mostly smut, some of them are quite kinky-ish, just check the individual chapter warnings. the first ones are probably bad, they're older.
more on my Tumblr @goblinontour
warnings: angst, smut (piv, handjob, i think that's all), love and death
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Your first encounter with him felt like a fever dream – the kind where you remember every sound, every scent, and every sensation like fragments from a half-finished poem. You hadn't even laid eyes on him yet, but the air around him already vibrated with something strangely familiar, a warmth, a resonance. The afternoon sun was relentless, casting golden light that somehow only served to make the air colder, and it fought its way through your lashes as you squinted, struggling across the blue bridge in Little Venice, hands straining with the weight of too many bags. Your fingers ached, raw against the rough fabric of the straps, but there was something else pulling at you, something insistent beneath the smell of river water and a distant, mouth-watering hint of fresh pretzels.
And then, you heard him. Just a voice at first, floating over the lazy hum of passing boats and the laughter of strangers. Somehow, his voice cut through it all, as if amplified by the quiet insistence of the day itself. Deep, steady, a touch raw at the edges. You could almost feel it as much as hear it. It was a voice that hinted at stories you didn't know but already wanted to hear. A voice of a beautiful man, and of a good one, too. You were certain of it before you even saw his face, your heart reaching out ahead of you, ignoring the chorus of cautionary thoughts crowding in: You cannot fall in love with a busker. Can't you see he's surrounded by girls? You're the one thing missing from there. You're crazy. You're crazy. You're crazy.
But you couldn't help it. You drifted closer, pulled along almost against your will. The voices in your head grew softer as you drew near, and then the girls who had been clustering around him began to drift away. And there he was, finally in view.
Tall, fit, and self-assured in a way that felt like a quiet, inner strength rather than the brash posturing you'd seen so often. He stood there on the street corner like he belonged, yet felt strangely out of place – a dark trench coat that looked like it had been tailor-made for him, setting him apart from the plastic, polyester crowd in puffer jackets and track pants. His shirt was crisp, his trousers pressed, his shoes polished. There was something heartbreakingly sincere in the way he looked, as if he'd been dropped into this scene from another era, embodying a kind of integrity and modesty that seemed almost otherworldly in the middle of a park.
You felt a pang in your chest. A yearning so sharp it almost ached. There was no need to see his face. The sense of him alone was enough. But still, you found yourself rummaging in your pocket, your fingers brushing over the rough edges of a five-pound note. It was a small gesture, almost embarrassingly small, yet you wanted to give him something. Anything. Everything. You let the bill flutter down into his guitar case, your thanks too tangled in your chest to be spoken aloud.
His day had begun beautifully – crisp and cold, the kind of cold that makes everything sharp-edged and vivid. The early morning sun was all silver and shimmer, cutting through the chill, its rays bouncing off the water and casting rippling reflections that moved with the rhythm of the wind. It was a day that felt brimming with possibility, the sort of morning that made him grateful just to be outside, guitar in hand, weaving notes through the air.
