Sylus is infuriatingly talented at most things. More infuriatingly enough, one of those said talents happens to be grating at your nerves.
“Your towels are pretty rough,” he sighs, stepping out of the shower with nothing but cloth wrapped around his waist. “My skin is too sensitive for these. You should invest in better ones.”
The towel hanging on his waist is low. Very low. Instantly, you’re in a bad mood.
(On a normal day, you don’t think you’d be sour in any shape or form by the fact that a very tall, very handsome, and very well built man is standing half naked in your home with skin glistening from droplets of water. But when that man happens to be Sylus, it’s a lot more humbling than it needs to be.
He notices every lingering stare. And oh, does he love to make it smugly obvious that he’s noticed your eyes wandering.)
You make a point to look only at his eyes as you huff, “Oh, my apologies. Are my shower options not lavish enough for you, your highness?”
“I can overlook the shampoo—my hair naturally manages to stay rather soft. But this cloth is just offensive,” he shakes his head, making your eye twitch.
Bastard.
That happens to be a choice of word that pops into your mind often when he’s around.
“Your skin looks fine to me,” you say blandly. And then you make the mistake of casually glancing at his chest to make your point…which naturally, makes you stare at his pecs for a moment, which leads to sparing a glance to his abs, which means his v-line is right underneath—and by the time you’ve realized that you’ve done exactly what you swore you wouldn’t and taken a good, long look at his exposed physique, he clears his throat.
You meet his gaze instantly, and he’s smirking. Cocky, smug, arrogant, egotistical, bastardized—the list of adjectives you could use to describe the look on his face could go on.
“Taking quite the opportunity to make sure my skin is alright, are we, sweetie?”
“Don’t sweetie me, you asshole,” you hiss, “You’re doing this on purpose!”
“What am I doing? I didn’t think taking a quick shower would make the kitten throw a hissy fit,” he purrs.
Sometimes, you think Sylus likes to see you mad more than he likes to see you happy. He could have very easily won your affections for the night by walking over, planting a kiss to your head, and wrap his bare, muscular arms around you from behind. Or maybe, he could have just asked you to join his shower—that would have won him plenty of points.
Instead, he chooses to leave your water running for far to long it to be considered a ‘quick shower’, and he has the audacity to be picky about the range of shampoo and towel options, too.
Insufferable.
“Was the water pressure too hard on your sensitive skin too?” You mock, “Or perhaps the laundry detergent I used to wash the clothes you left is too irritating for your poor skin. Maybe I should clean the air next time before you visit.”
He chuckles, low and smooth—and even the sound of his laugh feels expensive. You feel a vein practically pop in your forehead.
But you like it. Despite it all, you like the sound of his stupid laugh, and you like the amusement of his stupid bantering, and you love the presence of your stupid, nitpicking boyfriend.
“Well, I was gonna say your shower is a little too low, but I think that might get me a few more hisses from the kitten,” he hums, “I did find it a bit troublesome to bend to wash my hair.”
“I think the problem is you for that one,” you snort, “Your fault for not fitting.”
“I’ll try not to be so tall next time,” he smiles sarcastically.
All too soon, he’s closed the distance. Damp, warm skin meets yours, making your breath hitch as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you onto that muscular (and very bare) chest. It’s like he read your mind—except instead of doing it to get on your good side, he’s still just doing it to tease you.
Bastard, you think for the hundredth time in one night.
“You’re exhausting, do you know that?” You sigh, rolling your eyes.
He lets out a low hum, curling his lips into a wickedly handsome smile as he answers, “I get told that here and there, yes.”
“You should self reflect, then.”
“And miss out on witnessing my kitten bear its fangs?” He gasps, mildly offended by the thought, “As if.”
You can’t help but crack a smile. You try not to, but every time, like clockwork, he manages to make you cave. Because he’s stupidly charming underneath all that stupidly annoying cheekiness—and you’re not immune to it no matter how hard you try.
“You could always replace my towels, you know,” you bat your lashes innocently, “I definitely won’t complain if you become the change you want to see in the world.”
He chuckles again, the sound low and this time, just a little bit endearingly sweet. “I guess matters are always up to me to take into my own hands. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Perfect,” you beam, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw as he relaxes his posture a little at the gesture, “And while you’re at it, I won’t turn down the fancy shampoo, either.”
He’s as exhausting as he is hot and sexy and cute and funny and charming and handsome and sweet and kind and precious and perfect and wonderful and adorable
Note: Just fluff. Sunday plays 'fantaisie-impromptu' (from his trailer). @mewnbuns idk the pianist Sunday worm got me again. 700 words.
A smile threatened to break your otherwise exhausted bearing, the familiar melody urging mind and muscle alike to relax. No one else seemed to mind the accompanying music, too busy going over positions for the corps to notice the satisfied look Sunday sent you while his fingers danced across the keys.
Distancing yourself from the group was easy under the guise of fetching your water bottle, moreso since you wouldn't be on stage during the part currently being modified.
Sunday had played this piece, your favourite, a total of three times. Once, when he had just started piano lessons in an attempt at cheering you up. It had sounded horrible, his hands far too small and clumsy for a piece as complicated.
He wordlessly shifted to make space for you to sit, quite the feat without losing a single note. It did your legs good, calves aching from the strain of the last few hours despite how you tried to stretch and relax the muscles throughout the rehearsal.
A single, out of tune note was accompanied by a sharp breath from Sunday, no doubt he would claim the culprit to be how you'd let your head drop to his shoulder (and maybe pulling a little at his hair and feathers in the process).
The second time he played it, he'd just returned after three years away, his parents having decided there were too many 'distractions' for him to live up to his full potential. You had no doubt he'd meant it to be a peace offering of sorts, perhaps an apology. A way to show that his absence hadn't been for nothing.
Your eyes fluttered, letting the warmth from his body and the serenity of his music envelop you. Back then, it had sounded nothing like this. There had been nothing soothing in his rigid posture, nor the harsh way his fingers demanded the piano obey.
Now, the melody was a lifeline, a shelter for your heart to rest. Even his scent was softer, the change apparent as you slowly pressed into the crook of his neck. Books read by candlelight, light summer rain, and the freshly dried ink of a love letter. It was all tangible, right there with him.
There were parts you failed to recognise, your brow quirking at the addition of a slower section. You swiftly decided that it suited the piece, making it feel more complete and balanced.
"So not only are you disrespecting the composer's wishes by playing a piece published post-mortem," you whispered once the music faded and Sunday's hands returned to his lap, "you've gone ahead and made changes as well?"
Although he kept his voice low and eyes focused on the swarm of people in the studio, the satisfaction of his words wasn't lost on you. "What is life if not a series of events out of our control? I doubt it will bring him any grief now."
"Oh because he's decomposing?" Sunday tensed for a moment at your comment, the grey feathers tickling your lips and making you sputter no doubt deliberate. "You've certainly changed your outlook"
The warmth in his eyes left you short on air when he gazed down at you, "I had to. It was impossible to bear the thought of losing you to what they made me be."
Heat pooled in your chest and crawled along beneath your skin, surely adding to your already flushed appearance. Sunday seemed to notice too, eyes widening momentarily before his wings drew closer, shielding parts of his face in the same endearing way he always did when embarrassed.
Your hand had barely found his cheek, drawing him in for a kiss when the choreographer's voice rang out, "Okay lovebirds, the sooner I'm satisfied the sooner you can go home and continue. For now, I need my soloist."
Sunday nearly choked on air as you scrambled to get up, adjusting your skirt and tapping the box of your pointe shoes against the floor in nervous habit. You couldn't help but smile brightly, even if you'd rather take his hand and bring him as your partner, this was still far better than not having him at all.
But you join him in the crow’s nest anyway, seeking solace in the comfort of his quiet company. You don’t often share words, but you do share space—share the same, balmy air to breathe, sea salt coating your tongues.
And that’s enough, you think. I could live a content life like this.
Your eyes drift, though.
From your book, your notepad, your camera—any distraction that you may have in front of you. Because, well, how could you not look?
He’s half nude, body carved from stone, a figure that would make even the gods jealous. From the expanse of his back to the heft of his pecs to the cut of his abs, he’s the picture of physical perfection, sweat trickling down his firm, tawny flesh in rivulets.
It’s hard to focus on one thing when Zoro trains.
But, more often than not, your gaze seem to hone in on his hands.
(Once, you pressed your palm to his, heel to heel, after sharing too much sake. Your skin was warm from both the alcohol and the proximity. His cheeks were flushed, too—a shade of pink that reminded you of the blooming sakura in Wano. His hand dwarfed yours, and made your fingers look puny like a child’s.)
Whether he’s holding dumbbells or—as he is now—his katana, you marvel at both the strength and dexterity of his calloused palms, the way they curl around the hilt with assuredness, never wavering, white-knuckled. Each of his digits must maintain their poise, suspending the blade in its grip, absolute control the difference between life and death.
His past missteps are obvious: gnarled scars cut across the expanse of his body, his hands no exception. As battle-worn as the rest of his flesh, his hands tell a story: of purpose; of betrayal; of bloodshed; of hope. They are implements of war; they have wrought injury and death, wrath and ruin.
But they are also shockingly gentle.
A door held open to let you pass through. A palm on your shoulder to let you know he’s there. An overfull cup of sake passed without a spill…
You lose yourself in thoughts of Zoro, Zoro, Zoro. So much so that you fail to notice the swordsman’s not-so-subtle glances in your direction. He stifles a chuckle at the dreamy expression on your face, and returns to his training.
He may not be able to decipher the longing behind your watch, but your attention is always welcome, as far as he’s concerned.
“oh, look; the plushie has the same smile as you!!”
“nah, heh, that’s way too cute a smile to resemble mine. i’d say it’s more like yours.”
🥹💝 thank you so much to jae_draws_ (twitter) for bringing tabico's first meeting to life! (⁄ ⁄>⁄ω⁄<⁄ ⁄) jae is super duper kind and encouraging and was super duper awesome to work with, plus their karasu art is just the best!!!!!! 🙈 if you are on the lookout for an artist to commission, i do hope you might consider them heh :3
[ two figures. one is sitting in the shade, underneath an old willow next to the stream. the other is bathed in afternoon light as he makes his way across with the help of a foot bridge. ]
HER:
"it's still quite early. i wasn't expecting you until tonight."
HIM:
"an afternoon stroll. care to join?"
[ he joins her and sits under the willow. she swallows, but her voice catches anyway, hesitant to agree. ]
[ their fingertips interlace. ]
HER:
"how long can you stay for?"
HIM:
"until you push me away."
[ he says this with a chuckle, but it is no joke. ]
i think Mydei has very intense eye contact whenever you’re talking, to the point that no matter how close you both become— you still can’t help but find yourself flushing beneath it. It was sharp but gentle all at once, resting on softened features as he looks at you and you’re no stranger to the way it flickers down to your lips when you smile, even if only for a moment.
Like now, as you rest beneath the covers in Mydei’s quarters. Both of you are propped up on your sides to face each other in his bed— draped in only the luxury fabric that covers you both now as it rolls over your hips and you’re talking to him. A little sleepy and a little soft as you address him, and he’s staring at you as you do— leaning over you on one of his forearms as his other free arm rests over your hips.
His gaze is as intense as it is consuming, and it makes you want to wriggle yourself a little deeper into his chest when you feel yourself warm beneath it. But then he’s tilting his head at the way you begin to smile and you have to turn yourself away from him to take a breath.
“Stop looking at me like that.” You grumble, playfully as you press your head back into your pillow a bit more— you don’t put any distance between you both, but still Mydei seems to lean in a bit closer. As if trying to meet your gaze again and he furrows his brows at you, rather confused when he can’t.
“Just what are you getting at this time? How else then, can I let you know that I’m listening?” His voice seems lower as he addresses you, and it doesn’t do much to help your already flustered state either. Especially not when you’re bare beneath him and inches away from being pressed skin to skin with him for the nth time tonight.
It makes you let out a little muffled whine as you bite on your lower lip, trying not to smile when you feel Mydei’s attention still locked on you.
“I don’t know but you’re staring. Why do you need to look at me like that?” With all that tenderness— it’s so unmistakable despite the fact it’s pooling in the eyes of a man who’s so familiar with battle and bloodshed. He watches you, and when you cast Mydei a quick sidewards glance, he seems to be thinking about his next words.
“Hmph.” Is how Mydei begins and his hand that still rests on your hips offers you a back and forth swipe, rubbing at your skin until it feels warmer and he gives you a squeeze. It’s followed by a half-hearted laugh. “Do you still not get it?” His words seem softer now but they’re still gravely, close enough for you to feel them exhale along your features and despite the way you’re not looking at him— they almost call out to you.
“Get what?” You slowly turn with your question, against your better judgement— but something in his voice wills you to.
And your answer is already there as Mydei watches you, with all the affection and desire that he’s always looked at you with. You don’t need to ask him to elaborate, not when his hand is still warm on your skin and you both share a breath for that moment before he picks up on the way your exhale shakes.
You appear to be nervous, so he draws back a bit— even if only slightly as the corners of his lips upturn. “Making poor excuses like that won’t work on me.” His words seem lighter now, maybe even a bit playful and you can’t help but cross your arms over your bare chest with the tone.
That warm feeling is back again, though it’s different now as you playfully huff up at the Chrysos Heir who is still looming over top of you.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You do wriggle away with your words this time— though it’s meant more as a joke than anything else. Especially when you don’t go far, by choice and because Mydei’s hand on your hips doesn’t let you, not before he’s reaching for more of you.
“Enough of this, in order for me to hear you clearly— you’ll need to come closer than that.” It’s one quick movement the way he pulls you back to him— almost pressing you up completely against his chest as his arm wraps its way around your lower back. And despite your faux-disapproval it’s obvious how quickly your body melts back into his.
Mydei’s head is propped up on his fist now, his elbow is still resting into his pillow but now you’re against his chest and he lets his palm on your body squeeze at you. Until it’s coming up higher, from the dip of your waist to your shoulder, then your collarbones before his hand is resting beneath your chin and he’s tilting your head up towards him.
Your lashes flutter with how close he comes down to meet you, lips just short of yours as he holds you there and his gaze is just as sharp as always. It holds you just as tightly as his hands do, but even more tenderly as his voice calls to you again, smirking.
coworker!satoru resting his hip against the counter in the break room, his fingers toying with the stick of the lollipop he’s got in his mouth as he quietly recalls the horrible joke one of your other coworkers tried to tell him the other day. his eyes never leave your face, pupils dilating at the sight of your growing smile.
you stir your coffee and raise it to your lips before meeting his gaze and your heart stutters when you realize how close he really is. you can smell his cologne and it’s hard to ignore how kissable he looks right now.
without breaking eye contact, you take a sip of your drink and feel a sudden surge of butterflies erupt inside your stomach; there’s something so exciting in the way he looks at you – the flicker in his blue eyes, the curled lips, the faint pinkish tint adorning the apples of his cheeks. like a secret, it’s something only the two of you know about. an inside joke, a sweet treat you’ll always break in half. he leans a little forward and whispers another stupid joke and oh, how good it feels to let the hushed laughter bloom between you. it’s warm, it’s beautiful, it feels like a touch of spring. something new and fresh.
people pass by, they walk through the room, they eat, they grab their own coffees, and it’s still just you and him. coworkers or more, it doesn’t matter at this very moment – he told you a joke and you’re laughing. you hit his shoulder and he’s quick to wrap his hand around your mug to stop you from spilling your drink. his fingers rest above yours and the combination of the sweet taste of strawberries and the scent of your favourite coffee syrup are enough to make him feel a bit dizzy.
his charming smile never falters though, it never wavers. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you not even for a second as he cannot bear the idea of missing out on seeing you throw your head back with an even louder laugh. this is his mission, his sole purpose. hell, this is why he comes to work in the first place.
his cheeks burn a bit more than usually and his heart stammers, but it’s fun. he doesn’t mind it at all because in the end, it feels good to stand in that lame, boring break room with you.
synopsis: growing up in the scions of the canopy has meant growing up fighting. you and your friends want to protect each other, but as you grow up, it becomes clear—at least to you and kinich—that protection comes in more than one form.
pairing: kinich x gn!reader
info: tending to wounds as a love language | approx. 550 words
warnings: blood / injury mention, ambiguous relationship
a/n: i highly recommend listening to mitski's "my love mine all mine" as you read <3 + mlist ; wips ; join my taglist
please read my boundaries before interacting. also, please don't use my work to train AI, recommend it outside of tumblr, or repost it (even with credit).
The forest is musical, you think.
Under foot, each step is punctuated with that dry break of grass, the snap of a twig. Ahead, Kinich moves beside you like a shadow—well, no, not really like a shadow. More like a leaf against your window or a feather. Something that flickers, waves. Coming and going but rooted.
He never used to take you along with him. You've asked him for years, too, since you were teenagers. Both of you performing for the other, with you pouting wildly, unable to lower the melodrama, and him acting stoically unaffected by the whole thing. Of course, back then, the stakes had been high; if your masks had slipped, it would have meant showing something unprepared for the unkind waters of the outside world.
As you got older, though, you went on your own adventures, won your own battles, and Kinich did the same. And, like clockwork, the two of you would come together in the end no matter the outcome.
Maybe that's what today is, then: the clockwork. Whatever it is, you're both here now, and you're under the shade of the canopy, neither of you saying a word. Sounds of brutality and struggle that had carried from nearby, source obscured by the curving mountain, are newly quieted by your arrival.
Kinich stops, leans his back against a tree, and begins dressing a fresh wound. Wordlessly, you approach, holding out your empty hand. He surrenders the bandage to you along with his palm, relaxed in your grip. Dab then clean then wrap and wrap and wrap: it's done.
"You next," he says, taking your jaw in his hand with ease.
He turns your head, and you let him. He's looking for blood—or maybe just for dirt—and his gaze is heavy on your skin as he does it. He finds it at your hairline. You can only tell because he pauses, eyes hardening just barely as he assesses it. He takes a step closer as he pulls a clean cloth from his pocket.
Kinich has always looked like this when caring for you, you realize. When you were kids, he used to chase you down after you'd roughhoused with anyone or fallen down or confronted too harshly by the wind. He'd put his little hands on your cheeks and check your face, then the back of your neck and each of your hands and knees and ankles. He'd clean up the grime and send you on your way, not accepting any thanks or reciprocation.
When he finishes today, though, he accepts your quiet thanks with a hum and a careful pat on the back of your head.
"We should head back," he says. "Ajaw will be out of his time-out soon, and it's nearly sundown."
You say something noncomittal in response, newly distracted. Behind Kinich, the sky over the forest is turning a brilliant pink. In the light, he looks uncharacteristically flushed, and you can't help but smile to yourself. Tenderly, you press the back of your fingers to his cheek and find it warm.
"Check out the sky," you say, lowering your hand.
And, though he does so silently, you feel his fingers delicately slide beneath yours where they've landed on his shoulder, the touch familiar, routine.
After a moment, he looks back at you again, quirks his eyebrows.
That means it's time to go home. And you do—like clockwork.
notice: this work belongs to me, kazuinvocation on tumblr. please do not use my work to train AI, claim my work as your own, repost anywhere (even with credit), or recommend my work on any platform outside of tumblr. thank you.
• a/n: reposting this series from my old blog! the masterlist will be up soon ♡
The new farmhand at your grandfather’s ranch is trouble.
He shouldn’t be, not with the way your grandpa speaks so highly of him—he’s exactly the kind of help this place needed, he tells you. Starts on time, is thorough in his work, and takes good care of all that your grandfather holds dear. You should love him simply for that—taking a weight off the old man’s shoulders and putting his heart at ease—but you’ve seen an entirely different side of the so-called saint.
Ever since you arrived at the ranch a few days ago, the one called Boothill has been a pain in your neck. It took nothing more than you stepping out of your car for him to label you that city girl, the “little lady” who looks like she’s never stepped foot in mud a day in her life.
From that moment onward, it’s been nothing but sly remarks at your expense. You don’t miss the chuckles he makes no effort to hide as you refamiliarize yourself with the animals and get used to the scent of hay and manure. His not-so-subtle smirks when you’re simply passing by have been the most irking. Your mere presence is seemingly a joke to Boothill.
You’ve made it your mission to steer clear of the man but the task is proving to be difficult. The fact that he’s now living in what you used to know as one of the guest bedrooms coupled with your grandpa’s oblivious albeit innocent nature seems to be enough to throw a wrench in that plan of yours.
Your trip here was meant to be a relaxing getaway from the hustle and bustle of city life but you’ve only taken on a new role as Boothill’s personal assistant if the tray with two glasses of lemonade is any indication. If it were up to you, you’d be enjoying a peaceful breakfast without worrying about the man bothering you but it’s just your luck that your grandfather caught you before you could make the meal, politely asking you to deliver a cold beverage to Boothill who has been working since the sun rose over the horizon.
Luckily for the farmhand, you can’t say no to your grandpa.
That’s how you find yourself wandering the grounds in your satin pajama set and the boots your grandpa prepared for your arrival. Your legs move in muscle memory as you navigate the vast stretch of land in search of Boothill. Thankfully, you don’t have to go much farther, catching sight of the man at the entrance of the barn.
He’s gone for a simple look today—a white t-shirt and jeans paired with the dirtied boots you haven’t gone a day without seeing him in. His shirt is already stained and is darker around the neckline, dampened with sweat. He’s made an effort to tie back his black and white strands of hair, though, a few of the shorter ones have escaped and frame his face. The hat you’ve grown accustomed to seeing him in, strangely, isn’t sitting atop his head.
He must see you approaching out of the corner of his eye because he turns to face you, an immediate grin taking over his lips. It makes you grip the tray tighter.
He looks you up and down as he pulls off his gloves, stuffing both in his back pocket. When gray eyes settle on yours, he tells you, “Nice get up.”
You roll your eyes because you saw a comment like that coming. Everything you do down to the way you dress is scrutinized when it comes to him. Even though you’ve only been here a short while, you’ve come to expect this kind of behavior from Boothill.
He huffs out a laugh at your reaction before his gaze falls to the tray in your hands and the glasses that sit on it. “That for me, darlin’?”
Against your will, your heart jumps in your chest. That, you haven’t grown accustomed to. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to him throwing around pet names at you like it’s nothing, Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to him. It’s easier to blame the heat blooming in your cheeks on the sun’s beaming rays rather than Boothill's sweet talking.
You hold the tray out to him, hoping the effect of his words isn’t visible on your face. “Courtesy of Grandpa.” You can’t have him thinking this gesture was born from the kindness of your heart. His teasing would be merciless then.
“Of course,” he drawls, grabbing one of the glasses and swallowing a few gulps. The shine of the lemonade is left on his lips when they pull away from the brim, his tongue poking out from between them to lick up the lingering drops. Your eyes remain on his lips longer than they should, long enough to see them curl up into that annoyingly handsome smile. “Little miss city girl wouldn’t be caught dead out here on her own accord.”
He can only stay charming for so long. “Did you miss the whole part when my grandpa told you I grew up here?”
“No, no, I caught that.” He takes another sip of his drink. “It’s just that you strike me as the type who spent more time riding the horses than cleaning up after ‘em.”
You keep quiet and nurse your glass of lemonade because the only other option besides lying is telling him that he’s right. In your defense, what ten-year-old wants to spend their summer hauling hay and shoveling up horse crap?
“Look,” you start, “I’m not some delicate glass figure who can’t get her hands dirty. I’m perfectly capable of helping out.”
Boothill raises his eyebrows, a glint of humor sparkling in his steel irises. You know the look of a challenge when you see it and it almost makes you regret trying to defend yourself. “Oh yeah? Then the princess wouldn’t mind lending me a hand?”
“I wouldn’t,” you tell him. Contrary to your statement, you really don’t want to spend more time with him than necessary, even if that means proving a point and settling some stupid argument. Your mind races to find a believable excuse that’ll let you off the hook. “But I’m barely dressed to do any work. Another time, maybe.”
He waves his hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry, darlin’. What I've got in mind ain’t much work and won’t steal too much of your time.”
You nervously chew your cheek as Boothill takes the tray that’s tucked under your arm, setting the now empty glasses on it and finding a place for them to rest. He nods his head in the direction he wants you to follow and, reluctantly, you do just that. He casts a glance over his shoulder to look at you. “Just help me get this hay inside the barn, will ya?”
The job seems easy enough, a surprisingly straightforward request from Boothill who seems to derive pleasure from giving you a hard time. Too easy, you think to yourself as he heaves one of the rectangular bales of hay from the top of the stack. The task looks effortless when he does it, a short grunt being the only suggestion of exertion on his end.
He disappears into the red building and you take his temporary departure as an opportunity to pick up a bale of your own. You grab a hold of the twine keeping the hay in its shape and immediately grimace at the way the fodder pokes and prods at your palms. You’re tempted to let go and step away but you have a point to prove and plan on doing so. With a groan, you lift the bale, or at least try to. It’s heavier than you expect it to be and the scratching against your exposed legs is uncomfortable, sure to get worse with the distance you’re meant to walk.
You’re about to drop the bale back in place when a pair of arms reach around you, calloused hands joining yours to carry the collection of hay. Boothill’s unexpected presence catches you off guard and the proximity of his mouth to your ear makes your breath catch in your throat. “Having a bit of trouble, love?”
Love? Your skin prickles with goosebumps at yet another pet name. This time, it’s more difficult to blame the heat running beneath your skin on the sun. It takes a moment for you to find your voice and when you do, the one you manage to get out refutes his claim. “I’m not. I told you I wasn’t dressed for this.”
He snorts at your reply as though he can see right through the flimsy excuse. “Right, well, you’re in my way, so why don’t I help you with this one?”
Before you can protest, Boothill is on his way, dragging you along with him. Your steps match his, his bigger boots trailing behind yours as the two of you walk the path to the growing supply he likely started before you interrupted. You’re released from your place between the bale and Boothill when he drops it on top of the other.
You’re free to make a move, to slip away from the charged air and reclaim your personal space. Instead of doing so, you simply turn around to face him. You’re met with his broad chest before you tip your head up to meet his eye. “I could have done that on my own.”
“I’m sure you could have,” he says, but the smile pulling at his lips tells another story. He reaches behind him with one hand to pull the gloves from his pockets, waving them between you as an offer. “These might help.”
You happily take the gloves as he takes his leave, slipping your hands into the protective gear. They’re larger than you need and there’s extra space in them but you don’t mind, not if they’ll help you show Boothill that you refuse to be reduced to some city girl.
And they do help, at least with shielding your hands from the unpleasant sensation of hay against them. The bales are just as heavy and just as awkward to haul but you’re able to get the job done, nonetheless. For every one you carry, Boothill lugs two more past you. His familiarity with the job means the two of you are finished within a reasonable amount of time.
You drop the final bale with the rest, a relieved sigh pushing past your lips at a job well done. Boothill stands off to the side and whistles as you snatch the gloves off, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “Well, would you look at that.”
“Surprised?” you ask, tossing his gloves back at him.
“Honey, anyone can hoist some hay.” He catches the gloves with ease, stuffing them back in his pocket. You’re almost offended at how easily he dismisses your efforts but you don’t have time to let the annoyance sprout before he’s approaching you, tipping your chin up so that you have no choice but to look at him. “Though, I doubt they’d look as pretty as you doing it.”
You can’t tell whether he’s trying to get a rise out of you or if he truly stands by his statement. All you know for sure is that his sugary words and the feel of his skin against your face leave you unmistakably flustered, so much so that you can’t control the erratic beat of your heart and can’t stop the little nagging voice in the back of your head from whispering that you don’t dislike him as much as you let on.
Boothill is trouble, but not in the way you thought he would be.
“I have to go.” You knock his hand away and turn on your heel in a rush to get back to the house, far away from Boothill.
You can escape the sight of him, the feel of him, but not the sound of him as he yells after you. “See you around, sweetheart!”
sua here ( ≧ᗜ≦) thanks for reading! if u enjoyed, reblogs are greatly appreciated!
A GUMMY 🎹🩰🪽 AU SUVANA BY MY AWESOME FRIEND @scarameownya 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 thank you so much for letting me comm you nick !!!! and coming up with such a darling little scenario ( when i was unable to myself heh heh! ) 💗
“…I am but a man who didn’t know that your hand would be able to reach into the places I had thought I hid well from the world. I didn’t know I needed you, Gray, with my expectations of love and of myself - and without a word, without a sign, you did more than any creed could accomplish in making me a better man. Making me stronger - but softer. My vow is to build our lives together with the grace you extended to me without a second thought. Is it okay to put my pride aside and to tell you that my foolish soul loves you in ways still unknown to me? And every time you hold me, I find another reason.”
If only I could have a taste of those beautiful lips which produces such sweet sounds... May I, my dear?
AO3 𖹭 Before You Follow 𖹭 Library
Moodboard picrew
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Em Yuan ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
(Honkai: Star Rail) Jing Yuan x me
I am a singer from the planet Syx Aurora. I'm requested to hold a concert on the Xianzhou Zhuming at the request of general Huaiyan. Jing Yuan is invited to the concert and he's intrigued by my voice and how different my singing is to what he's used to on the Luofu. We talk for a while after the concert - hologram to hologram - and I mention that I too am intrigued by how different our cultures are, especially when it comes to song and music. He invites me to stay on the Luofu for a while if I wish to study the local singing - as an official guest of the Seat of Divine Foresight. And I eventually take him up on his offer.
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