bunched together, and mistrust is written across his dark features.

“Uhm…could you maybe come over here, the light’s better,” you say gently, opening the door a little more and, in a sudden decision, put the rolling pin on the shelf behind you. The action seems to earn you a bit of trust and the man takes a few tentative steps forward into the light. He holds out his hand and you step down on to the stairs and look at it.

“There’s quite a bit of blood,” you say, carefully nudging his fingers tips back so that he opens his palm a bit more.

“Hands always bleed a lot,” the man says curtly, “It’s not my first injury, and I can move my fingers, I just need to clean it.”

He has an accent that makes you look up at his face as he speaks, his voice low and rough but not unpleasant. The scar that cuts across his left eye draws your attention, and when he catches you looking at his face he meets your eyes, his eyebrows still bunched together as he points with his good hand to the scar.

“Does it scare you?” he asks, scowling, and you pull back from where your fingers were gently touching his injured hand.

“Should I be scared?” you ask in return, challenging him a little with your tone.

“No, not if you don’t intend to steal from me,” he says, and you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. He’s a sorry sight, wet to the bone by the looks of it, injured and bleeding, and he’s worried you’ll steal from him?

“I promise I won’t steal from you,” you smile softly, taking a step back and opening your door wider, letting him in, “C’mon in, you look soaked.”

He hesitates for a few moments, glancing around him and then back at you.

“Thank you,” he nods, not smiling, the scowl a permanent fixture on his face, as you lead him through the back room and into the kitchen.

He looks around the space with cautious eyes as you go to the sink, and as you turn, you notice his clothes for the first time. He’s dressed head to toe in faded black, an old fashioned shirt billows half way down his thighs. Underneath you can see dirty trousers and well worn leather boots with an intricate pattern in the leather. He looks very much out of place, especially as he widens his eyes and seems to stare at the water running from the tap into your sink.

“Are you ok?” you ask for the second time of the night, tilting your head and giving him a worried look. Maybe he’s hit his head too, he looks dazed when you motion him over to the sink.

He gives a curt nod, still looking at the streaming water as he takes a few tentative steps forward.

“It might sting a bit but rinse it out and I’ll get my first aid kit,” you tell him, handing him a roll of paper towels, “And I think I have an old hoodie that might fit you, if you want to change out of that wet shirt?”

Confusion flits across his face again as you speak, his guarded eyes moving between the water and you, but eventually he carefully puts his hand under the stream. As you fetch the first aid kit and the hoodie, you hear him wince and mutter low curses in a language you can’t make out.

You put the hoodie on the bench next to the sink and open up the first aid kit, pulling out the disinfectant and motioning the man to sit on the stool you’ve rolled over.

“Do you know what you cut yourself on?” you ask as the stranger watches blood drip from the gash on his palm into the sink.

“Broken glass, I think,” he mutters, “it was too dark to see but the cut looks sharp and clean.”

“It does, it should be fairly easy to patch up as long as we get it clean,” you reply, unscrewing the disinfectant, “Do you want to clean it yourself, or do you want me to do it?”

He looks up at you then, the scowl on his face softening into what you think might be surprise. He hesitates, but then he holds out his hand to you.

“Please.”

“Ok then,” you reply, “this shouldn’t sting too much but let me know if it hurts.”

“I’ve had worse injuries,” he replies and you glance up at the scar across his eye.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, I know,” he interrupts, “but I don't want you to worry you’ll cause me pain.” His tone is low, almost hesitant, as if the sincerity in his voice is unfamiliar to him. Your eyes meet his for a few moments as you both try to find balance with the person looking back, you can feel a shift in the room. Nervously you swallow and look down at the strange man’s hand. You realize you don’t know anything about him yet, not even his name, so to distract him from what you need to do, you start talking again.

“You have an accent I can’t place,” you say as you gently make him open his hand, water still streaming over the cut, “but it’s very beautiful,” you give him a small smile as you glance up and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It is,” you giggle at his dismay, “I like your accent.”

“Thank you,” he mutters, looking almost ashamed and you change the subject.

“What’s your name?” you ask instead, turning off the water and starting to drizzle disinfectant over his hand.

“Pero Tovar,” he replies, and the way he rolls the r’s in his name sends a little shiver of pleasure down your back.

“Pero Tovar,” you repeat, trying to roll the r the way he does, but you can tell from his small chuckle that you’re not successful.

“Almost,” he says and when you look up, you catch the smallest of smiles on his face.

A sharp hiss from Pero pulls your attention back to his hand. He’s opened the hand flat to let the liquid rinse his injury, but the movement has revealed a small shard of glass still pressed in at the edge of the cut.

You quickly reach into the first aid kit for the tweezers and take hold of his wrist, bending down to grasp at the edge of the shard.

“This might sting, but I’ll try to be quick,” you say and Pero grunts in response as you pull the sliver of glass out of the cut, dropping it in the sink.

“I think that’s all, how does it feel?” you ask him and Pero gingerly moves his fingers as you drizzle more disinfectant over his hand.

“Better,” he nods as you turn to take out what you need to close the cut from the first aid kit.

“You’re lucky you ended up at front of my door, Pero,” you say, “I’m an expert at cutting my fingers, and therefore, an expert at taking care of them too.”

The man only grunts in response, tugging at his shirt and you suddenly hear it rip, as he pulls a strip from the hem.

“Tie this around my hand, it will stop the bleeding and then I’ll leave,” he says, “Thank you for your help.”

“Pero, that’s dirty, you can’t put that around your hand,” you exclaim as he holds out the rag to you.

“It will do,” he scowls, “it’s what I usually do.”

“You’ll get an infection, please, let me put a proper bandage on it,” you point to the sterile compress and Pero’s eyes narrow as if he’s considering a potential risk, before he glances back at the door where the heavy rain can still be heard. Then he nods, looking at you again, dropping the dirty strip from his shirt on the edge of the sink.

It doesn’t take you long to bandage up his hand, wrapping surgical tape around the back to keep the compress in place. As you turn his hand over and press down the tape you can’t help but notice the many faded scars that marr his skin, and you run your finger lightly over a long one.

“A knife,” Pero mutters, and you look up at him. “A thief tried to take my coins and he had a hidden blade. It was a nasty fight.”

“It looks like you’ve been in a lot of fights, Pero,” you say, touching an uneven scar from something slashed across his wrist.

He doesn’t reply to that, just grunts again and pulls his hand back, getting back up from the stool. But he doesn’t get far, on unsteady legs he stumbles across the floor and puts his uninjured hand out to balance himself, briefly closing his eyes.

“Careful,” you say, reaching out to steady him, your hands on his wet shirt, as he suddenly sinks down to the floor, his back against one of the shelves, “you’re very pale, maybe you need a few minutes rest?”

Pero shakes his head with another grunt, “No, I should..” he tries to stand up again but sinks back down, his eyes closing as he tips his head to his chest, breathing hard through his nose.

“At least change your wet shirt, please,” you say, grabbing the dry hoodie from the bench and holding it out to him and Pero opens his eyes, “you’ll feel better if you’re dry.”

He regards the hoodie for a few seconds before giving in, taking it from you. You turn your back to give him some privacy and you hear him tug the shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor with a wet sound.

“Thank you,” comes his rough voice from behind a few seconds later and you glance over your shoulder. The navy hoodie fits him and he’s leaned back against the wall again with his eyes closed, his skin still paler than you suspect that it should be.

You open one of your storage cupboards and pull out a container, bringing it over to Pero together with a bottle of water. Kneeling down in front of him you peel open the lid and hold it out to him.

“Here, your blood sugar is probably low, maybe a bit of shock, have a couple of these,” you offer him and Pero opens his eyes enough to see the cookies that are starting to spread their chocolate scent. They widen further when he sees them clearly, darting up to look at you before he tentatively takes one and flips it over in his hand. He smells it and then takes a careful bite.

His reaction flips a switch in your head, a light bulb moment, as his eyebrows furrow at the flavor. His tongue comes out, almost as if he’s about to spit the cookie out, before he grimaces and swallows, eyeing the rest of the cookie with suspicion.

“Pero…” you ask hesitantly, “where are you from?”

He looks up at you for a beat before he answers, running his tongue over his lips.

“Asturias,” he says, “but I haven’t been back in many years.”

“In Spain?”

“España, sí,” he nods, eyeing the cookie in his hand, “This…this food is very…sweet?” He looks up at you again and almost looks apologetic as he brings it to his mouth again.

“You don’t like it?” you ask, “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it, maybe it’s too sweet for your palate.”

“I’ve never tasted something so sweet before, I’m not sure…” he trails off, taking a small bite again.

The penny drops, impossible as it may seem, but his clothes, his wide eyed reactions to your kitchen, the fear and mistrust, the pieces seem to fit together, and you sink down on the floor in front of Pero, the container of cookies forgotten next to you.

“Pero…” you begin again and he tilts his head as you seem to study the pattern on his well worn leather boots, “A-are you…do you…w-where…- “

“I’m not from your time,” he interrupts your stuttering question, holding your eyes as you meet his gaze, your eyes are the ones that widen this time.

“How?” is all you manage and he shrugs.

“I do not know, a curse, a blessing, just chance?” he shrugs again, “All I remember is darkness and then bright lights, as bright as the sun, but much closer, a terrible noise, and then I ran.”

“Here?”

He shakes his head, “Not first, I think that was yesterday, or maybe two days ago, I found somewhere to hide, a small tunnel, but the rain made the water rise too high so I was forced to leave.”

“You must be hungry, Pero,” you suddenly realize, “how long has it been since you last ate properly?”

“Two days, maybe three,” he says, rubbing his good hand over his belly that rumbles at the mention of proper food.

“I haven’t got anything but hang on, I’ll order something,” you go to stand up when you realize he won’t understand what that means. Your head suddenly reels with the implication of having Pero in your kitchen.

“I mean, I’ll make someone bring food, but don’t worry, I won’t say anything about you,” you hurry to add as you see him shake his head.

“Thank you,” he sighs, looking relieved, “I don’t know what dark forces brought me here, but it doesn’t feel safe.”

“Just wait here, I’ll be right back,” you say to him, leaving him sitting on the floor, “You’re safe here, I promise.”

You hurry out to the shop and pull out your phone to place an order through the delivery app when you’re suddenly stumped, what the hell would Pero be most comfortable eating? A stew maybe? Meat, veggies and bread seems like something people have eaten through the centuries, so you quickly scroll through the options and find a local place that offers Boeuf Bourguignon. A rich, hearty stew must be something Pero will be familiar with even if it’s not exactly something he’s eaten before. You quickly place the order and hurry back to the kitchen to find Pero getting to his feet, holding on to the shelf for support.

“Someone is coming over with a meat stew, how does that sound?” you ask and Pero nods.

“Thank you,” he replies, letting go of the shelf and standing a big steadier this time.

“I have some bread and butter for you while we wait, it’s stale bread, but it might make you feel a bit better.”

“Thank you”, he says again and you go to your big walk-in fridge and pull it open. Pero follows you cautiously and peers into the large space.

“It’s cold?” he says, taking a tentative step into the fridge.

“It’s a special cold storage,” you explain, “it stays cold even though it’s warm outside, the food stays fresh longer in here.”

Pero nods as if he understands exactly what you mean but you can tell by the way his eyes scan the shelves that he’s distracted by the produce that lines them.

“Would you like to try something?” you ask, “Maybe some fruit?”

He looks over at you and nods carefully, as if he’s uncertain if he should say yes and you’re suddenly hit by how much mistrust he holds on to. Even though he’s a little bit more relaxed now than when he first arrived, it’s clear that he’s not a man used to trusting people easily, and just the simple gesture of accepting the apple you hold out to him seems to test his instinctual reaction to say no.

You take the butter from the shelf, fish one of yesterday’s loaves from the bread basket and slice it up on the counter while Pero slowly walks around your kitchen, the apple you notice, is already gone.

“Here, eat this, slowly, it should help you feel better.”

“Thank you,” he replies again, taking the thick piece of bread and carefully smelling it just like he had with the cookie. You cut yourself a slice and spread butter on it before biting in to it and jumping up on the work bench surface.

“It’s not poison, I promise,” you wink at Pero and he scowls back at you, but it’s not intimidating this time, there’s a slight smirk to it as he realizes you’re teasing him.

“I’ve never seen bread this white,” he says, coming over to the bench and heaving himself on to it too, “Bread where I come from is much rougher, this is like something a king would eat I think.”

“It’s just the way the flour is milled and sifted,” you explain, “we make bread the same way now as we’ve always done. Water, flour and salt.”

Pero takes a large bite as you speak and he hums as he chews, “It tastes almost the same,” he says, “I like it.” He takes another big bite and the whole slice disappears within a minute.

“I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him, “I made it, I’m a baker.”

“You’re a baker?” Pero asks, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“We still have bakers in our time,” you laugh but Pero shakes his head.

“I thought it would be your husband who baked, I have never met a woman baker.”

“Oh, yeah, I suppose that would’ve been pretty unusual back in your time,” you say, smiling at Pero’s surprise, “Many of the jobs only men did in your days are now done by women too, a lot has changed that way. And I have no husband.”

Pero seems to consider this for a few moments while he eyes the loaf sitting on the counter across the kitchen.

“Do you want another slice?” you ask him and he nods.

“Yes, it was very good bread.”

“Go on then, but remember there’s meat stew on the way so don’t eat too much or you might be sick,” you say and he slides off the workbench and grabs the knife.

“It’s good that you can be a baker too,” he says as he slices the bread, “I’ve seen women be warriors, generals even, why should women not be able to have the same professions as men?”

“You’re pretty progressive, Pero,” you smile, “not even all men nowadays would agree with that.”

“Fools,” he scowls, buttering the slice and coming back over to you, “I’ve seen many strange things in your time, but nothing that a woman couldn’t do as well as a man. The general I knew would scare the wits out of the men I’ve seen here so far.”

“What year are you from, Pero?” you ask and he shrugs, it seems to be his standard response when he has no answer.

“I do not know, I’m a sell-sword, a mercenary, what year the priest says it is doesn’t matter to someone like me.”

You think back to your high school history lessons, chewing your bread as you try to figure out how to pinpoint what age he might be from.

“Are there any big events you know of that happened in your time?” you ask and Pero furrows his brow for a few seconds before he shakes his head.

“I’m not educated, I can write my name, read a little, but that’s it,” he shrugs again, swallowing the last piece of bread, “I follow whoever pays my wages and don’t ask questions.”

His face softens slightly as he sees the disappointment in your face and he turns towards you, “I apologize, these things are not important to me, but I wish I’d paid more attention to them now, so that I could tell you more about where I’m from.”

“It’s alright, Pero,” you say, giving him a smile, “I’m just curious, just tell me to stop asking so many questions.”

He actually chuckles at that, only the second time you’ve heard him laugh and it makes you feel warm as his face transforms into a beautiful smile.

“Ask as many as you want, you’re feeding me, you patched me up, you’ve shown much more kindness than a broken sell-sword could ever expect. The least I can do is to feed your curious mind.”

Now it’s your turn to shrug, “It was nothing, you were hurt, I couldn’t leave you out in the rain, anyone would’ve done the same.”

Pero tilts his head to the side and regards you with wonder, “Maybe your world is very different, querida…” he says as he tentatively reaches out and carefully wraps the fingers of his good hand around yours, “but in my world, I don’t know anyone who would’ve looked at my scarred face and let me in.”

He gently lifts your hand and brings the back of it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there, before holding it to his heart.

“Thank you.”

You feel heat rush to your face as he places your hand back on the bench, letting go of it as you fumble for something to say and coming up with nothing, just biting your lip and nodding as he continues to look at you, his face unreadable but gentle.

“What do you bake, apart from bread?” he asks after what feels like an eternity and your brain still hasn’t kicked back into gear, the warm mark of his chapped lips still on the back of your hand.

“Ahh…most things,” you stumble, “cakes for weddings, for feasts, cookies and pastries, anything sweet really, if people want it.” A thought suddenly hits you, “Do you have a favorite, Pero? Maybe something I could make for you here?”

He looks taken back by the question, starting by shaking his head almost on impulse, “No, I never had cake, or sweet things, maybe just a simple fruit pie if I had coin, but it has been rare. Although….” he suddenly looks up, his words lost in thought as he looks at you as if you know the answer to what he's thinking of.

“There was a baker in my hometown, he was not from Asturias. He made sweet bread from Albion, with dried fruit and honey,” Pero licks his lips at the memory and grins, “that was the best bread I ever had, he would give me the scraps if he burnt a loaf and even burnt, it tasted like heaven.”

“Albion,” you hum, thinking out loud, “that’s the old name for Britain, so maybe he made something like barmbrack, or bara brith…” you slide off the workbench and go over to the bookshelf and run your finger along the spines of the books. “But what dried fruit would they have then? Raisins? Maybe…the Romans made wine in Britannia after all, the climate was warmer… maybe apricots? Cherries?” You pull out a well worn copy of The Love of Cooking, and take it back to the work bench as Pero regards you with a curious grin. As you flip the book open his eyes go wide as he sees the colored photographs of food, the fine print in neat rows.

“This is a book?” he asks, carefully sliding his fingertips over the page and you nod.

“They invented a machine that can make copies of what we write very fast, so they’re cheap to buy nowadays,” you explain as you flip back to the index, looking up barmbrack, “I think this recipe might be similar to what you’re familiar with,” you say, finding the right page and pointing to a dark loaf filled with dried fruit.

“Can you make it?” Pero asks, his eyes locked on the image as if he wants to chew on the paper and you smile.

“It’s a pretty fast thing to make, if I make it now it’ll be done by the time we’ve had our dinner.” Pero’s eyes are still glued to the page, a hungry expression on his face.

“I would very much like that,” he says, tearing his gaze away and grinning at you, “Put me to work, what can I do?”

“You want to help?”

“Of course, teach me how to bake, mistress baker,” he winks and again his usually scowling face is transformed, a warm smile lighting up his sharp features as his brown eyes soften. You smile back at him, marveling at how he transforms from a sourly looking soldier to a handsome man when he lets himself smile.

“Ok then, Pero,” you grin, “time to learn a new profession.”

Under your direction Pero pulls out the necessary ingredients and tools, making comments about the flimsy quality of the metal in your kitchen.

“This would not hold up in a kitchen or on a battlefield,” he remarks, holding up one of your stainless steel bowls, “It would melt over a fire and even a child’s arrow would pierces this, I’m sure.”

“It’s stronger than you think,” you laugh, setting a bag of dried cherries down on the workbench and giving one to Pero to try. He sucks on it, smiling at the familiar flavor, and nods in approval as he goes in search of a knife. He finds your custom chef knife, your name stamped along the blade, and this is the only item that gets his commendation.

“This is a good weapon, querida, if any more strange men turn up at your door. You should keep it on you at all times,” he says, effortlessly spinning the knife in his hand, testing its weight and balance.

“I hope no more strange men come tumbling into my backyard,” you laugh, “what would I do with you all?”

“If fate lets me, I’ll stay here and keep you safe, just feed me,” he grins, coming to stand next to you and placing the knife on the workbench.

“That sounds like a good deal for me, Pero,” you smile back at him and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs, a beautiful sound in your kitchen, his rough voice smoothed out by the warm vibrations.

“Querida, even if you only fed me your bread and butter, I would be the winner in that deal; a full belly and a beautiful mistress? What man could ask for more?”

He sees the way your shy smile reaches your eyes before you look down at your hands on the recipe book. Heat creeps up your neck and you have to squeeze your lips together to stop a silly grin from splitting your face open. You can feel Pero’s smiling eyes on you as he waits for your reply, and when he wraps his fingers around your hand on the book, you almost jump, his grip a gentle touch. The fingers on his other hand find your chin, softly bringing your face up to look up at him.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, the rough pad of his thumb caressing your chin as your heart rate picks up and you part your lips.

“Now put me to work,” he smiles, “So I can have this fruit bread again.”

You draw a deep breath, your heart fluttering in your chest as you pull your eyes away from Pero and down to the recipe.

“S-so…ok, we need tea, I’ll make that if you fill this with flour and put it in the bowl. Then crack an egg in there too.”

“Your wish is my command, mistress,” Pero replies and your cheeks heat up again, but you can’t help the wide smile and it makes Pero grin as you fumble for a saucepan to fill with water.

He completes the tasks you set him, and then comes to stand next to you as you spoon tea leaves into the kettle and pour the boiling water over it.

“I visited China once,” he says, “They drank black tea, it’s strange to see it here too.”

“This tea comes from China, we started importing it a long time ago. I’m going to soak the fruit in the tea, it really should sit overnight but it works like this too, just a bit less flavor.”

What Pero said suddenly hits you, and you turn to look at him as he stirs the dried fruit through the tea, “You went to China? That must’ve been such a long journey?”

Pero nods, his face falling back to his default scowl as he pulls his eyebrows together at the memory.

“It was very long, dusty and dangerous. Both there and going home, I’ll tell you about it someday when you know me better, but you’ll still think I’m a liar, it’s a hard story to believe.”

“Sounds like it was an adventure,” you reply and Pero shrugs, shaking his head a little.

“A storyteller would call it an adventure, I would call it a terrifying nightmare,” he grumbles, taking the fruit back to the workbench and changing the subject, “I can’t read your book, what should I do now?”

You pass him a loaf tin, “Smear this with butter and I’ll mix the rest of the ingredients together.”

Pero nods and takes the butter in his good hand and gets to work while you mix the dough. You leave out some of the spices that would be too foreign to Pero you think, and reduce the sugar a bit. From the corner of your eye you see Pero watching you work, and as you mix the fruit into the dough you glance up at him and give him a small smile. He looks lost in thought for a moment, before he smiles back at you, a much softer looking man as he almost seems to be shy, handing you the prepared tin.

“You look very capable,” he says, taking a few small steps closer to look at the dough, “more capable than any baker I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, Pero,” you reply, smiling to yourself as you pick up the bowl to tip the dough into the tin.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” you exclaim and put the bowl back on the counter, hurrying over to your small desk while Pero looks surprised. From a box you remove a gold ring and quickly wash it in the sink. Bringing it back to Pero you hold it up.

“It’s tradition to mix items into the barmbrack, some things for bad luck, some for good luck. But I prefer adding only things for good luck so I usually add this ring. It was my grandmother’s wedding ring and she was a baker too,” you flip the ring over and show the date written on the inside of the ring, “June sixth, nineteen forty-one, her wedding day.”

“It will bring luck?” Pero asks and you nod.

“Whoever finds it in the cake will have good luck,” you reply, “Well, as it’s a ring it’s meant to mean that you’re getting married within a year, but I prefer to think of it as good luck.”

“I’ve heard of superstitions like this one before,” Pero says, “I don’t know if I believe in them, but it’s probably not wise to ignore them.”

“My thoughts exactly,” you smile as you toss the ring into the dough and mix it again, “I’m just going to put the dough in the tin and then bake it.”

You’re interrupted by the doorbell on the front door, and you look towards the shop.

“That’s our food I think, take over here and I’ll go pick it up,” you say, handing the bowl to Pero. You hurry to the door and tip the delivery guy, bringing back a bag of food. Peros is carefully patting down the dough with serious concentration and it makes you smile to see him looking so focused on his job.

“It looks great, Pero,” you say and he looks up, giving you a quick smile. You’re struck by the difference a little bit of time with him has made, his distrust has disappeared, replaced by curious looks and grins. You realize again how handsome he is as he stands up and holds out the tin to you, his deep brown eyes warm instead of cautious, and the near permanent downward turn of his mouth has been replaced by the soft smile he gives you as you take the tin from him.

“Thanks,” you say and hand him the bag, “There’s food in there, get us set up while I put this in the oven, then we can eat.”

Pero inhales deeply as the scent reaches his nose and his stomach growls as he hastily grabs the bags and looks for a spot to sit.

The oven is ready to go so you just put the barmbrack in and turn back to Pero, grabbing cutlery as you go. He’s on the floor, leaning against the bookshelf again, and is unpacking the food. Sinking down next to him, you groan at the relief of getting off your feet and sitting down. You tip your head back against the bookshelf and let slip a deep sigh that turns into a yawn. Pero chuckles next to you as he peels the lid off one of the containers.

“You’re yawning but I’m the one who spent a night inside a cramped tunnel,” he says and you clamp your hand over your mouth, giggling.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day, I get up very early to bake every morning,” you say, stifling another yawn as Pero picks up one of the containers with stew, looking at it with hungry eyes.

“It smells incredible,” he says, taking the spoon you hand him.

“Eat, Pero, you look hungry,” you smile and he flashes you a quick grin before digging in.

The stew is good, rich and hearty, with big chunks of meat. Pero demolishes his portion and you get the rest of the loaf of bread, watching him tear chunks out of it to mop up the sauce. You’re sitting close together, his shoulder against yours, the warmth of his body a comfortable presence against your arm as you eat in silence. Pero groans as he does so, a deep moan escaping him when he scrapes up the sauce.

“Feeling better?” you ask as he swallows the last piece of bread and sets the container down on the floor. He nods and tips his head back towards the bookshelf with a contented sigh.

“Yes, much better, it was the best stew I’ve ever had,” he says, tilting his head to look over at you, “A full belly and your company, you’ve cured me.”

“Happy I could help you,” you smile at him, “you seemed a bit lost.”

“I still am,” he says, his eyes slipping down to your lips, almost as if he doesn’t notice he’s done it, until he catches himself and snaps them back up and meets your eyes, “But I feel…safe, I think, here. With you.”

His voice is low, softer than before, a quiet rasp in the silent kitchen. The rain is still rushing down outside and the white noise wraps you in a bubble as he carefully moves closer. You feel his hand, rough and calloused, come up and gently stroke your face, his eyes watching his fingers trail along the edge of your jaw, cupping your cheek and letting his thumb run over your bottom lip.

“So soft,” he whispers, his breath tickling your lips as you close your eyes.

The kiss is gentle, featherlight, but he stays close, pressing his lips against yours again and again, and you relish in the hushed words he whispers in another language, praise you can’t understand. But the way his lips never leave yours for more than a second, his reverent tone in every phrase, makes you feel cherished as his words wrap around you.

When he lingers against your lips, you bring your hand up and touch his cheek, slipping your hand around his neck, holding him close so that he knows he can stay. You hear a rumble in his chest as he pulls you in closer, pulling you over his lap, his arm coming around your waist to keep steady, the other still cupping your cheek. You test his mouth, the slight parting of his lips where his soft bottom lip has a divot, and he groans, pulling you impossibly closer. His hair is still damp when you curl your fingers into it, still dirty from two days of wherever he managed to seek shelter when he first fell into this time. But under it, he’s warm and solid, his mouth hungry as he opens up and lets his tongue taste yours.

Pero grows bolder as you guide him, pulling your leg over his lap so that you straddle him. As your hands caress his hair and explore the firm muscles of his shoulders, he seeks out the edge between your shirt and your trousers. The skin there is soft and smooth and he runs his hands over your waist, mumbling into your mouth between kisses. He pulls back a fraction and lets his hands slide high up on your back, under your shirt, pressing you into his chest.

“Hermosa…” he whispers, “you’re so soft, your skin is like silk under my rough hands, so soft, warm, I’ve never…” he trails off, reaching up to claim your mouth again and you bend down to meet him. You can feel him grow hard under you, he’s holding back from rutting up, panting harder as his fingers dig into your waist. Gently you pull back from him and lean your forehead against his.

“Pero…Pero…Pero…” you whisper, catching your breath as his grip on your loosens, his hands resuming their soft caresses up and down your back.

“Querida,” he smiles, pulling back a little so that he can look at you, his dark eyes warm now, softer than ever, as he brings up a hand to cup your cheek again.

“Come home with me tonight, I can’t send you away to sleep in a tunnel again,” you whisper, closing your eyes as his fingers trace across your lips.

“You would let me?” he asks quietly, “You trust me, a stranger?” His hand goes still on your cheek and you look at him again.

“You’re not a stranger anymore, Pero, I trust you. If you trust me to not steal from you that is,” the last thing you say with a small grin, and Pero laughs, a deep rumble as he wraps his arms around you again.

“You’ve already stolen from me, querida,” he smiles, “you think all these kisses were free?”

“I’m paying in food and more kisses,” you tease him, pressing your lips to the tip of his nose and he wrinkles it, his shoulders jumping as he laughs again.

“Steal all my kisses, hermosa, you can have every single one.”

Somewhere behind you the oven timer goes off and Pero stiffens for a second before he relaxes under you again.

“Only the oven telling us the barmbrack is done,” you smile, pushing yourself off Pero’s lap and standing up. He holds out his hand for you to grab, and you pull him to his feet too.

“Feed me,” he smiles, snaking an arm around your waist as you turn the oven off and open the door.

“It needs to cool a bit first, I’ll put it in the fridge,” you wriggle out of his arms with a giggle as he tries to hold on to your shirt. When you close the fridge door behind you, the barmbrack safely on the shelf, he’s behind you again, bending his head to your shoulder.

“Are you really letting me stay with you tonight?” he asks, his voice betraying that he still can’t quite believe that you’re trusting him.

“Pero,” you reply, turning around and taking his hand, “I was scared when I first saw you outside, you looked frightening. But you also looked scared, like you needed help, and something told me I could trust you. And you’ve done nothing to make me regret that. I trust you.”

He looks at you for a few moments, uncertainty flitting across his face, “Not since I became a man has anyone seen my face and trusted me like that. No one but you.”

“I’m sorry, Pero,” you reply but he shakes his head, suddenly crowding you, making you walk back towards the work bench.

“If you’re the only one to trust me, I think that will be enough,” he smiles, his eyes soft again, the uncertainty gone as he puts his hands on your waist and lifts you up to sit on the counter, stepping in between your thighs. You feel him push his calloused hands under your shirt again, moving over your back, softly kneading at your curves as you pull him closer, making him bend his head to yours.

“I trust you, Pero,” you mumble, tracing your fingers over his face, his short, uneven beard, the sharp curve of his nose, carefully moving up to gently caress the scar across his eye. He closes his eyes as you touch it, mapping the way something sharp has cut across his eyebrow, down onto his cheek.

Pero’s hands have gone still on your waist, warm palms gripping your flesh as you reach up and press your lips to the spot over his eyebrow where the scar begins, moving your mouth further down, a brief whisper against his eyelid and then a firm kiss at the top of his cheek, the jagged point of the old injury.

“I think whatever brought me here was a blessing,” he mumbles and you nod as he opens his eyes again to look at you.

“I’m glad you found your way here, Pero,” you reply, moving your hands up to cradle his face, finding his lips against yours again.

The rain continues outside, flashes of bright light shining in through the window split seconds before rolls of thunder move in. But neither of you notice, lost in the sensation of warm hands and soft lips exploring something new. Pero buries his face against your neck, inhaling deeply as you wrap your fingers around his curls. You can feel his lips leave small, wet kisses all along your neck, rubbing the cool tip of his nose against the soft spot under your ear where your pulse flutters.

“Pero,” you mumble, pressing a kiss against the tip of his ear, and he lifts his head, meeting your eyes with a warm smile, making you kiss his lips again, losing several more minutes as you both savor the moment.

With a giggle you finally pull away a little as he chases your lips with a protest, “Let me cut the barmbrack and then we go home,” you say and he pulls you off the counter.

“I will take it as payment for all the kisses you have stolen,” he mumbles, pressing another one to your mouth as you laugh into it.

The barmbrack still holds some warmth when you cut it, and the rich smell that it emits as the slices fall makes you salivate and Pero groans next to you, his hand shooting out to grab the thickest piece.

“Wait, we need butter on it too,” you laugh, slapping his eager hand away and he repays you by sinking his teeth into your neck instead, playfully biting the soft skin.

“It smells too good, querida,” he grumbles as you spread butter on the slice and hand it to him.

“Impatient,” you smile at him as he takes a first giant bite of the barmbrack, grinning at you around the slice. You butter your own slice and Pero hums, muttering his praise between bites until his teeth clink against the ring.

“Oh, you got the ring in the first slice!” you exclaim, “That’s really lucky!”

Pero carefully spits the gold ring into his palm, “I feel like my night has already been lucky,” he smiles at you, holding out the ring for you to take it.

“No, wash it off and then keep it, until we make a new barmbrack. It’s your lucky charm for now.”

“Are you certain?” he asks, rinsing the crumbs and butter off the heavy gold ring at the sink, and holding out to you again.

“Absolutely, you found it, it’s yours for now,” you say, finishing your own slice as Pero slips the ring into a pouch on his belt and eyes the rest of the loaf, “Do you want another slice, Pero?” you ask with a smile and he grins back at you.

“It reminds me of the one I had as a child, but it tastes much better. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says, coming to stand behind you as you prepare a second thick slice for him and wrap the rest of the barmbrack to take home.

“Thank you, I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him and he takes the slice.

“Querida, I love it,” he says, smiling back at you, “it’s almost as good as your kisses…” he quirks his eyebrows and leans in to capture your lips with his again, making you open your mouth to his eager tongue.

“Still the best thing,” he mumbles as he pulls back a little, both you catching your breath.

“Let’s go home,” you whisper back at him, “I’m just going to make sure everything is locked up, we’ll go out the back way."

He nods and you reluctantly disentangle yourself from him and walk out to the main shop, checking the door and the alarm. When you come back, Pero is sucking on his fingers, the second slice disappeared as fast as the first and he grins back at you as he notices your look.

You flick off the main lights, Pero’s eyes widening in surprise as the kitchen is cast into darkness, and lead him to the backdoor and let him out. The rain is only a drizzle now but the thunder is still rumbling through the sky and Pero looks up as he goes down the stairs, waiting for you to set the alarm and lock the door.

A bright flash of lightning cuts across the back yard, followed by a loud clap of thunder that makes you jump and let out a yelp.

“Oh shit, that scared me,” you laugh, locking the door and turning around, pocketing the key, “the thunder must be right above us.”

But the yard in front of you is as empty as every other night. No trace of Pero, only the dim light of the street lamps and the light patter of rain drops.

Your heart clenches in your chest, you can still feel his lips on yours.

It’s not until a week later that you see the article. A patron has left a newspaper behind and as you clear the table, a headline catches your eye.

Modern ring found in 11th century grave

Archeologists at a dig in Sevilla, Spain, were surprised when excavating an 11th century grave. The site is being prepared for a new residential area and the grave is being moved to a nearby churchyard. The remains of an 11th century man was found in the grave, and around his neck was a thin gold chain, also 11th century in design. What surprised the archeologist was the modern gold wedding band hanging on the chain, with the date “June sixth, nineteen forty-one” engraved on the inside.

“The grave was undisturbed, and the chain was intact, clearly placed on the man in the grave either while he was still alive or before he was buried,” said chief archaeologist Maria Ruiz. “It’s impossible, of course, for a man from the 11th century to be in possession of a 20th century ring, but at the moment we have no explanation as to how the ring ended up in the grave with him.”

Part Ten

Some author notes here at the end too; I don't think it's canon that Pero is from Asturias, but Tovar is an Asturian name and I have a personal connection to the region so it felt right.

I have no idea if barmbrack was a thing in 11th century Europe, the earliest sources are from the 18th century. But it's bread with fruit, seems doable in any age really. If you've never had it, give it a try, it's a very easy recipe and it goes amazing with butter and a cup of tea.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3 @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #pero tovar #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar fic #fluff

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caffinated-and-sleepy · 3 months

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Part 1

Thranduil with a human SO

Meeting Thranduil

- Realistically I don’t think Thranduil would ever let himself get close to a new other half that’s human

- Thranduil would never be ready to watch his significant other die again especially that quickly, after all 50 years is a blink of an eye for an elf

- Throwing what is realistic out the window let’s say he does find a human significant other

- Even then you have to be a VERY intriguing human to catch his eye

- Most likely you met him when he and his guard stopped at Lake Town on the way to Erebor

- He was entranced by how you treated him like a normal person

- It was strange, most mortals trembled before his 7ft tall frame

- Not you, you simply welcomed him to the Inn and left to help clean the bar

- Of course Thranduil didn’t intend to sit at the bar at all considering he could easily drink wine that didn’t taste like piss in Mirkwood

- But he convinces himself he’s just being a good King by going down and checking on his soldiers

- Of course his soldiers were doing well, many of them where testing out how many ales they could hold down they found it was 74 pints

- You were now in front of the bar sweeping and humming a low melody under your breath

- He goes to grab your attention and moves besides you, only for you to crash into him

- Thranduil catches you by the hand and for a minute the two of you simply looked like you were dancing

- “Are you alright?”

- You blush with a sweet smile on your face (me writing this: do it, write the line. NOOOO I CAN’T. Don’t be a wuss do it! IT’S SO GENERIC. DO IT. )

- “Looks like I fell for you.” (I’m sorry) Thranduil is beyond taken aback and processes what you said after he fully pulls you up.

- His response is a strange look and “I’m glad your alright.” and he disappears to his room.

- You don’t see him the next morning either since he and his soldier left for Erebor when dawn broke

- Little did you know the King of Mirkwood had trouble sleeping that night

- When they came back through Lake Town Thranduil was exhausted

- Lacking sleep and arguing with pig-headed dwarves can do a lot to an elf

- After checking back into the inn he finds you working again and decided to once more check on his soldiers

- After glancing over all of them he turns his eyes towards you, he then proceeds to listen in on your conversation with the owner’s nephew; Thaine

- “I don’t get why you’re still here? You could be at home by now.” The boy looked to be turning into a man (18ish)

- You shrugged “I like listening to the elves, Síndarian sounds beautiful! It runs off the tongue with such elegance and it brings about a sense of calm.

- The boy replies “That’s great y/n but I don’t think you should be in the commons alone and I need to head home soon. Mother said to be home before midnight.”

- Looking at the boy you sighed and said “Alright, just let me pack up and tell the customers.”

- Before you say anything to the other elves Thranduil butts in after leaving his eavesdropping corner (I sWeAr I wAs DrOpPiNg No EaVeS sIr!)

- “I can watch over both her and my own men if she wishes to stay.” He looks to you with the slight raise of his eyebrows.

- Looking to Thaine you immediately reply “Absolutely fine with me!” With a wide smile right after.

- Shaking his head with a shrug Thain says goodbye and walks out

- Finally alone with the king you opt to break the silence

- “You do not have to stay if you do not wish to. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your bed.” You almost looked guilty as if second guessing taking Thranduil’s offer

- Thranduil was now also surprised at how genuine you seemed, you a mere mortal was just worried he wasn’t getting enough sleep

- His face betrays him as he shows some sense of curiosity and amusement “It is quite alright, I do not usually sleep much until we arrive back at Mirkwood. I find that sleeping on rocks throw out ones back.”

- You couldn’t help but let out an audible gasp and let slip “So the rumor is true? The dwarves sleep on rocks?!”

- At this point he couldn’t tell if the human was dumb or dense, but he instead went with uneducated

- For the rest of the night you asked questions about the race of dwarves and elves

- The soldiers silently questioned why the King took an interest in a human, but they kept quiet

- Thranduil did his best to answer your questions, at one point he even smirked instead of giving you a blank stare

- The next day Thranduil felt a bit disappointed when leaving, you were the most intriguing human he had met in a while.

- Although something Thranduil didn’t say was that the dwarves didn’t actually sleep on rocks he is just a diva who missed his ultra plush bed in Mirkwood

Why is it kinda giving gen z reader? Nah but I swear it’s like a tradition to randomly post a Thranduil Imagine every few months, my Tolkien Curse. Anyways I hope you enjoyed and please comment, repost and like!

#the hobbit #thranduil x you #thranduil #thranduil imagine #thranduil x reader #thranduil headcanon #lotr x reader #The Tolkien Curse

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flocy-sims · 19 days

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💘 NESTLED WITH NAFISA 💘

•Introducing Nafisa Echoe | Age: 24 | Pronouns: She/Her | Traits: Creative, Neat, Self-absored

• Being alone her whole life Nafisa always been hungry for love. She tried to get it from other places like simsmedia, and altough she loves all of her fans, being a simfluencer just doesn't satisfy her appetite. So, Nafisa found the courage to open her heart for the last time, hoping to find her one and only love, and not get her heart broken again.

• Life is never boring with Nafisa, she's always the center of attention, oh she makes sure of that. Juggling her simfluencer account and her small crystal business, she hopes to find the person who can handle her crazy life.

• Will this self-absored, but loving sim find her true soulmate or remains with only with love of her fans?

More below the cut:

• Likes: Crystals, a tidy home, The color beige, Slow mornings, cats , The moon, Body Modifications, New Age music, yoga, cleaning

• Dislikes: unmannered sims, smelly things, cold, closed minded sims, dirty homes, bad energy

• Fun Facts about Nafisa:

Lives in Tartosa

Wants to adopt a cat

Crystals are power source

Just started her small business of crystals and jewellery

Loves to be center of attention

Hates slob sims

Gets jealous easily

•Contestant entry guidelines:

Must be young-adult or adult

Humans are only being accepted this time!

Must have at least one negative trait

Can be any gender

Cannot have the romantic trait

They can have skills

Should have Likes + Dislikes

Can have back stories if you want to

Can have careers if you wanna

Maxis-Match or CC free (I own every pack, i also use some gorillax3, belaloallure cc so that's fine too)

Must be comfortable with changes such as eyes, skinblend, lashes as I have my own defaults and preferences as well as outfit changes to fit into my game style (the outfits will mostly stay the same if you've styled all of them).

• Remember to at me @flocy-sims or use #nafisaBC to make sure I see your entry and ask if you have any questions!

CONTESTANTS:

1. Nicholas Knight by @seyvia

2. Alize Resende by @invisiblequeen

3. Kai Miura by @jasminesilk

4. Milan Vinca by @jonquilyst

5. Ari DeLuca for @alltimefail-sims

6. Ivy Brennon for @dorytoss

7. Orlando (Dodo) Harper by @akitasimblr

8. Tucker Hausen by @theosconfessions

9. Hunter Jackson by @simsinfinitylt

10. Elliot Madison by @bakersimmer

11. Marshal Milan by @bloomingkyras

12. Naveen Eaves by @mdshh

13. Himari Watanabe by @foxsimthings

I'm gonna include as many contestants as you send me and keep it open as long as everyone who sent their sims, so just let me know if you want to, but you don't have time right away, so that i know to wait for you!

Please send me your sims!🤗

#ts4 bachelorette challenge #ts4 bacc #ts4 challenge #ts4 screenshots #nafisaBC

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shankss-magnificent-ass · 7 months

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Imagine being an agent of chaos on the Red Force

The crew : *deep cleaning up the cargo hold*

Benn: *just came back from up on deck and whispers to you* if anyone asks tell them the bathroom is occupied and don't let anyone up top, there are a bunch of ladies at the beach, and I don't want them distracted.

Shanks: *eaves dropping* what ladies?

Benn: Damn it.

You: He just said he can't wait to be done with this task to go see ladies of this island.

Benn: *relieved you're a convincing liar and a quick thinker.* Yeah, let's work double time, so we can get out there.

Shanks: I'm excited about the booze, I heard there are loads of bar here.

Yassop: *finishes his task and happens to see the ladies on the beach* They're having a swimsuit competition!

The crew: *tries to rush out on deck*

Benn: *blocks them with his body* No, we need to finish cleaning, we've put this task off too much already!

Shanks: *trying to climb over Benn*

Benn: Can this situation get any worst?

You: hey boys! The floor is lava!

The crew: *climb and jumping on things and stuff breaking left and right, and all manage to escape the cargo hold*

Benn: *glare down at you* that wasn't a challenge!

You: *shrugs*

Benn: *hands you a broom* Congratulations you'll be doing this on your own. Get cleaning, I expect it to be spotless when I get back.

List of Up-and-coming works

Support me on Kofi and Patreon

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #akagami no shanks #red haired shanks #benn beckman #shanks #red hair shanks #red hair pirates #yassop #from the depths of the dragon's hoard #tma original #10/15/23 #no beta we die like men

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tropes-and-tales · 6 months

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🤮 FINALLY

Day 9: Exhibitionism (Frankie "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Light angst, kinda; idiots in love; enemies to lovers but not really; smut (fingering; exhibitionism; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count: 5553

AN: This was requested by @elegantmusicdragon!

The cabin is small: it only has two bedrooms. The Miller brothers claim the loft bedroom on the second floor, the steep eaves of the roof leaving barely enough room for Will and Ben. Pope, as the group’s resident planner, helps himself to the slightly larger bedroom on the first floor.

It leaves you and Frankie in the living room. There’s a lumpy couch; there’s a thin, rolled-up mattress for the floor.

There’s also a fair amount of antagonism between the two of you. It’s not complete hatred: it’s love-hate, maybe. Begrudging respect. Admiration, but only if someone put a gun to your head and made you admit it.

You just irritate each other. Too similar in some ways, too different in others. Polar opposites in some aspects, the same person in others. It’s been the same as long as you’ve known each other: there’s a low-simmering annoyance with each other that eventually blows up in a fight, then cools off in a period of niceness until it cedes back to annoyance. It’s been that way for as long as you’ve known each other—for years.

The hooking up is new.

The hooking up is so new the guys don’t know about it. You haven’t been hooking up long enough to get caught. Hell, it’s so new that even the two of you can barely fathom it. Each time a dalliance ends, you both have the same stunned, sheepish expression, like neither of you can believe it happened.

But it keeps happening: Frankie shows up at your door in the middle of the night. You turn up on his porch on a Sunday afternoon. You call each other; the other comes over eagerly enough. The two of you sneak off at a group hang-out, and you reappear long moments later to the larger group one at a time, flustered or overcompensating by being too casual.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you told him the last time you hooked up.

“Obviously not,” he agreed. “This is insane.”

Neither of you really meant it.

-----

The cabin is a thing Pope is trying to do. It’s a tradition he wants to start in the wake of Tom’s death. A way to keep everyone together, even if just for a long weekend every fall: the gang may drift apart, but they can reassemble once a year at least, for good food and drink and sitting around the campfire.

Thursday, and everyone rolls into the rental property where the cabin is perched along the shore of a lake. The Miller brothers turn up together; Frankie comes alone. You catch a ride with Pope since he flew into your hometown.

Thursday, and it’s just take-out pizza and beer from the nearby village. It’s stocking the cabin with provisions, unpacking, settling in, claiming where you’ll each sleep for the weekend. Pope builds a fire in the massive fire pit outside just as the sun is setting, and Frankie feels a calm settle over his nerves. He’s been clean now for over a year, but the cravings come and go. He glances across from him and studies where you sit between Will and Pope: the firelight casts you in an orange light, throws your features in sharp relief where shadows fall. You’re quiet tonight—maybe your nerves are bad too. Frankie knows you have your own anxieties.

Thursday, and when it’s time to turn in, you don’t even bother to fight Frankie for the mattress on the floor. You take the lumpy couch, and you fall off to sleep within minutes, leaving Frankie to lie awake with his own thoughts for a long while.

-----

Friday, and everyone is back in their groove with each other. There’s the usual laughter, the usual ribbing. Pope knocks Frankie’s hat off his head. Ben feigns a series of punches at Pope. Will wraps his arm around your waist and spins you until you slap at his arm and shriek for him to release you. It’s easy and familiar, like slipping into a faded old t-shirt washed to velvety softness.

Pope organizes a hike to the summit of a nearby mountain. The weather is so crisp and the air so clean it hurts Frankie’s sinuses to breathe. At the summit, the views are spectacular, stretching for miles in all directions, the hills and dales and low-slung mountains of this patch of Appalachia. Frankie is reminded that not everything is so complicated: there are swaths of wilderness where life is simple, where his problems seem small and inconsequential.

You all settle on a flat stretch of rock and eat lunch, sandwiches and apples from a farmstand in town that you packed in for the hike. Frankie watches you peel out of your boots and socks and stretch your bare feet against the sun-warmed rock. The conversation flows naturally; everyone shares their latest life updates, their hopes for the near-future.

If Tom is with you, his ghost rests lightly between the five of you.

On the hike back, there’s a tricky stretch of the trail, a switchback that was easier to climb up than it is to climb down. Frankie is behind you, taking up the rear, and he loses the rhythm of his hiking cadence when you suddenly balk. He pulls up just in time to not run into you.

“C’mon,” he grumbles, exasperated. With Pope at the head of the group, Frankie has just been on auto-pilot, his feet leading him forward, but now he’s been yanked out of his reverie by your sudden stopping.

“Ground’s covered in scree,” you reply. Frankie watches as you take a tentative step forward, reach out a steadying hand along the outcropping of rock. You do this sometimes, he knows—you have sudden moments of freezing up, afraid to fall, afraid to stumble and jam up a wrist or twist an ankle. Frankie watches in exasperation as you suddenly transform from an assured hiker to a bumbling newborn foal, all shaky legged and trembling hands.

“C’mon,” he repeats. “Move.”

“Don’t rush me.” The words come out tense, pushed out between clenched teeth. You hate being weak, sure, but you hate being weak in front of others—especially Frankie.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not.” You take another careful step forward, your toe knocking some of the scree loose.

“It’s not even that steep here.”

“I’m going as fast as I feel comfortable.” You turn your head, glance at him, and Frankie sees the animal panic in your wide, unblinking eyes, your nostrils flaring as you take shallow breaths. “Go around if you have to.”

He doesn’t have to go around you but he does. He heaves a sigh, edges around you on the trail, and he doesn’t miss the quiet little whimper of fear as you press yourself against the face of the mountain to make room for him. He doesn’t glance back to see that you’re fully frozen now, not moving at all—until Ben notices and reverses back to rescue you.

“Overthinking it?” he asks. Frankie can’t make out your reply, but it makes Ben chuckle, then add, “well, let’s get you off this part then, yeah?”

Friday, and Frankie learns that there’s an ugly streak of jealousy in him. Ben manages to peel you off of the mountain face with gentle teasing and good humor, and Ben is the one to wipe away the couple of shaky tears that squeezed out during your crisis of courage. The group rearranges itself: Pope then Will, then Frankie, and you and Ben at the rear, and Frankie seethes the rest of the hike back to hear the two of you joking and teasing.

Friday, and Frankie learns that he can be jealous over you. He’s quiet over dinner as he turns over this new intel about himself.

Friday, and when it’s time to turn in, you take the couch again. Frankie lies awake and watches you in the faint silvery moonlight streaming in through the curtains, and he berates himself for letting Ben step in where he could have intervened. Frankie could have been kinder, could have helped you. You’ve never been cruel to him about his own struggles. A little episode of panic on a low-stakes hike would have cost him nothing in terms of kindness.

Frankie does something he’s never done before with you.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You awake?”

You huff out heavy breath, a low groan. “I am now.”

A long stretch of silence passes. Frankie can’t quite get the words out; his tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of his mouth. Enough time passes that you sigh again, roll over on the squeaky couch.

“Sorry,” he manages to mutter. It comes out gruffer than he’d like, more mean-sounding.

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry.” Now he sounds defensive, a bit petulant.

“Oh.” A beat, then, “for what?”

He rolls over on the mattress and faces where you lie feet apart from him, slightly higher than him on the couch. “For being a dick on the hike.”

“Ah.”

There’s another long beat of silence, and then the room lights up as you turn your phone on. He hears you tapping on it, and he asks what you’re doing.

“Just marking the date and time. Latitude and longitude.” In the white light cast across your face, Frankie can see your smirk. “Need to know where to put the memorial plaque when the time comes.”

“Huh?”

“You know.” You lock your phone and toss it aside, and Frankie hears you roll over to face him. In the scant light from the moon, he can just make out your face, still smirking. “The commemorative plaque. On this place and on such-and-such date, Francisco Morales offered the first apology in his life.”

Frankie bristles. “Funny, but I’ve apologized lots of times before.” He thinks of his ex-wife, his mother, Tom’s wife. He’s apologized plenty: for his bad behavior, for his poor choices, for all the ways he’s lacked as a son or a husband or a teammate.

“Not to me you haven’t.”

“Bullshit.” He rolls onto his back and stares up at the rough-hewn boards of the cabin’s ceiling. “I probably have.”

“Bullshit,” you retort. “You haven’t.”

“Well now I have, and I damned well regret it.”

You laugh softly, but it doesn’t have its usual bitter edge to it. You don’t add anything for so long that Frankie’s eyelids start to get heavy, but just as sleep starts to lap around his ankles, he hears you say, far softer than before, “I appreciate it, Fish.”

Friday, then: Frankie learns he has a jealous streak for you, and he learns that he can feel ashamed of how he sometimes treats you. Both revelations pale in comparison to how he feels to own up to his less-than-stellar behavior…and how he feels when you accept his apology rather than retaliate with your own less-than-stellar behavior.

-----

Saturday, and the day starts promising: sun in the blue sky, bird song, the wind rustling through the leaves. Storm clouds gather after noon, low and fast-moving, blotting out the sky, and the evening turns into a torrential storm.

You and Pope go into town to pick up more beer, a bottle of wine for dinner. Frankie and the Miller boys stay behind. Ben gets a headache and goes to nap it off, which leaves Frankie and Will alone on the cabin’s porch, watching the rain disturb the mirror surface of the lake as they nurse a couple of longnecks.

“Good to have everyone here,” Will offers after a while.

Frankie grunts in agreement. He doesn’t mention Tom, and neither does Will.

Will handles the bulk of the conversation, which is really just gossip about you and Pope and Ben since you’re all absent. It doesn’t come across as especially catty, though, since Will spins everything in his motivational lingo.

Then Will touches on you and Frankie’s rocky relationship. He takes a sip from his bottle and gives Frankie a sidelong glance, says, “heard the two of you talking last night. Surprised it didn’t end in yelling.”

Frankie snorts and takes a drink of his own beer. “First time for everything.” He shakes his head, rueful, and adds, “we’ve just never got along. You know that.”

Will nods in that irritatingly sage way he has now. “Well, you’re both crabs.”

“She makes me crabby. I’m usually fine otherwise.”

The man chuckles and shake his head. “Nah, I mean you’re both crabs. You’ve both got tough shells. Even if you could get out of your own shell, you’d have to get past hers and vice versa. Double walls up, whatever you want to call it. Makes it tough to connect.”

Frankie bites back the obvious response: that you and he connect plenty, in a carnal way, and that Will’s dumb analogy would crumble the moment Frankie mentions that the two of you fuck often, and that you don’t have a tough shell when he’s balls deep in you. Instead, he snorts again and says, “okay,” heavy on the sarcasm.

“The problem with a crab’s shell though,” Will adds in that faux-wise tone of his, “is that if you don’t shed them once in a while you can never grow.”

Frankie almost wishes you were here to hear this bullshit too. You’re irritating, but as a fellow crab, you’d tell Will to fuck off, to go play shrink with someone else.

-----

You and Pope return, and the two of you handle dinner together. Pope sears the steaks on the grill outside; you make fresh pasta and sauté late-season vegetables. Ben is pulled from the loft bedroom by the scent of the food, headache gone, and everyone circles up around the table to eat and drink.

The fire snaps in the fireplace and the rain drums against the roof, and Frankie hasn’t felt so relaxed since South America and the scramble over the Andes that ultimately claimed Tom’s life. He glances around the table, and it occurs to him that aside from his parents, the people he loves best in the world are all right here with him. Even you, he supposes.

He lets the good food and drink and warmth of the fire work against his anxiety. He feels the snarls and tangles of his tight muscles—those perpetually tense shoulders hiked up near his ears—unlock. He feels all those bad feelings, the constant self-doubt and low-level depression ebb into the distance. He is lulled into a drowsy state as he eats, as he sips at his wine, and he rejoins the conversation in process and finds himself jolted by its subject.

It's Pope needling you, and the man is clearly picking up a thread from earlier between the two of you. He’s asking you about some guy, some guy named Paolo, and Frankie feels an uncomfortable prickle along the back of his neck.

“Just call him sometime,” Pope tells you. “Grab a coffee or something.”

“Nah, Santi.” You push a bite of steak around your plate and don’t look up. “I don’t think so.”

“I think the two of you would get along.”

“I’m not really interested.”

“Why not?” Will interjects, catching up faster than Frankie. Then to Pope, “you trying to set her up?”

Pope nods at Will’s question as you shrug and mumble something about being out of the dating game for too long, and Frankie stares at you, wills you to look up at him, but you don’t.

“Which is why this is perfect,” Pope replies. “Paolo is coming out of a long-term thing. He needs a gentle reintroduction to dating too. C’mon…what would lunch hurt? Or dinner?”

“You should think about it,” Will adds. He glances over at Frankie, catches his eye. “Might help for you to get out of your shell.”

You laugh at that. “I think I’m good, William, but thanks.”

Then Ben gets in on it, Ben and Will and Pope cajoling you into dating this Paolo guy. The Millers point out your paltry dating history, your lack of serious relationships—you’ve never even lived with a guy, let alone edged up against an engagement or marriage. Pope tells you about Paolo, some coworker in his contracting work with a failed marriage, something about cheating, the man is hurting, blah blah. Frankie is shocked to find that his jealous streak isn’t just wide but deep—it feels like a bone-deep ache, a cold searing in his gut as the guys egg you on, try to convince you to just meet the dude.

“What do you say, Fish?” Pope asks, and Frankie glances up and finds your eyes settled on him. There’s a question there, but Frankie can’t see beyond his own tough exterior to know what it is.

“Sure,” he replies with a shrug he hopes looks nonchalant. “I’m sure this Paolo guy would love to be disappointed by you.”

Which earns him a punch in the shoulder from Ben, who’s sitting beside him, and rolled eyes from Pope, and a disappointed tsk-ing from Will.

Frankie doesn’t see how his barb lands with you, though. As soon as he launches it, he looks away, looks down at his plate, so he can’t see if you are hurt or not by him.

But he hears your reply to Pope. He hears you say, “you know what? Sure. Give him my number. I don’t have any better prospects.”

-----

The rest of the evening is a blur. There’s a robust game of poker, low stakes, and the beer flows steady as the conversation.

Frankie goes mute, only mumbles out monosyllabic answers when the conversation turns to him. His thoughts turn maudlin.

He always felt a step ahead of the guys. More mature. More of a man. Him and Tom, both: making the adult choice to marry instead of drifting around in the chaos of the post-army bachelor life. Where Pope and the Millers lived in bland beige apartment complexes, strung together short-term relationships and hook-ups, Frankie had a house with a wife. He felt a smug satisfaction when he’d meet up with the guys back then, like he and Tom were the sage elder statemen of the group.

You had been there too, of course, but it was different with you. Back then, Frankie used to compare you against his wife—you were the other woman in his life, so you were a handy comparison to his wife, Sophia. You were prickly where Soph was sweet. Opinionated where Soph wasn’t. When Frankie held the two of you up, it made Sophie shine brighter.

But now hindsight is twenty-twenty. Because Frankie always compared the two of you, he can’t help but craft an alternate universe where a marriage to you had faltered and then fell apart. With Soph, it had been ugly: she never spoke up, never held him to account for his increasingly bad behavior as his addiction took hold. She merely left one day—Frankie came home to an empty house and instructions to not reach out to her, that her lawyer would be in touch.

You’re the one who had confronted Frankie. You’re the one who arranged for the intervention, who chased him when he stormed out, who grabbed him by the arm and shook him, told him he had to get his shit together and get help. You’re the one who handled everything: packing his bag, getting him on the plane to the rehab. You found him a place for when he got out, you and Pope salvaging as much as you could from his marital home before it was sold as part of the divorce.

And now he’s back to square one, but even more so. He’s divorced. He’s a recovering addict. He’s got a bad back and a suspended pilot’s license. He’s nobody’s bargain, as the song goes, but he wonders how much his low mood right now is linked to you. Pope and the Millers talk you up, gas you up for this date with Pope’s buddy, and Frankie feels worse and worse the more he realizes you may slip away from him.

It's a startling revelation that he even cares. If asked, he’d lie and say he doesn’t, that you can date whoever you want, move away to wherever. That if he never sees you again, he’ll be perfectly okay, because the two of you have never gotten along and the hooking up has just been two bored, lonely people mutually using each other.

But he remembers a million little moments of you being…not kind, maybe. You’re prickly with your kindness, you sigh and roll your eyes when you do nice things for him, but you’re the one who started him on the path of recovery. You’re the one who stood in front of him at Tom’s wake and told him in a low voice that it wasn’t his fault, it was no one’s fault but Tom’s own greed.

Hell, he bets you’ve even taken the couch this whole time in the cabin because of his bad back.

Frankie feels like he’s close to some world-altering revelation, but it’s just beyond his grasp. Instead, he just stews: his memories circle around his failed marriage, how he was never further ahead than the guys after all. His memories shift to you then, circle around you: the most irritating person he’s ever known, yet the one who probably saved his life. The frustrating woman who has had his back for years, who squabbles with him and argues with him and (lately) has been fucking him with equal aplomb.

-----

When everyone turns in for the night, Frankie waits a long while before he hisses out your name. You don’t sigh or groan like he’s woken you up; you answer him by saying his name back with a questioning lilt.

“You can take the mattress if you want,” he whispers. “If the couch is uncomfortable.”

“It is, but I’m fine.” A beat, and you confirm his suspicion by adding, “your back.”

“Mattress is wide enough for both of us.”

He hears your quiet snort of laughter. “Nice try, Fish.”

“What?”

“You know what. If I lie down with you, you’ll get all handsy.”

Frankie smiles in the darkness. “You don’t mind my hands usually.”

Some spring deep in the couch squeals as you roll over. “We said we weren’t doing that anymore.”

“We say that every time,” Frankie points out. “And then you call me at two in the morning because you need it so bad.”

You snort. “I never need it.” You’re silent for a long moment, then add, “and anyway, I’m actually looking forward to meeting Pope’s friend.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.” Your voice does lose its snarky, insouciant tone—you sound uncharacteristically somber. “I need to get my shit together. I’m tired of being alone all the time.”

That stings Frankie a little, like all those moments with him don’t count, even though he knows they don’t. You’re talking about being alone, all those times you need someone to talk to or cuddle up with or just be with. Frankie and your hooking up isn’t any of that; it’s a lone moment of physicality without any of the intimacy.

“And you think Paolo is the one then?” he asks, and the name Paolo drips with disdain that he doesn’t bother to hide. You hear it, too.

“You sound jealous, Fish.”

“’m not.”

“Because I thought I was just gonna disappoint him anyway, so why would you be jealous?”

“Said I’m not.” He’s not jealous. He isn’t. The bloom of hot acid in his gut is something else entirely. Maybe Pope didn’t cook the steaks thoroughly enough. Maybe it was too much red wine.

Now your voice turns faux-casual, conversational, like you’re just gabbing with a girlfriend. “Do you think Paolo is hot?” you ask.

“Probably looks like a troll doll.”

“I bet he’s big. Huge.”

“Gross.”

“Bet he’s slinging a real hog around.”

Frankie scoffs. “Pope said he’s divorced because his wife cheated on him. He’s probably tiny.”

“Ooooh, you’re definitely jealous.” Another rustling of your blankets, and then Frankie feels it—your bare foot reaching down and out to where he lays, your cold toes kicking him lightly in the side. He swats at you, but you pull your foot back at the last minute with a laugh.

“Fuck off,” he grits out. “I’m not.”

Another playful kick that clips him in the shoulder. “Aw, Fish, did you fall for me? Are you in love? Are you—”

He’s quicker this time, and he catches your foot, catches his hand around your ankle and tugs you towards him. You squeal; he gets you halfway off the couch but not entirely and there’s a moment of tug-of-war. Frankie doesn’t release your ankle, and you try to break his hold, but Frankie (who knows how strong you are, how good you are at self-defense) doesn’t think you really fight him that hard.

Instead, you let him pull you the rest of the way onto the floor. You let him tug you across the short span between the couch and the mattress, and he’d smirk and gloat at how willingly you come to him, but within a second you are beside him. You smell smoky, like the snapping wood fire of the evening has burrowed into your hair, and you smell like the wet, washed-clean earth and loam, and you smell like the slightly-metallic water of the lake, and Frankie’s mouth finds yours, seals over yours, steals away any other teasing or arguing you may do.

Part of him hates how well the two of you fit together. For as much as you squabble and irritate each other, in these moments, you are perfectly in line with each other. On the same wavelength. Frankie kisses you deeply, tastes you beyond the mint of your toothpaste, and he still—even after all these moments, all these stolen interludes—gets a fluttery swoop in his gut when you slide your tongue against his.

He maneuvers you underneath him and you go willingly. Eagerly. He wishes sometimes he could read your mind. He wonders what you’re thinking in these moments. Have you been lying beside him the past few nights, wanting this to happen? Or are you only riled up and slick to his searching fingers because of the idea of this Paolo, a man who could theoretically assuage your loneliness?

The thought makes that deep streak of jealousy pulse inside him, so he breaks the kiss as his fingers slide into you. He feels how wet you are, always wet and hot for him, and he hisses into your ear, “this for me?”

“Fuck off, Fish.” You whisper it back, and in the wan moonlight, Frankie can see you glaring up at him.

He pulls his finger out, adds a second, pushes both into you. He catches how your eyelids flutter, how your lips part at the stretch of his digits. He studies your face as he pulls out, pushes back in a handful of times.

“Tell me,” he demands. He keeps his voice low, aware that the Millers are asleep in the loft above you and Pope is asleep in the bedroom just beyond the small galley kitchen.

“I said fuck off.” You enunciate the fuck clearly, catch your lower lip between your teeth as you hiss out the eff. As guilty as Frankie feels to compare you to his ex-wife, the differences are never more stark than here: Sophie had been completely soft, completely submissive in the bedroom, never quite willing to do more than a handful of positions or situations. Fucking you is like wrestling a wild cat sometimes, and you make him work for it, and Frankie kinda loves it.

He clucks his tongue in mock sympathy. He pushes his two fingers into you as deep as he can, then crooks them inside you, strokes your inner wall until you gasp underneath him.

“There it is,” he croons. He dips his head, drags the slick muscle of his tongue along your pulse point where your heartbeat jumps and thunders away. “Knew I’d find it.”

“Fish—”

“Always find it.” He moves his thumb, presses it lightly against your swollen clit. “Pope’s dumb fucking buddy could never.”

You laugh but it’s breathless as he works his hand against you. You tangle a hand in his hair and tug against him, steer his head back to you.

“Knew you were jealous, you asshole,” you whisper. You surge forward and nip at the side of his neck, and he bites back his own groan, hushes you, reminds you that the guys are nearby and you have to be quiet.

Frankie reaches down and shoves his sweatpants down enough to free his aching cock, and he doesn’t even bother to get you out of your sleep shorts. He only shoves them to the side and then removes his hand, guides his cock to replace his fingers. He hears the low groan you give at the contact, so he reaches up a hand and covers your mouth and pushes into you in one firm, deep thrust. His hand absorbs your moan as he mounts you, but he looses his own groan to be back inside your clenching heat. You both freeze for a long moment—his cock twitching inside you, your cunt bearing down on him—but none of the guys make a noise, so you proceed as quietly as you can.

You’re not nearly quiet enough.

*****

Pope is woken by the sound of a thump, like a body hitting the floor.

That’s exactly what it is: Frankie yanking you off of the couch, and just as Pope starts to wake up, starts to swing around and put his feet on the floor, he hears a moan.

Ben sleeps like the dead and hears nothing: not you and Frankie squabbling in whispers, not you and Frankie fucking, and not the furious clicking of Will in the other bed, texting back and forth with Pope. He’s only woken up later.

Will hears everything. He never fell asleep at all, only drowsed a bit, so he heard you and Frankie talking down below.

Then he hears the same thump as Pope, then the same moan.

His first thought is that Frankie has made you cry, that Frankie has said something mean enough to break that tough dam that holds back your emotions. But then he hears a gasp (yours), a low chuckle (Frankie’s) and he realizes what he’s hearing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out. “No way.”

His cell phone, silenced, lights up with a message. Will unlocks it and sees that it is Pope.

Please tell me I’m not hearing what I think I’m hearing, the text reads.

Will responds. Not sure, he types.

Pope: You got eyes on them???

Will: No way

Pope: Sounds like she’s crying. Need confirmation.

Will: NO

Pope: Ur in the loft. Confirm.

Will sighs, mutters “fuck.” It does sound like you’re crying and trying to hide it, breathy, bitten-back moans that could be crying or could be…you and Frankie fucking.

The former seems unlikely. Will’s never seen you cry, and he thinks he’s only heard you once—a similar gasping sound, through a flimsy motel room wall in Central America as you made your way back to the States with Tom’s body.

The latter—the thought of you and Frankie fucking—seems even more unlikely. Yet when he freezes, when he holds his own breath so long he hears his heart beating in his ears, Will swears he can hear the quiet rustling of fabric, heavy breathing that sounds more like Frankie.

He moves as slow as if he were on a mission. He turns around on the trundle bed and crawls to the edge of it, a millimeter at a time. He reaches the open doorway of the loft; there is no door, and it looks down at the first floor, and when he peers over the railing, he sees the two of you awash in silvery moonlight.

Frankie, on top of you. Your knees on either side of Frankie’s hips, one hand gripping his curls at the nape of his neck, the other hand reaching down and grasping his ass, guiding him where he fucks into you in slow, deep strokes.

Will doesn’t know why he never saw it before. This can’t be the first time between you—you move too well together. The two of you have always grated against each other, but no one ever really thought it was hatred. You and Frankie love each other in your own way, Will guesses, and maybe this is just a facet of that.

You helping Frankie get clean: another facet of that love.

Frankie going silent at the thought of you dating Pope’s work buddy: another facet of that love, perhaps?

Will retreats just as slowly. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, though he thinks he’ll need therapy to erase the vision of the two of you fucking from his mind. He climbs back into bed carefully, then texts Pope.

She’s not crying, he types out.

She’s not??? Pope replies.

Yeah, dude, Will types. She and Fish are fucking.

Pope responds with a puking emoji first, but then he adds, FINALLY.

#frankie morales #frankie morales imagine #frankie morales x reader #catfish morales #catfish morales imagine #catfish morales x reader #triple frontier #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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writefightandflightclub · 7 months

Note

Hi Luna, I hope you're doing well! 🤍 Do you have any soft or romantic headcannons for Jake? I'd love to hear your take on him

Hi lovely!

Thanks for this ask! 🧡☺️ Hope you are having a good week!

This is the one time I’ve written Jake. Should give a good sense of where I’m at with him and his characterisation, if you’d like to have a look! (Though it’s a little angsty! 🥲)

Soft or romantic headcanons? I’ve given it a try, though I only have a few for now! He still proves somewhat elusive to me, though I’d love to get to know him better!

Jake likes to keep his mouth busy. That means he loves to pepper you with idle kisses, wherever you are. If you’re out playing pool with him, he’ll take your hand in his, drawing it up to his mouth to kiss the back of it like some gallant prince. If you’re helping him in his garage as he works on his latest restoration, he’ll ease you down on to the bonnet to plant sweet, pecked kisses all over your face. You’ll giggle as his hands find you, complaining of the oil stains, but he’s always so careful with you. Only ever careful with you. If he does smudge some oil on your skin by mistake he’ll take your hand and lead you to the sink, taking a clean rag (he bought a set special for you when you started coming down here regular so it would be softer on your skin). He’ll gently clean the spot for you before softly smiling at you, and he can never resist kissing the spot once it’s all cleaned off. He always has some old-timey music playing over his speaker when he’s in there too, and he loves to draw you into his arms and sweep you across the sad concrete floor, spinning and twirling you. Swaying you slow in his arms and making the cluttered, dismal garage feel like a ballroom. You never feel safer than when he’s swaying you in his arms like this, and you love the way his beautiful, warm voice filters into the shell of your ear as he inevitably sings or hums along. Plus, you love to feel the gentle rhythm and sway of his body pressed all warm and sturdy and reassuring next to yours.

He’s chivalrous. Traditional in many ways, which takes some getting used to. He’ll open the door for you to walk through first. He’ll always walk you on the inside of the pavement so you are never at risk of being splashed by a big ol’ London puddle as the cars skim by. He’ll hold his umbrella over you if it’s raining. And, if you get cold, he’s going to slip off his overcoat, his driving gloves, and his flatcap, offering them to you. He’ll slip his jacket smoothly around your shoulders. He’ll tenderly clasp your hands and slip his gloves on, blowing on your fingers and rubbing them between his palms to warm them first. And finally, he’ll settle his flat cap on the top of your head, his eyes skimming over you like you’re the most beautiful person in the world when he does that, his eyes shining for you. Tongue skimming out over his lips. He likes to grip the point of your chin, tenderly, between his thumb and forefinger. “Mi corazon,” he whispers as he leans in for a kiss, his face wet with speckled drizzle from the dismal London weather, and his lips impossibly soft, moustache tickling your skin in a way you have come to love. Sometimes, when you head out and declare “oh, I need my coat!” he’ll say no, with a cheeky, gummy grin. That’s because he loves to take care of you like this - in any way he can - and enjoys the sight of you looking like you’re “his”.

Jake is an incredible cook. He’ll whip up a storm in the kitchen, and loves to treat you to romantic meals. One time, you head up to the flat and he has set up a dining table under the eaves, by the window. All white table cloth and shiny silverware and everything. He’s hung strings of fairy lights all over the place and set a vase of your favourite flowers int he centre of the table. He’s passionate with his cooking, and you can always taste the love with which he makes every meal. You watch him, as he continues to labour over the stove in his apron, getting everything perfect for you. “Mi amor. Ven aquí.” He scoops up a spoonful from the pan, wanting you to taste it, always blowing on the spoonful so it isn’t too hot for you.

Jake loves kittens! 🥹

Jake loves to sing to you. If ever you’re stressed or worried he will scoop you up. Take you to bed and wrap himself around you until you feel all safe and held. He will stroke you and shush you and he will sing gentle songs for you until you feel calm or ready to talk things through with him. “What’s that song, Jake?” It’s beautiful. “It’s a love song. For you.”

You know Jake can be intimidating. That he has needed to be the protector for Marc and Steven, and now, he takes care of you too. He will never let any harm or woe befall you, if he can help it. To others he may be scary or menacing, but to you he’s faithful, constant, passionate, and dedicated, and you want to protect him too.

“Thank you,” Jake says one evening as he’s holding you. “What for?” “For loving me. I always wanted to know what that felt like. Always dreamed of it.” Your heart fractures for him. “And is it what you dreamed?” “No, my love. It’s even sweeter.”

#Jake Lockley x reader #Oscar Isaac

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boozenboze · 1 year

Text

Take a Damn Shower

Daryl Dixon x Dom!Male reader

Summary:Convincing Daryl is quite the task when it comes to him showering.So when Carol almost ran out of ideas her mind was set upon the most hygienic person she knew.

Daryl was a stubborn man,sometimes he could be reasoned with and others he can’t.This is how we built up to our current situation.It’s been a while since Rick and the others arrived at Alexandria and Daryl has been refusing to take a shower.It was quite annoying since the male had picked up a sent.Whether it be from him going out hunting or from him killing walkers.It was becoming a serious issue since the male had begun to reek.

Carol had made several attempts in trying to make the redneck shower.She even went as far as to threatening to spray him with a hose.She did try it one but it failed(Daryl ran).She had attempted to sneak behind the male and pour water over his head which also failed(Again he ran).The situation began to seem helpless and Carol was close to giving up until she thought of a certain someone.M/n, one of the people had been with Ricks group since the prison.He was also the man that Daryl had been pining over.

Her attention went to the h/c haired male for a number of reasons,one being that no matter how dirty of a situation they’d be in he’d always seemed very clean plus he smelled nice.She knew because of the males hugs,there would always be a naturally sweet and musky scent lingering off him.It’s a very relaxing and comforting,plus whoever is lucky enough to hugging him would shove their face into the crook of his neck.He just smelled that damn good.Carol was now walking towards the h/c haired males house,where he was currently sharpening his knives.

"Hey M/n could I ask ya for a favor?"Carol asked,now standing in front of M/n/

"Yeah sure Carol whats up?"M/n asked with a smile adorning his features.

"You know the situation with Daryl?Well I need you to convince him to take a bath or even shower for goodness sake."Carol said as M/n furrowed his brows.

"What makes ya think i'd be able to convince em'?You know the mans stubborn so why bother?"M/n asked while Carol hummed.

"Well you know the man has a crush on ya' I'm surprised you ain't notice."She remarked as M/n's eyes widened slightly.Daryl (fucking)Dixon had crush on him.Thats seems pretty out of character for the redneck.

"How do I know your not just toyin' with me?Seriously the guy probably don't even like me."M/n responded not believing Carol

"It's true though have you seen the way he looks at you?The guy stares at you like a lovesick puppy how have you not noticed?"Carol asks while M/n rose his hands defensively.

"In all fairness, it looks like he's glaring at me most of the time."M/n said as he put his hands down to continue sharpening his knives and Carol let out a small chuckle.

"Still can you at lest try and convince him,His smell is getting worse everyday."Carol pleaded with him while M/n sighed and sttod up putting his knives in its holsters.

"I guess so,I'll see what I can do."M/n said while leaving the poarch as Carol watched him walk away.A smile adorned her features as she watched the h/c haired male slowly disappear.

M/n waved at Eugene who had opened the gate for him so he could take his leaveto find Daryl.The hunter mentioned earlier that he'd be going on a hunt which gave M/n an idea on where to go.In M/n's opinion it's quite easy to find Daryl since he tends to eave some of his arrows behind.He knew Daryl was nearby since he found a dead walker with an arrow in its skull.A low groaning sound could be heard from behind so he turned around and stabbed the Walker in the head.Another walker that was making no noises slowly approached before grabbing the h/c haired males shoulder.M/n jerked around and was about to stab it in the skull till an arrow went through it.He watched the walker drop to the ground and looked up and what do you,it's Daryl standing in all of his glory.

"You could've got bit pay attention."Daryl said while walkig ng in the direction M/n had came from.

"I'm guessing your heading back hm?"M/n asked as Daryl grunted in response.M/n was walking next to him and immediately picked up a stench that was coming from Daryl.

"Jeez man you reek,you need a bath or something god damn!'Daryl glanced at him before remarking.

"The hell I need a bath for I smell fine."Daryl claims as M/n looked at him as if he lost his damn mind.

"Daryl people have been talking about you, you seriously should shower or something man."There was a moment of silence before Daryl responded.

"I ain't tryna fit in with those people,don't go tell in’ me what to do.”Daryl said as they began to approach Alexandria’s walls.There was a moment of silence before M/n perked up.

“How about you shower with me?”M/n suggested, making Daryl stop in his tracks.

“What...?”

“I said you should shower with me,sorry if that’ll make you uncomfortable.”M/n said with an added apology.Daryl didn’t say anything nor did he decline the offer as M/n walked passed him.

It was late at night now and M/n was following his usual nightly routine. Cook,clean,bathe and sleep was the normal schedule that he created to stay a bit more organized during his time at Alexandria.He was sitting at the island counter eating some smoked pork gravy and rice for his meal.He went in for another bite until he heard a knock at his door.He glanced at the door then back at his food before sighing.He got up, went to the door, peeked through the glass, and saw the silhouette off Daryl standing there.M/n opened the door and looked down at the redneck who gave a small "hi" before walking past M/n.The h/c haired male closed the door and watched Daryl look around.He was currently staring at the painting that M/n had worked on a few days prior.

"I guess you thought about what I said eh?"M/n asked to only get a hum in response.Daryl put dow his crossbow on the counter as M/n placed his leftovers in the fridge.

"The bathroom is upstairs, you can shower up there."M/n said as Daryl stared at hm for a moment before ascending the stairs.M/n smiled slightly before cleaning up the mess he had made.

It had been 15 minutes since Daryl went upstairs and usually the sound of water hitting the tiles could be heard but currently that wasn't the case. Getting suspicious M/n walked upstairs and entered the bathroom only to see Daryl fully naked just standing in the shower with no water running.

"Daryl why aren't you showering?'M/n questioned as Daryl gave him a scowl.

"You said you were gon shower with me didn't you?"Daryl questioned with a hint of disappointment.M/n blushed slightly remembering what he had said earlier.

"Oh I-um yeah I remember."M/n stumbled over his words as he began to strip and Daryl didn't peel his eyes away.He watched M/n take his boxers and looked away when M/n's dick was exposed.M/n stepped into the shower moving the glass door to prevent water from escaping.Daryl turned the hot water on and the hunter hummed when the water hit his skin.M/n poured some shampoo into his hands before placing them on Daryl’s head.He begsn massaging the males scalp which pulled a satisfied hum out of him.

“To say you ain’t wanna take a bath you’re surly enjoying this eh’?”M/n asked in a teasing tone before Daryl responded.

“Shut up I’m here cause I wanna be alright.”Daryl remarked while s tiny of pink laid across his face.M/n removed his hands from the males head which made Daryl groan in annoyance.He began rinsing his hair and all the foam from the shampoo fell off of him.M/n had begun to clean himself and once Daryl had finished rinsing his hair he grabbed another towel that was on the railing inside the shower.M/n had finished showering already but was currently focused on the scars the hunter had on his back.He reached a hand out and began tracing one with his finger which caused Daryl to flinch.

“W-What are you doing?”Daryl whimpered as M/n hummed in amusement as he moved closer behind redneck and wrapped his arms around the males waist.

“Carol told me that you liked me is that true.”M/n murmured into his neck which made Daryl’s breath hitch.The feeling of worry was emitting from Daryl as he nodded his head,his hair sticking to his neck from it being soaked.M/n smiled before moving his hair out they way,and began peppering the hunters neck in kisses.Daryl squirmed under his touch as M/n reached his arm out to turn off the water.M/n moved one of his hands to grab Daryl’s cock that was beginning to harden.It twitched under the h/c haired males hold as he began circling the tip.He guided his finger along the heads slit which made Daryl let out a breathy moan.He began stroking it at a steady pace and Daryl started to buck his hips into the s/c skinned males hand.

“You enjoying this pretty boy?”M/n asked teasingly as Daryl scoffed feeling a knot form is his abdomen.

“Ah~Y-yeah,can I cum?”Daryl moans out a bit louder making M/n stroke his cock faster.

“Go ahead handsome.”M/n said which immediately made the hunter shoot his semen.His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath and he placed his hands on the tiles.M/n placed his hands on the males hips and rubbed circles into them making Daryl hum.

“So are we dating now or what?”M/n asked as Daryl stood straight and leaned his head against M/n’s shoulder.

“I guess so.”Daryl responded as M/n kisses his neck before they both stepped out the shower.

That night was the most unclean and clean thing that could’ve happened

#dom!male reader #twd daryl #daryl dixon x male reader #gay #male y/n #lgbtq #twd x male reader #smut

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twinklestarss · 11 months

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“As we’re cleaning up, I haven’t looked at Auggie for some time. Then finally when I do…”-Charlotte Eaves

Candela Obscura Chapter 1, Episode 1: The Cold Embrace

#critical role #critteredit #criticalroleedit #candela obscura #candela spoilers #cr spoilers #critical role spoilers #charlotte eaves #auggie james #anjali bhimani #ashley johnson

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keenkleanwindows · 7 months

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A Beginner’s Guide to Eavestrough Cleaning – Benefits and more

Eavestrough is such a part of the house that it goes mostly unnoticed unless there is a problem. However, issues like eavestrough leaks and clogs can seriously damage your foundation, siding and roof. Eavestrough Cleaning in Guelph is an essential activity that needs to be taken up from time to time. You should get your eavestrough cleaned professionally at least twice a year. If you have many trees in your yard then you might need to do it more frequently. Therefore, in this blog, we will discuss the many benefits of professional eavestrough cleaning. We will also discuss what eavestrough cleaning is and why you should go for it. Continue reading to find out more.

First of all, let us find out what eavestrough cleaning is.

What is eavestrough cleaning?

Eavestrough cleaning is the process of removing dirt, debris, leaves and other things that have been collected inside the eavestrough. Getting this done should be the priority of every homeowner. Eavestroughs play a very important role in diverting rainwater from your roof and protecting your foundation. However, they are quite vulnerable to clogging because rainwater comes with its own debris and dust. A clogged eavestrough may not seem like a problem at first but can quickly turn into a big problem for you.

Why should you clean your eavestrough?

As mentioned above, clogged eavestroughs cannot function and can damage your home’s foundation. Along with this, debris can also put pressure on your eavestrough and make it collapse, leading to expensive replacement or repairs. Cleaning your eavestrough regularly also gives you the chance to inspect them for damages from time to time. If you notice any such damage on your eavestrough, you can simply apply some eavestrough sealant.

What are the benefits of professional eavestrough cleaning?

A few benefits of professional eavestrough cleaning are as follows:

➲ Prevents damage

This is the biggest reason to clean your eavestrough twice a year. As mentioned above, eavestroughs divert away rainwater from your home and protect it. But a clogged eavestrough cannot do its job properly and water may collect on your roof. This can damage your foundation and can also cause the roof to leak. This, in turn, can damage your home’s ceiling, floors, walls and fascia board. If you fail to clean your eavestrough on time, it can reduce the integrity of your home and reduce its value.

➲ Removes pests

This is the second reason to clean your eavestrough. A thorough cleaning gets rid of things like twigs, leaves and other debris that serve as nesting places for various types of pests like mice and rats. They could also attract mosquitoes. The debris in your eavestrough might decompose and provide a place for fungi to grow. You can get rid of all these problems simply by going for eavestrough cleaning.

➲ Protects your landscape

Your landscape is a critical part of your home and improves its aesthetics. Along with adding beauty to your home, it also increases its value and makes it comfortable. However, a clogged eavestrough can easily damage your landscaping and inflict damage on it. Unmanaged water from your eavestrough can destroy all your plants and sweep away all the flowers you grew. A clean eavestrough channels all the water away from your landscape and protects it.

➲ Prevents basement flooding

Basement flooding is one of the common problems caused by blocked eavestroughs. A blocked eavestrough can spill all the water around your basement and cause flooding. This can prove to be a serious problem as it leads to the growth of mould and mildew. Mould is known to trigger respiratory disorders and allergic reactions. A flooded basement can also damage your electronics, furniture and interior decorations. Regular eavestrough cleaning can easily prevent basement flooding by taking away all the rainwater from your roof.

➲ Increases the life of the roof

This is another reason to go for eavestrough cleaning. During winter months, a clogged eavestrough can collect ice and put unnecessary pressure on your roof. It might even make your roof collapse. A clogged eavestrough will not be able to drain out water and might even move the shingles on your roof, causing roof leaks. A well-maintained eavestrough diverts away water and ice from your roof and increases its lifespan.

➲ Increases the life of the eavestrough

A clean eavestrough lasts much longer than a clogged one. This is because the collected debris adds a lot of weight to it. As a result of this, the eavestrough may even fall off the roof along with the downpipe. Therefore, eavestrough cleaning is necessary if you want it to last for a long time.

Conclusion So, this was all about eavestrough cleaning and its benefits. We also discussed what eavestrough cleaning is and why you should do it. Hopefully, by now, you are feeling confident about taking this service. To get the best service, you need to find an experienced and licensed eavestrough cleaning company. If you are looking for such a service you can reach out to Keen 2 Klean Windows. They also provide Professional Eaves trough Cleaning in Oakville.

#Eavestrough Cleaning Guelph #Professional Eaves trough Cleaning Oakville

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symphonyofsilence · 1 year

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does Jin Guangyao play a villainous role in Wei WuXian’s story? yes. but is he also the Narrative’s special boy? also, yes.

I don’t remember the post, but the fact that Wei Wuxian, and by extinction, the narrative sympathizes with Jin Guangyao has already been brought up. He draws a comparison between himself and JGY when the crowd suddenly turns against JGY in Lotus Pier and wants WWX to deal with him, and again when the other Sect Leaders led by Sect leader Yao assume that the Guanyin statue is made to resemble JGY himself ‘cause he’s a narcissist, and when people are saying nasty things about JGY in a tavern after his death.

but another way in which the narrative sympathizes with JGY is that every time JGY is shown doing a shitty thing, it’s immediately followed by him being shown in a situation in which he is a victim, or has done something good.

he paralyzes Qin Su after she finds out some horrible truths about him and hides her in the creepy room where WWX finds JGY’s sworn brother’s head? A chapter or an episode after that we see him being trash-talked and cast out by other Nie soldiers when they’re drinking the water he brought, while he’s doing thrice the work they’re doing. we see him cleaning the battlefields and helping the commoners after battles, we see him voluntarily do the work of the servants as a deputy general when they lack staff, and pour people tea, while they rudely clean their cups when they take it from his hands (which NMJ does nothing about), we see him loyally arguing with LXC that he can't leave NMJ for his father’s sect after all NMJ has done for him, and learn that he has saved LXC. CQL shows him in his Meng Yao Era more. We see him repeatedly receive scorn when all he gives others is curtsey and smiles, we see beforehand the Nie Captain be an absolute bitch to him so I'm sure nobody in the audience regretted his loss, but even then we immediately get that jumping in front of NMJ and taking a stab to the chest to save him, and the teary banishment scene that cancels the "guy is now officially a scheming murderer" out.

He's being a bitch to NMJ in the Nightless City? He kills Wen Ruohan & turns out that he has been bravely spying for the Sunshot campaign all this time and they owe him their victory. But even then, he apologizes to NMJ, kneels down, and surrenders himself.

He's protecting Xue Yang? You have him explaining to NMJ why he can't go against his father's wishes, and how he's scared of everything and everyone because he was never given the luxury of safety, status & power, so he can practice that power freely. In the end, NMJ offends his mother and kicks him down the stairs (which he's well aware is a trauma for JGY). Which honor-bound ancient man wouldn't have killed the man who disrespected his mother and kicked him down the stairs? What would have NMJ done had this been done to him? But even then, in the book, the narrative does even more to make JGY sympathetic, LXC comes to NMJ to calm him down, and he says that JGY's in a difficult situation right now. His stepmother beats him & his father doesn't listen to anything he says anymore. Otherwise, he wouldn't have talked back to NMJ. & after that, NMJ's qi deviation happens when he drops eaves on this conversation between LXC & JGY:

I mean if you've tried to murder him thrice, shoved him down the stairs, & called him a whoreson, taken any opportunity to scold him, & you don't like it when he talks back to you, at least let him talk behind your back. He's not even lying or being disrespectful or anything.

He retaliates against WWX & LWJ’s attack by showing WWX as a villain and the way he has killed NMJ comes to light? a few chapters later WWX is surprised that JGY hasn’t visited LXC to demand a search but to tell him that he has prevented everyone from searching the CR and thinks it’s best if LXC, whenever it’s convenient for him opens the doors of the CR so JGY can get this search over with and shut the other sects up. And reassures him that he won’t let LWJ’s reputation be tarnished in any way. (At the stairs of Jinlintai, JGY knew fully well that LWJ was doing what he was doing because he was in love with WWX, as we learn at the Guanyin temple, but he loudly suggested that LWJ is being deceived in front of the crowd to save LXC's brother reputation.) The Donghua even has a wartime flashback from a young Meng Yao saving LXC, feeding him, hiding him, washing his clothes, getting beaten up by the Wen soldiers to keep LXC safe, and even then bringing back food for him with a smile.

He takes everyone hostage, twice (his hostages are children the first time) and is at the peak of his villain moment? You have the whole Guanyin temple thing happening. (which, personally for me, was what really elevated him from an interesting character to my poor little mew mew in my eyes.)

When JGY kneels down, WWX feels uncomfortable. He feels embarrassed on his behalf:

the same effect of inducing pity & sympathy for him is achieved in the show by somber music swelling in this scene, reaction shots, slow-mo, and a wide-shot of everyone in the temple as JGY kneels down to make him look especially small, while almost 2/3 of the shot is of the candles of the Guyanin temple. in the exposition scene when LXC kneels down to hear JGY out, the statue of Guanyin is between them. THE LOCATION OF ALL OF JGY TRAGIC EXPOSITIONS IS A GYANYIN TEMPLE! The temple of the bodhisattva of mercy who is considered to be the physical embodiment of compassion!

And the sympathetic reaction shots when he talks about JGS continue throughout the scene.

then we learn that he had to marry Qin Su because she was already pregnant and he didn’t want QS & JRS to have his and his mother’s fate and that the reason they had to rush things through like this and conceive a child was that JGS might have further caused problems for their marriage because he really disliked his son. and that if a political fall-out happened between Jin & the Qin clan, JGY would get the burn of it. (still a shitty act, but you can’t help but understand where he’s coming from & pity him), he goes on about his father kicking him down the stairs of Jinlintai on his birthday while celebrating JZX’s birthday, we learn about his childhood in the brothel, about JGS saying that he could save Meng Shi but he didn’t ‘cause she would be too much trouble, and that their son wasn’t worth mentioning, we see JGY & SMS deep connection, the show gives us some very good Xiao Shushu & A-Ling moments, & even though it’s been always clear & is especially clear during the whole Guanyin temple scene, we see truly see the depth of love, respect, and loyalty JGY has toward LXC.

We see him in the Villainous Friends chapter telling Xue Yang that he can vandalize people's shops and restaurants for no reason, only under the condition that he doesn't wear the Jin uniform. But it's immediately followed by the mention of the bruise on his head given to him by his stepmother because she can't vent her anger on her cheating husband, who JGY has to retrieve from brothels every night to ensure his safe stay in Jinlintai for another day. We see him massacre the He sect, and right after that, he goes to retrieve his father from the brothel and hears those awful things and you can't help but sympathize with him.

Because what is really important is that you understand Jin Guangyao. There are about 14 chapters in the book and 4 episodes in the show of JGY explaining himself while crying on the floor because it's less about "Jiggy eVIL" & more about look what the society who turned his back on him & his mother when they needed their help, and sneered at them when they tried to improve their situation, and never forgave JGY for being born has done to this man to make him do such horrendous deeds. (And his sword's name is Hensheng. Meaning "hate to be born". They made him never forgive himself for being born either.)

So by saying that X & Y has happened to JGY, and so what he does is for self-preservation, nobody's JUSTIFYING his genocides, & nobody's denying that JGY had a choice in everything he did. Even if his other option was to accept his place, sit down, shut up, and suffer in silence, NOT murdering a whole sect that includes children by doing experiments on them is the better option. The point is that it's not the point. JGY's atrocities are only means in the story to tell the cautionary tale of a classist, cruel society. The things that JGY has gone through cannot be erased from the conversations because "JGY EvIl. Periodt." The Narrative doesn't want the reader to do that! It's specifically structured to put the reason JGY's got to this point on the forefront every time he does a crime. The fight with NMJ's fierce corpse ends as quickly as it begins. The Climax of the story is mostly JGY's monologues. 14 chapters of monologues cannot be dismissed as JGY gaslighting LXC & shedding crocodile tears.

in a story that has Wei WuXian as a protagonist, and literally starts with the monster the society has made of him through rumors and has this theme going on through the rest of the story, especially with JC, and baseless accusations are the first thing that happens when JGY's secrets are out in the Lotus Pier, and then ends with society making a monster out of JGY after his death through rumors when Sect Leader Yao speculates that the statue's face is modeled after JGY himself (which WWX especially comments on), and in the tavern when people made such crude remarks that even those who were participating in the conversation felt uncomfortable, I think it's clear what and who the real villain is.

MXTX could have written people talking about literally any real atrocity that JGY has done, but instead, they talk about what he hasn’t done and read the worst out of his every action in life.

And actually, with everything that JGY has been through, he’s not even the worst case that could come out of his situation. He did have good intentions. For all his genocides, unlike Xue Yang, he didn't actually want to see the world burn. He did help the innocent common folk. He helped them during the sunshot campaign, and with the watchtowers, he fought against systematic corruption, and he treated everyone with respect. He rescued LXC and QS. We don’t know how many others he has personally saved. It's that the means he had to use to have the power to help the poor was incredibly dirty because he was playing an unfair game that was especially designed against him. (I'm not saying helping the poor was his only objective when he tried to gain his father's approval and a secure place in Jinlintai for himself. Though it's sad that he had to fight for these things at all.) The best he could honorably do was be NMJ's deputy general, which didn't save him from being bullied and people cleaning the cups they took from his hands. He knew that if he tried to help the innocent without having the political power to do that, he would end up like WWX. But what he didn’t know was that he would end up like that if he, unlike WWX, played by the rules of the game and compromised his morals anyway. There was no winning for people like them.

Dismissing the good that JGY has done, the real desire he had for helping the poor, and what he’s been through cheapens the character, cheapening JGY’s character to a one-dimensional Marvel villain, and dismissing the commentary that he represents on society as a whole is a disservice to the story. And that’s a crime cause the story is great.

his fall from grace, the heinous acts he had to commit to find himself the slightest bits of safety, security, and respect wouldn’t be that much of a tragedy if he didn’t want to be good and do good for people.

Then there is JGY's death and the framing of it. Here is a wonderful analysis by @sapphicdalliances of why his death wasn't justice and that was the point, how he died because of an act he didn't commit, and here are great analysis by @thatswhatsushesaid & @crithir about how his death is described as a gut-wrenching horrible scene framed through his horrified nephew & ward's eyes, both in the book and in the show, how it didn't bring the Nie brothers any closure either, and how through the lenses of LXC and JL, and by JC’s & WWX’s reaction we see his death as a tragedy.

His death is because of a dishonorable trick. His last act in life, pushing LXC away is an act of love and of forgiveness. In the CQL before that, he pushes Jin Ling out of danger, too.

As said in the aforementioned posts, after it, we don't see a victorious Nie Huaisang or Wei WuXian. In fact, neither of them is victorious.

WWX, and by extension, the narrative blames NHS for his scheming & risking innocent lives. WWX is especially appalled by NHS' treatment of Meng Shi's body. He points out that JGY, being a big liar with a considerable criminal record, will be forever accused of lying, no matter what. While he immediately after brings JGY's last genuine act toward LXC as proof that JGY couldn't have been lying.

In the CQL, he straight-up calls NHS the devil with the coldest tone he's ever had towards NHS.

NHS for his part doesn't seem victorious either.

Dare I say he even looks like despite years of scheming he was not ready for it when JGY pushes Shuoyue deeper inside his own chest. (Who would he be acting for at that moment? Nobody's looking at him. And he’s sweating!)

And I think there's a "no, he didn't" in his last "I don't know." To LXC (at least in the show) when he's insistently asked whether JGY was going to attack LXC or not and he insistently answers "I don't know". It's a confirmation without confirmation.

And then in, IMHO, one of the most beautiful and nuanced scenes, NHS finds A-Yao's hat, in the book, he bends down, picks it up, and quietly goes away (and that's the last we see of Nie Huaisang), in the show he wipes off the dust on it, and his hand finally gets bloodied, literally & metaphorically despite trying his best to not do his dirty work himself. And we get a flashback of A-Yao's childhood that I always assumed we're seeing through NHS because maybe JGY had told him that story. Not only does the order of the scene, combined with NHS' deep in thought look seem like it but also NHS cleans JGY's hat when in that memory A-Yao's mom tells him that he needs to take good care of his hat.

And that scene is especially beautiful because the show went out of its way to show their close relationship pre-time skip. And we see NHS keep A-Yao's principal by cleaning his hat when JGY himself is too dead to do that. Even when the reason for his death is NHS himself. And by NHS getting his hands bloodied while cleaning the hat, and staring at it with a deep, nuanced look, that combination of care & hatred is shown in that scene.

I think he feels empty. He's spent years after years planning this thing. It was his only drive. Now it's over. And it wasn't a grand, victorious moment. It just...happened. and it was something that needed to happen, in his eyes.

And he did love his san-ge for a long, long time before the betrayal came to light for him. And then he hated him for a long, long time. But at that moment with JGY's bloodied hat in his hand? I think that's the moment when love and hatred have both run their passionate course and they've finally reached each other in the middle and collided and ran out of strength and intensity and separate, clear meaning and they just take their exhausted leave together, leaving only a trace behind.

And most prominently we see a devastated LXC and JL. We see Jin Ling's flashback of when his Xiao Shushu gave him his spiritual puppy. We see him being the only one who could cheer JL up when he was down for days.

We see JL choosing to keep loving him despite everything.

His loss is felt and the memory of his good deeds keeps coming back in JL's narrative:

The Narrative doesn't just sympathize with him. The Narrative mourns him.

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unlovedanchor · 2 months

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I AM ALL THE THINGS THEY MIGHT HAVE SAID TO YOU.

a prompt based off of the crane wives 2015 album, " coyote stories, " dark themes present. adjust if needed!

KEEP YOU SAFE.

" when i was a child, my nerves went wild. "

" i watched my friends climb to the tops of the trees. "

" i never climbed at all. "

" i told myself, 'i'm not ready.' "

" my daddy always said nothing worth doing comes easy. "

" nothing worth doing comes easy. "

" time is not your friend, time is not your remedy. "

" time is not your friend. "

" no amount of waiting will make you brave. "

" no amount of waiting will keep you safe. "

" the more fears i collect, i gather them from all the people i meet. "

" their stories reveal regrets their smiles can't conceal. "

" i carry them with me. "

" what if the steps i take turn out to be mistakes ? "

" how can somebody like me learn to stay ? "

THE MOON WILL SING.

" tell me once again. "

" tell me once again i could have been anyone. "

" i could have been anyone, anyone else. "

" i could have been anyone before you made the choice for me. "

" my feet knew the path. "

" we walked in the dark, i never gave a single thought to where it might lead. "

" i never gave a single thought to where it might lead. "

" all those empty rooms, we could have been anywhere else. "

" instead, i made a bed with apathy. "

" my heart knew the weight. "

" my heart knew the weight of ten years worth of dust and neglect. "

" ten years of worth of dust and neglect. "

" we made our peace with weariness and let it be. "

" the moon will sing a song for me, i loved you like the sun. "

" the moon will sing a song for me. "

" i loved you like the sun. "

" bore the shadows that you made with no light of my own. "

" i shine only with the light you gave me. "

" we could have had anything else. "

" instead, you hoarded all that's left of me. "

" i want to feel the fire that you kept from me . "

" i could have been anyone. "

ALLIES OR ENEMIES.

" the words i speak are wildfires and weeds. "

" they spread like some awful damn disease. "

" i swear, i didn't mean what i said. "

" i swear, i didn't mean it. "

" you owe me ears for dripping eaves. "

" forget it all, you caught me in a moment weak. "

" forget it all. "

" you caught me in a moment weak. "

" sometimes i just can't help myself. "

" i can't help myself at all. "

" are we allies or enemies ? "

" this will be the death of me . "

" remember when i could tell you not to smile ? "

" remember when i could tell you not to smile when you were mad ? "

" you would always crack, and we'd both be laughing in the end. "

" we'd both be laughing in the end. "

" now you're not so quick to forget. "

" all is fair in love and war, but i can't fight with you anymore. "

" what happens now ? "

" do we have another go ? "

" do we bow out and take our separate roads ? "

" i'll admit i've had my doubts. "

" i want to be let in, not out. "

UNRAVELING.

" i once loved a tailor who took eager care of me. "

" sewed together my loose ends with stitches. "

" stitches neat and clean. "

" but now my love is gone. "

" and i am left unraveling. "

" i once loved a gardener with his dirt-smudged face and hands. "

" trimmed my weeds and gave me room to grow. "

" i am left here withering. "

" i once loved a carpenter who carved a smile for me. "

" sanded my rough edges, crafted new and lovely things. "

" i can't help fracturing. "

" i never knew that i needed you. "

" i once loved a man who kissed me once before he left. "

" tied me up in knots and said he'd soon return again. "

HARD SELL.

" i'm trying to make something of myself. "

" my better days, i go buy the hard sell. "

" but i feel like i'm working with barbed wire. "

" i really can't get a hold of many things. "

" i'm one deep breath away from a breakdown. "

" my nerves are wrecked and coming unwound. "

" the world is hostile. "

" i'm fragile and i need someone to kiss the cuts. "

" tell me to keep trying. "

" is it me ? is it really just me ? "

" does everybody have it together or are we all pretending ? "

" holding it together with one loose string. "

" i can't stop pulling. "

"i rip myself apart at the seams. "

" i find one weak spot and start unraveling. "

" hoping i can find a better me. "

" a fresh new start. "

" can we stop pretending now ? "

ROCKSLIDE.

" i can hear the rumblin', honey. "

" it's why the weather's got the mountain shakin' weak. "

" i know you want to plant your feet. "

" we best get a move on. "

" or the devil we will meet. "

" i feel the quakin' honey, i feel it deep."

" oh, i pray today my soul to keep. "

" drop dead sprint, my darling. "

" don't look back now. "

" honey, just try to breath. "

" that monster's coming. "

" that monster's coming and it don't care for you or me. "

" it don't care for you or me. "

" the angels we may someday see. "

METAPHOR.

" i've gotten good at leaning on metaphors."

" i've gotten good at living on someone else's page. "

" i cut my teeth on secondhand sentiments. "

" you can't trust a single thing i say. "

" i keep my closet free of skeletons. "

" i'm much better at digging graves. "

" i always dig up bones in your sympathy. "

" i can't trust a single thing you say. "

" don't look too hard, you won't like the scars he left. "

" i've gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape. "

" all these words are sweet and meaningless. "

THE HAND THAT FEEDS.

" i've seen good men spoiled. "

" chained to their jobs like hounds. "

" they work and sleep and work again. "

" in the darkest nights they howl. "

" their cries are a warning to everyone following. "

" no man should stand to work all of his days. "

" and have nothing at the end of them. "

" i got no money but the change that jingles in my pockets. "

" reminding me of how little i have. "

" as for time, i am powerless to stop it. "

" it keeps rambling on like a mad, wandering man. "

" my papa was a howlin' man. "

" my dear papa gave me lessons and regrets. "

" all that he'd gone would be for nothing if [i] followed in his steps. "

" my papa taught me how to howl. "

" how to bear my teeth and growl. "

" he taught me that the hand that feeds, deserves to be bitten when it beats. "

" he taught he how to break my chains. "

" money ain't worth a thing. "

" no man should get more of my time than me. "

" i may never be a rich man. "

" i may never be a rich man but i can make sure that i am free. "

" i can make sure that i am free. "

" as for time, it's mine. "

LITTLE SOLDIERS.

" on the broken backs of all the words we spared. "

" like little soldiers in the trenches. "

" it was a march we made towards ruin and despair. "

" but we held hands all the while. "

" i swear that i loved you. "

" i dragged you through every room inside our home. "

" but you still held me at night. "

"i swear that you loved me. "

" we didn't give up. "

" we didn't dare surrender. "

" it was an honest loss. "

" now the aftermath will ring with songs you've sung. "

" all of our words sent home in boxes. "

" i fought with tooth and nail. "

" i fought with tooth and nail before the flag had flown. "

" but you were already gone. "

" i'll swear that i loved you. "

SLEEPING GIANTS.

" i feel the mountains shifting under me. "

" sleeping giants are finally waking. "

" my pulse is clear, rushing in my ears. "

" i hear something calling me. "

" the moon is humming lovely melodies. "

" the forest echoes, the trees are crowing. "

OF EVERLONG.

" out of the ocean, over the harbor. "

" lay no sons and lay no daughters. "

" among the mountains of everlong, 'twas there i wrote me a sad song. "

" 'twas there i wrote me a sad song. "

" and if my lover will not heed it ? "

" take my voice and take my spirit. "

" leave me weakened and dig my hole. "

" only my lover, not i, can keep my soul. "

NEVER LONG AN ANCHOR.

" on some level i think i always understood. "

" these hands of mine were clumsy, not clever. "

" i tried to do the best that i could. "

" but try as i might, i couldn't bring myself to hold you. "

" it's a secret i keep tucked inside my chest. "

" with this heart of mine that's guilty, not remorseful."

" there is love that doesn't have a place to rest. "

" it would have buried you if it had settled on your shoulders. "

" a ship could never really love an anchor. "

" so i did the only thing that i could. "

" i severe the rope and set you sailing from my harbor. "

" there are times i still wonder about you. "

" you are someone i have loved. "

" but never known. "

" you are someone i have loved but never known. "

" you'll never see the reasons i had for keeping my claws away when they were close enough to hurt you. "

" they were close enough to hurt you. "

" i am selfish, i am broken, i am cruel. "

" i am all the things that they might have said to you. "

" do you ever think of me ? "

" do you ever think fo me and my two hands ?"

" and wonder they never soothed your fevers? "

" and wonder why they never held you gently? "

" and wonder why they never had the chance to lose you ? "

NEW DISCOVERY.

" i want to stand on the edge of the water. "

" see horizons stretch on forever. "

" i want to know that there are lands not yet touched by human hands."

" not yet touched by human hands. "

" i want to be the one to find them. "

" sometimes i feel like i'm lost in a desert. "

" every dune is the same as the other. "

" i see my footprints in the sand. "

" i know where i've been and these steps i take won't go to waste. "

" i'm moving towards something. "

" i want to believe there's something left for me. "

" a new discovery waiting for me. "

" i want to kindle a love that doesn't age. "

" even when all the years carve lines into your face. "

" tell me will i be surprised? "

" tell me will i be surprised when i think i've memorized every touch and every thought ? "

" i want you to prove me wrong. "

#rp meme #rp prompt #roleplay prompt #rp memes #crane wives prompt

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