#I no joke want to write a coffee shop AU because I think it would be so incredibly funny

[some-pers0n]

WoF fans need to get more creative with their AUs. "What if they were human?" "What if [character] was evil?" "What if [character] was redeemed?" I don't care. What if they were pirates. What if this was a cyberpunk society. What if they were phoenixes. What if there was a modern AU. Where's my Qinter coffee shop AU.

[buckys-wintersoldier]

Summer of love | B.B

Just before summer break you think you will spend all day in front of the television with lot of ice cream and even more romantic movies to dream about. Little do you know that your ex-boyfriend’s rival will turn your summer into a dream itself.

Pairing: College!Bucky Barnes x College!Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 11.106 Words

Warnings: college au, football captain Bucky, ex-boyfriend’s rival!Bucky, break up (not Bucky), fluff, love, bit angst, Bucky being emotional, love confession, more fluff, so much more fluff, did I mention: fluff!

Authors Note: The biggest thank you to @thevillainswhore for the title, for helping to decide pictures and proofreading. I’m so grateful and I love you!❤️❤️

Events: Writing Challenge | College Au; saying ‘I love you’ for the first time | @elixirfromthestars

Bucky Barnes Bingo | B023 | Y2 | AU: Sports | @buckybarnesbingo | Seasonal Delights Bingo: Types of love | G5 | unlikely friendship | @seasonaldelightsbingo | Multifandom Flash Bingo: Compliments | Row One-Three | I’ll take that as a compliment | @multifandom-flash

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Your world broke down when you looked at your phone and saw the message your boyfriend — now ex-boyfriend — sent you. It was just after the last lesson of the day — summer break had started.

You were sure as hell that he was going to fuck every girl that had an interest in him, which were a lot considering he was the captain of one of the college’s football teams.. He was handsome and well trained but his character? Well, that was something you would prefer not to talk about.

John was a nice, gentle boy when the two of you were alone. He took care of you and made you feel loved — most of the time at least. But whenever he was around his friends or anywhere the two of you could be seen together, he kept his distance. He didn’t bother to hold your hand or kiss you in public. When you had dates outside your dorms, it was mostly in small coffee shops or the next town where no one would see you together.

When you repeatedly asked him if he was ashamed,  he would just shake his head and tell you that you overreacted, that he just has to keep his image, he couldn’t  just date anybody. You tried to tell him that other boys show off their girls too but he still kept your relationship as much a secret as possible.

Even though people heard the rumor that the two of you were dating — some of them having seen you —he never made it clear that you belong to him. So you often had the bitchy girls who laughed at you, gave you side eyes or commented on your relationship with John. ‘How fake it was’ — and maybe they were right.

However, while John was probably using his whole summer to have fun and fuck around — having the best time ever — you would probably sit in your room and cry until your eyes burned. He hadn’t treated you as perfect as you wished for, like men do in your romantic books or movies, but he still ripped your heart out and shattered it into tiny little pieces. So, chocolate and lots of ice cream would become your best friends during your summer break, giving you the comfort you so desperately sought. You were sure you wouldn’t find a man who  would love you.

Maybe it wasn't even  that he broke up with you that hurt you so much, but the way he did it — through a message. He didn’t even have enough balls to tell you personally that he was done with you. No, he sent it as a message — two messages in fact, which now that you thought about it, made you want to punch him in his face. Hard.

You figured that was the reason why he hadn’t told you face to face. Because he didn’t want the backlash of your reaction. You may have been angry, but you would never lay a hand on him — even if he did deserve it. He may have broken your heart but you weren’t a monster. But for now, you were still sitting in school, staring at the message to try and find a little hint that it all was a joke. Your eyes were teary and your vision blurry when you re-read the message over and over again. There had to be a hint that it was a joke. He wouldn’t break up with you, right?

The feeling that John really meant those words settled heavily into your stomach. You inhaled deeply to try and stop your body from shaking. He couldn’t  mean it — he just couldn’t. The two of you were together for two years already and he threw it away like it meant nothing to him. Or maybe the reason he mentioned in his messages is true and he just wanted to have a summer break.

Your eyes roamed over your phone once again. The screen was blurred by your tears but you could still read it. Over and over again but it didn’t change a thing, it only made your thoughts run faster and  louder, but nothing else.

John: Hi, I’ll make it short. Things between us became boring and I know you wouldn’t allow me to have sex with anyone. Even though there wouldn’t be any feelings, I have to break up with you.

John: It’s neither your nor my fault, we just remind me of old people. We’re always doing the same things and I need action. So if you give me the summer break, we can date after the summer again.

He was your first real boyfriend but you didn't want to be second best. That’s exactly what you would be if you went back to him after summer break. He broke your heart, and he hurt you a lot — but that didn’t  mean you were a naive, little fucktoy for him to use becuase it was easy to date you. You never complained much and he always had you when he didn't feel well or frustrated.

And John may have been right that things between the two of you became boring, but he never had time for you in the first place. Everything else was more important and when he did have time for you, it was mostly sex or he came over really late. The dates became very rare, and you just wished he would have had more time for you but you didn’t want to push him or force him either.

You lowered your phone and inhaled deeply. With one hand you wiped the tears off your face, trying to calm down before you felt ready to go home. They all were right, he played with you, or at least he was ashamed to be with you and you never noticed — or just ignored it.

“Whatcha doin’ here?” A rough voice came from next to you and you immediately tilted your head to look at the young man who took a place next to you on a chair. His brown, long hair was tied to a bun, just a few strands fell into his handsome face and framed it. He smiled softly at you, leaning on the table with his head still turned toward you. “Who’s causing those tears?”

His smile slowly faded when he noticed your red eyes and the traces of tears over your cheek. Almost instinctively, he brought one of his hands to your cheeks, cupping it softly. His thumb caressed your cheek, removing the tears. The brown haired man was gentle, his ocean blue eyes pierced into yours and when you finally offered him a soft smile, he grinned at you, again.

“So, who caused this pretty girl to cry at the beginning of summer break,” he asked, his voice rough but so soft. You almost melted into his touch, his warmth sending shivers through your body and you needed a moment to gather your thoughts before you spoke.

“I— my boyfriend or now ex-boyfriend. He sent me a message that he wants to have the summer for himself and after we could date again,” you answered, smiling softly at the man in front of you. He shook his head, knowing that the smile on your lips was nothing but fake, and as much as he loved to see you smile, he didn’t  want you to force one onto your lips to play your hurt off. “What are you doing here still, James?”

James’ eyes widened when his name slipped past your lips. Before he could stop himself, he grinned even wider at you. “Ya know my name, huh, babydoll? I had something to clear up with the coach.”

“Of course, I do. You're one of the most famous boys in college,” you said and he nodded. You weren’t  wrong. Even students who didn’t follow football knew of him too. On the other hand, your ex-boyfriend was James' rival. “You're the captain of the football team, or the captain of one of them. The other is John…”

James nodded again, then he cleared his throat and tilted your head up with his hand that still captured your cheek. “Yeah…” he trailed off slightly. “So, can we get back to ya statement, that he sent ya a message to break up with ya. Ya know that’s how little school boys do it.”

You chuckled softly, nodding. You definitely knew that it wasn’t a nice way to break up with someone you used to love but you couldn’t change it. You let your eyes trail over James' handsome face for a moment, taking in every small detail of his pretty face. You had never been this close to him before and he looked even more stunning up close.

“Ya droolin’, babydoll,” James pointed out and used his pointer finger to close your mouth. Your eyes widened and you wiped over your mouth, growling at him when you didn't feel the saliva. “Jus’ wanted to warn ya before ya make a fool out of ya'self.”

You nodded, glaring at him for a moment longer before you finally found the courage and the words to tell him what was on your mind since he mentioned that John's behavior was kind of childish. You inhaled deeply, letting your eyes wander back to his beautiful blue ones. Your tongue poked out, wetting your lips and you noticed with a giggle that James eyes immediately darted down to your lips.

“It's not the only shitty thing he did,” you mumbled. James' eyes widened in curiosity. He didn’t  want to push you to tell him, but he would have loved to hear what his rival was like when he had such a pretty girl like you by his side. “He said we became boring, and that's neither mine nor his fault. Maybe he is right, but he never had time, it was mostly about sex, or nights together but otherwise he was always busy.”

You weren’t even sure why you told James about that but he was the only one who seemed curious and you just hoped he wouldn't use it against you. If anything, he would probably only use it against John.

James nodded, his eyes narrowed and he looked away for a moment. His hand never left your cheek and it gave you more comfort than you thought it would. But you were glad he sat down next to you and used his time to let you talk about John, offering you the comfort you were seeking so badly. When he looked back at you, his eyes glistened with something you had never seen before but it made you feel warm and safe with him.

“What a shame, with such a pretty girl by his side too…” he mumbled more to himself. “Did he at least introduce ya to his friends and family? The two of ya were together for over two years, right?”

You nodded slightly, definitely surprised by James' knowledge of your and John's relationship. “Yes but he didn't introduce me to his family. I know his friends but not really, he always tried to meet up when no one else was around.”

“So….” James trailed off, he already knew the answer but he wanted to hear it again — he wanted to hear that John was a dick who couldn't treat his girlfriend like a man but like a school boy. His ocean blue eyes were piercing into yours again, his lips were slightly curled up. “He didn't show you off — neither to his family, nor to his friends, when possible — not to the world?”

You shook your head. “N-No, not once… his friends saw us together maybe once or twice but we never went to their birthdays together. I-I was invited too, but John said I wouldn't like it there so he already told them I wasn’t interested in coming to their parties.”

“Dickhead,” James mumbled under his breath. His eyes never left yours and he inhaled deeply. “He's an idiot.”

You shrugged, smiling softly. But as much as you tried to hide the pain, it didn’t work with Bucky looking at you so intensely like he could read your soul. His fingers still caressed your cheek, two of them moving to your jaw and wandering along to your chin and back to your ear. “It's not that much of a big deal…”

James huffed with an amused expression on his face, shaking his head slightly. The few strands that hung in his face moved with his head from side to side. You wanted to wrap them around your fingers and play with his brown strands. “Oh, ya don't know how much of a big deal that is when a boy doesn't show off his girl by his side. If ya were mine, I would show you off to everyone — would make sure everyone knows you belong to me. I would even kiss ya in public, so everyone would know that this pretty girl is mine — would show ya off to everyone! Whatever ya ask for, wish for, it would be yours so ya know how much I care about ya.”

“What if—“ you thought for a moment before speaking your thoughts out loud. “If I would ask for the world, or for the stars? You can’t give them to me.” You chuckled softly, your heart beat faster when you heard his words. But at the same time you knew that he couldn’t give you everything. As much as a person loves someone, no one can give one the world, or the stars right?

“Trust me, babydoll, if you asked me for the world, I would get it for you. You want the stars? Oh, babydoll, you would get even those. A man has to carry his princess in his hands or else he isn’t worth her attention and love,” James said, he let his hand travel from your cheek to your chin. He tilted your head up with his hand underneath your chin, getting all of your attention. “How about that… ya put your stuff into ya bag. And then I invite ya to get ice cream with me.”

James pulled your stuff closer and waited patiently for you to put it into your bag. He leaned back in his seat, his ocean blue eyes roaming over your body, mostly over your face. You put your things into your bag, his offer is too good to say no. With one smooth movement you closed the zipper of your bag.

You got off, and swung the bag to carry it over your shoulder but James grasped it with one hand and took it out of your hand. With a smirk he got up as well and walked towards the door of the classroom, waiting for you to follow him.

“Whatcha looking like that? Ya comin’ or want to stay there all day?” He grinned at you. With his free hand, he tucked a strand of his long, brown hair behind his ear. “Told ya, a man has to carry his girl in his hands, now get ya pretty ass over here or I’m gonna eat all the ice cream by myself.”

Your mouth dropped open at his words, clearly to his amusement. You walked toward him, closing your mouth slowly before you reached for your bag but James turned to the side and trapped it between him and the door. He smirked at you, holding his hand into the direction he wanted you to walk. James' slightly raised eyebrow gave you no room to argue with him.

“You don’t know if my ass is pretty, maybe you don’t like it,” you said with a shrug. James waited a moment before he followed you, his eyes roaming down your back to your swinging hips and your ass. He had to hold back a moan as a response to your beauty and the way your hips swayed from one side to the other.

He then walked through the hallway, following you until he walked next to you. “Ya have the most beautiful ass I’ve ever seen. But I couldn't have imagined it otherwise, ya’re the prettiest girl.”

It wasn’t like he had checked out a lot of girls, almost none since he had a crush on someone. James couldn’t look at another girl the same anymore after he fell in love, it felt like he had cheated and he didn’t like the feeling, even though the girl didn’t even know he was in love with her.

“Do you have a girlfriend, James? I mean, you're a football captain, handsome, nice. You should go to her instead of getting ice cream with your rival's ex-girlfriend,” you asked, curious about the captain's answer. You didn’t know much about him, he wasn’t a playboy — that was for sure. You had only seen him fielding once with a girl, maybe it was just talking to her.

“No girlfriend. Have a crush on someone but she doesn’t know about it,” he said with a shrug and opened the front door to let you walk outside first. You thanked him, feeling butterflies in your stomach about such a small but meaningful gesture. “Ya can call me Bucky. Most of my friends call me Bucky.”

“Okay, then, Bucky, who don’t you tell her?” A groan left his plump lips and you giggled softly. That was the topic every guy tried to avoid when he talked to girls. But since it was just you and him, he would maybe tell you more about her. “You look good but don’t talk to girls, that’s definitely a good thing when it comes to girls.”

Bucky nodded. He knew what girls liked and what they didn’t like — mostly because of his friends in the team who had girlfriends. He was not just once in the middle of an argument where he had to assure the girl that the team went out without other girls.

“I know, but ya know. Don’t think she even noticed me.” Bucky said, leading you to his car. His big hand had found its way to the small of your back after you had left the building with him. His hand was warm and comforting.

“How can someone not notice you? You’re the captain of the football team.” You were almost shocked about his statement. Everyone who wasn’t completely new in school knew about the captains of the teams — mostly even knew about the other members of the team. They were all pretty handsome and the typical guy girls read in books when they tried to make their perfect boyfriend in their minds.

“Because not everyone likes football? Some people ignore us too,” Bucky said. He opened his car, letting you sit before he shut the door and walked around the car, getting into it as well. He had a dark blue Jeep, it was clean and you were surprised that it was really that clean.

Bucky was a college boy, a football college boy. So you thought he would have a messy car, but instead it was even cleaner than yours would probably be.

“You really love that car?” You earned a nod, followed by a chuckle. Bucky's cheeks heated up and he wanted to hit his head against the steering wheel, he made a fool out of himself with you being so close to him.

“Yeah, don’t like it messy. Ya, don’t look at me like that, I know whatcha wanted to say!” Bucky laughed, starting the car to drive the two of you to his favorite ice shop. “You will love the ice there, they have more flavors than you can imagine.”

The two of you stayed silent for a moment, both stuck in your minds and thoughts. Your eyes were focused on Bucky while he was focused on the street. Even though he didn’t turn his head, he watched you out of the corner of his eye, smirking to himself when he noticed that you stared at him once again.

After a few minutes you cleared your throat, getting him to turn his face for a moment toward you. Bucky offered you a soft smile before his eyes darted back to the street, but he was still letting you know that he listens to you with a hum.

“Why are you doing this for me? I mean, you don’t know me and I’m just the pathetic ex-girlfriend of your rival,” you asked, smacking yourself mentally for even asking that. But you didn’t want him to do that for you because he felt pity.

“I will tell ya at the end of the summer break,” he said, his eyes finding yours once again. He could see the way you were looking at him, that there was more behind the question than just curiosity. “You’re not a burden and I don’t do it because I feel pity for you, so get those thoughts out of your pretty mind immediately, babydoll.”

You chuckled, eyes still remaining on Bucky while he drove the two of you to the ice cream shop he loved so much. Little did you know, it was also your favorite one, only when you arrived did your eyes widen and you stared at Bucky with an excited glisten in your eyes. He grinned at you, getting out of the car to almost run around so he could open the door for you, while you stared at the shop with a huge grin on your face.

“My lady,” Bucky smirked and offered you his hand to take. He helped you get out of the car, his lips curled even further up when he noticed that you couldn’t take your eyes off the ice cream shop. “Like that?”

“I—” you trailed off, letting your eyes wander to meet Bucky's ocean blue ones. You smirked at him, raising an eyebrow before clearing your throat to hide the excitement. Even though you were pretty sure Bucky knew how excited you were already. “I don't just like it… I LOVE IT. That's my favorite ice cream shop!”

You had always wanted to go here with John, but he would just shake his head and tell you that the one closer to your apartment was just as good or that this one was too expensive for just ice cream. He wasn't wrong, it wasn’t as cheap as other smaller ones. But the others didn’t have that amount of different ice creams and they didn’t taste as good as they did in your favorite ice cream shop.

Bucky nodded, taking your hand into his and interlacing your fingers. His grip was firm but so comforting that you didn’t even think about removing your hand from his. The two of you walked then slowly to the entrance of the little building. It wasn’t as full as you thought it would be, even a few tables were free and you already looked around to find the best place before you had even decided which ice cream you wanted.

“You already know what you want?” Bucky asked and got your attention back. He had already pulled you toward the counter, greeting the woman behind it. The brown haired man didn’t offer her the smile he showed you, she only got a small grin which didn't even reach his sparkling eyes. The moment his eyes landed on you, his eyes were even softer and his smile bigger, lighting up the blue in his eyes. “You can have as many as you want.”

“I know I'm gonna pay for my ice cream myself.” You mumbled and looked at all the different ones to decide which ones you wanted. Bucky grunted, he would definitely pay for the ice cream, he wouldn't have asked you if he let you pay for it yourself. He nodded slowly, glaring at the woman behind the counter, letting her know that he would pay. You looked up at her, smiling softly. “I—”

You stuttered when you tried to decide if you really wanted those flavors or different but then you let her finally know which you wanted. Your eyes wandered to Bucky, who had a mischievous grin on his face and you rolled your eyes, letting your head fall against his shoulder and looked up at him.

“You won't let me pay for my ice cream, right?” He shook his head, looking down at you with the most intense but softest expression you had ever seen on someone's face. You were not sure what there was between you and him but it gave you the comfort you were always looking for — you didnt really know him but it felt like you had known him forever already.

“I asked you out, so I'm gonna pay. No discussion, just get your ice cream and get us a table,” Bucky said and leaned his head against yours for a moment until the woman behind the counter gave you your ice cream and you did as you were told after mumbling a soft ‘thank you’ into Bucky's shoulder.

— —

The first few days of summer break you spent in your apartment, wrapped into a blanket and watching a lot of movies while eating even more ice cream. But instead of crying your eyes out, you had company from your — now — best friend. After your ice cream date with Bucky the two of you walked through the park until the sun went down and even then you two had so much more to talk about — so you offered to meet him the next day. And that's exactly what the two of you did, since then you met every day.

Bucky always brought you small presents and gave you a lot of compliments. You could stand in front of him in a dress or in your pajamas with messy hair — he always told you how beautiful and stunning you were. You first didn't believe him, thinking it was just a joke but whenever you looked into his ocean blue eyes, there was nothing but the truth and love visible.

Today he asked you to go out with him again. He had a surprise and who were you to say no to such a sweet and gentle man? Bucky didn’t just help you to forget about John, but he also showed you what love and affection really meant. He wasn’t afraid to show you off to the world, even though you were not his girl, yet.

“Babydoll, are ya ready?” he asked, peeking through the door of your bedroom with a smirk. Bucky knew that you were at least dressed, otherwise he wouldn't look without permission. When his eyes met yours you blushed softly but shook your head.

Bucky's eyes widened, he then narrowed them and took a step into your bedroom. You looked so perfect in your outfit — just like always, so why weren’t you ready? He noticed the slight struggle in your eyes when he let his roam over your body. Without a word he understood what was stopping you from being ready for your date with him.

Bucky walked closer, his arms reaching out and pulling you toward him. He snook his arms around your waist, pressing his broad chest against your back before he turned the two of you around so you were looking at the two of you in the mirror. “You're beautiful, look at ya. Ya’re the most beautiful and I'm honored that you allow me to take ya out. Don't ya think you look pretty?”

You swallowed thickly. Bucky looked stunning, always so perfectly fine and every girl was staring at him. He could have anyone and the feelings you developed slowly for him didn’t 

 help your running thoughts — they only made it worse. Especially because John had never asked you out like that, he never wanted to show you off to anyone. But Bucky acted like you were the only girl in the world — little did you know, in his world you were the only one.

“Y-You're so pretty…” You mumbled, causing Bucky to chuckle into your neck. He had his head placed on your shoulder, staring at you in his arms through the mirror with a smile. He wouldn’t leave the room, not until he’s sure it was what you wanted too — otherwise he would just carry you into the living room and cuddle with you all night. “You're so perfect, stunning. Every girl is always staring at you, and you could have them all… And I am just me.”

“Ya don't understand, do ya? I don't care who is looking at me, they can look all they want,” Bucky said into your neck, trying to hold himself back so he wouldn’t confess everything. “Do ya remember the day where we went the first time to the ice cream shop? Ya said it ya’self, that I'm not a playboy. Let them look, they aren't out with me, are they? Plus the thing I’ve planned for the two of us is just ya and me.”

He wanted to say so much more, but he just couldn’t. At least not right now, it wasn’t that he didn’t mean it or is scared, but he wanted to prove it all to you, before he made the next step. Bucky wanted you to see that he meant everything he said and then — then he would do the next step with you.

You nodded softly, letting Bucky lead you out of the bedroom. His arms were still around your waist, his chest pressed against your back while the two of you walked through the floor toward your living room to pick up your phone and his bag.

“Do you trust me, babydoll?” With a soft smirk you turned your head to face Bucky, nodding slightly once again. “Then trust me that you're stunning and you are you but that's the point, that's what makes you special. You make yourself special.”

Bucky’s expression was soft but serious. You didn’t have words, knowing that he meant every single word he said without doubt.

“T-thank you,” you mumbled, sending a shiver through Bucky’s body. He adored the way you reacted whenever he made a compliment, so shy and just cute.

He led you to his car, still being such a gentleman and when you first thought it was just to impress you, you were now pretty sure that Bucky was always like that around someone he likes. He didn’t promise you too much when he said that a man had to carry his girl in his hands — you may not have been his girl but he did it anyway.

As much as you tried to find out where the two of you were going, he didn't tell you. Bucky was good at changing topics when it came to a surprise and you didn't get the tiniest of information out of him.

Bucky kept his soft smile the whole time while he drove the car through the streets of the town, you were pretty sure you sometimes drove in circles so he could confuse you because everything looked alike. When he stopped the car in a quiet, almost empty parking space.

“So, ya can either close ya eyes and promise me to keep them close, or I’m gonna use that pretty scarf to cover ya eyes until we’re there.” He held a soft, fluffy scarf in front of him and you trusted him enough that he wouldn’t let you run against something. You knew you would try to sneak, so you had to decide that Bucky should use the scarf to cover your eyes.

“I- maybe… I won’t sneak?” You giggled, it didn't sound serious enough for Bucky so he just wrapped the soft fabric around your head and tied it together. You felt his warm breath against your cheek, your breath hitched and you dug your fingers into your thighs, trying to calm the butterflies in your stomach.

“So, how many fingers do you see?” Bucky chuckled, leaning back to hold his hands in front of your face. Instead of fingers he made a heart with his hands, smirking at you.

Your chuckle brought him back to reality, his eyes shot from your lips back to your covered eyes and he waited for an answer. “Mhm…. Three?” You giggled, not seeing anything because of the scarf in front of your eyes.

“Guess again,” he smirked, letting his hand fall down before he got out of the car. Bucky walked around, opening the door for you to help you out as well. He took care that you didn’t hit your head somewhere. “We are walking a bit but it’s not far, and I promise I won’t let you run into something.”

With that he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you tight against his chest to make sure he had control where to go and that you wouldn’t fall or hurt yourself somewhere.

You had never trusted someone before that much that you would have let them cover your eyes and lead you somewhere. But with Bucky it felt different, you knew that — you felt it — that he would never do anything where you could be in danger or hurt yourself. You trusted him with everything, and you used every opportunity to show him just that.

Bucky led you a bit, holding you firmly pressed against him. His fingers played with the fabric of your dress, tickling you softly. “Don’t squirm, babydoll.”

“Then don’t tickle me,” you giggled, trying to get away from his tickles. Bucky laughed, pulling you even closer but stopped tickling you.

“Can’t keep my hands to myself when it causes such sweet noises from you,” he mumbled into your neck. The two of you walked a bit further and when you inhaled deeply you smelt some flowers but also water. You didn’t know where you were, but it had to be pretty because Bucky told you that he had never brought people there with him before.

When Bucky stopped he took a step backwards, one of his hands remaining on you, while he untied the scarf around your head. The soft fabric fell down your face and you caught one side of it with your hands, the other was stuck in Bucky’s big hand.

You needed a moment to get used to the sun but when you opened your eyes and looked around your mouth drops open. Bucky had brought a blanket and food there. In front of you was also a small lake surrounded by trees and some floors in front of it. It was the most beautiful place you had ever seen.

“B-Bucky…” you said quietly, turning your head to face Bucky. He grinned at you, his eyes shining beautiful in the light of the sun combined with the way he smiled at you. He was proud of himself for making you happy and impressed with such a small gesture. “This is… it’s amazing. I love it, it’s so beautiful.”

He let go of you to take a step away, taking out his phone. He opeed the camera and turned around, pulling you in front of him, his arm wrapping protectively around your waist as he snapped a photo of the two of you. Only when he showed you the photo did you notice why he took a step to the side — it now showed everything, the trees, the flowers, the lake, the blanket with the food and the two of you with a huge smile across your faces.

“Ya know, it’s my new background now,” Bucky explained as he made it his new background. Now you were smiling at him every time he turned his phone on. And everyone knew you were his.

You smiled, already decided that you were going to use that or a picture you would take of him or him and you as background as well. It was such a sweet idea and you would love to look at him whenever you looked at your phone.

“Now sit down. I made the cake myself!” Bucky said with a proud smirk on his face as he pointed at the cake. It was your favorite one, you told him about it and you already noticed that it just looked like the description you gave him.

“You’re the best.” With a giggle you sat down, Bucky did the same, taking a seat next to you and offering you some food and drinks.

The cake was perfect, just like you described it and you wouldn’t have know better, you would have guessed he bought it from a baker. You suggested that Bucky could become a baker, he would be rich in no time. But he just chuckled and shook his head.

His eyes roamed over your face before he looked into your eyes once again. He was the first person you didn’t mind staring into one another’s eyes for hours. “I’m only baking for my best girl.”

Your cheeks heated up and you had to look away. You were still not used to all his compliments and sweet words. And Bucky used every opportunity to make you blush, loving the way you smiled shyly at him before you had to look away for a moment. But then, you couldn’t even look away for long, and he adored the effect he had on you, he could spend all day just watching you giggle and blushing. Bucky wouldn’t mind listening to you all day either, as long as it was you who was around.

The two of you sat there, talking about everything and nothing. You had never laughed that much with someone like you did with Bucky. He knew all your weaknesses and strengths, the two of you hadn’t even talked for over two weeks but he was your best friend already. The only one you knew you could be completely honest and open around, he could read you like a book anyway.

When the sun went down, you were sitting between Bucky's legs, your back pressed against his chest. He drew small circles on your stomach while you watched the sunset. It was the most beautiful yellow followed by red until it was only the clouds that were still painted in a slight pink before it became dark around you.

You shivered lightly in Bucky arms, pressing yourself further against him. With a smirk he removed his hands from you, grasping his bag. “I have a present for ya,” he told you before he placed his bag in front of you. “Open it.”

Your slightly shaking hands opened the zipper of his backpack and your eyes narrowed when you saw just some fabric inside until you noticed what it was. Your eyes widened when you tilted your head slightly and took it out of the bag. In your hands you held a hoodie, and it wasn’t just one. It was Bucky’s football hoodie, where his number and his name were big on the back. You pulled it closer, burying your face in his hoodie and inhaling his scent. Bucky chuckled, he looked at you like a puppy in love — and he was exactly that. “Y-You give me your hoodie?”

Bucky leaned his head on your shoulder, nodding. “If ya want to. Ya can also have another one or just for yet so ya won't freeze. But actually I thought I would love the sight of my name on ya back.”

Sometime at the start of the summer break, the two of you made that unwritten plan to spend all the time together. You never asked him if you could spend some more time, neither did he. He just took you out, making sure you wanted to but slowly he had the feeling you could have moved into his apartment with him. He knew he hugged you all the time, made sure you’re happy and the urge to tell you about his true feelings got bigger with every day.

But as much as he wanted to tell you — he didn’t want to do it just yet. He wanted to give you the whole summer break to see that he didn’t have the intention to get into bed with you. Bucky wanted you to see that you were worth so much more than what John was willing to give you. Bucky wanted to show you what real love meant, he wanted you to crave him just as much as he craved you.

This night Bucky spent at your apartment, he made pudding for the two of you. The two of you were wrapped in a blanket together and he held you as close as possible. You had the best sleep in years, knowing that Bucky would be still there in the morning when you woke up. And you were right, he had you pulled onto him, your head resting on his chest and you listened to his steady heartbeat. His heartbeat and his scent had such a calming effect on you, and you used every opportunity to be as close to him as possible. His arms, his embrace felt like home.

His morning voice was the hottest you could imagine, it was slightly rougher than his usual and it sent shivers down your spine every time. Bucky almost moved into your apartment with time, he brought most of his stuff like clothes so he could spend all day and all night with you. And even though he allowed you to take his clothes if you wanted, he didn't realise he would have to wash them so often because you stopped wearing yours. So you both wore Bucky clothes — you offered him to wear yours and he once tried a dress of yours.

You took a picture of him, making it your new background. Or it was more a picture of the thick, muscular football captain in a red dress of yours, while you wore the hoodie with his name and number on his back. The two of you stood in front of the table, your chest pressed against Buckys, while he held the phone and took the picture.

As much as you loved to go out with Bucky, you also loved the times when it was just the two of you. Bucky was a perfect cook and baker. So he either cooked for the two of you or you did it together, same went for baking.

The two of you ended up as snowmen one time, it started with you accidentally blowing the flour at Bucky. He then took way too much flour and let it fall down over your head with a huge grin across his face. Little did he know that you would grab the whole bowl and throw it at him. His reaction was to run away and into the wall by accident so he was trapped between the wall and the fridge.

It was a lot to clean, especially because Bucky hugged you and was smearing all the flour he had on his clothes on yours. You were sure you could have baked a whole cake with the amount of flour the two of you used for our little snowman action.

But the most special moment for you was two weeks before school started again. Your best friend has asked you out so often, you made trips together and spent every minute together. But when he asked you to come to Steve's birthday your mouth dropped open and you didn’t know how to respond. Of course, you would have loved to but John never wanted to have you around his friends — around his team. And Steve was one of Bucky's football team members, so there would be a lot of other people too. With a lot of assurance from Bucky you agreed and there you were now.

Bucky stood with his big hand on the small of your back next to you, looking down. The two of you were in front of Steve's house and you knew that you could still say no and Bucky would have immediately drove you back home. “I-I… Are you sure you want to be seen with me, Bucky?”

His eyes widened and he narrowed them. His hand wandered up to your shoulders to turn you toward him. His other hand settled itself on your chin and made you look directly into his intense blue eyes. “I'm more than sure that I want everyone to see us together. Babydoll, I’m not ashamed of ya, but if ya don't feel comfortable we can go home and watch movies.”

Home. You could go home. Yours, Buckys. It was more than just your apartment now, it was everything because even Bucky called it home.

“N-No, I think I can do that,” you mumbled nodding with a soft smile. You inhaled deeply, feeling Bucky's big hand take yours and interlacing your fingers with his. He then leaned down and kissed your cheek softly. You felt a shiver run down your spine, you were so in love with him but too shy to tell him — it would maybe ruin your friendship so you just enjoyed him being so close to you.

“If ya want to go home, ya gonna tell me,” Bucky said, his voice soft but leaving no room for discussion. So you nodded once again. Bucky smirked at you, knocking at the door which swung open almost immediately. The man grinning at the two of you was just as big as Bucky, his hair was way shorter and blond. His eyes were as blue as Buckys and you looked him up and down for a moment.

“Thought you won’t like to come in,” Steve said with a chuckle, letting both of you walk into his house. His eyes roamed over his friend, then over you until he noticed your interlaced fingers. Bucky squeezed your hand even more, pulling slightly  you closer to him with a raised eyebrow at Steve.

They both have a moment of silent communication. Steve knew what was going on, he knew who you were. Not because you were John's ex-girlfriend. He knew you because of Bucky, who just couldn’t stop looking at you. The two men had a lot of talks, where Bucky just needed to tell him about you, that he had to have you and that he was so fucking in love with you.

“Happy Birthday,” you said after a moment, getting both men's attention. Steve smiled at you nodding.

“Thank you. Now get inside, the others can't wait to get to know ya girl, Buck,” Steve said and walked in front of the two of you. He knew that Bucky was going to mention that you were not his girl — at least not yet — but you were his best friend. To Steve's surprise the statement never came, and Bucky just grinned down at you, his eyes shining when he led you through the hallway to the living room where the others were.

“Ya don’t mind him calling ya my girl, do ya?” Bucky asked, knowing that you didnt mind it. None of the two of you had ever said those three words yet, but he knew you felt the same for him. Bucky had seen you shivering and giggling enough whenever someone mentioned that you and Bucky were a couple. But he also noticed the soft, sad flash across your face when someone did, knowing that you were scared to fully give in to your feelings without having any voices in your mind that told you you were not worth it.

You just didn’t understand that you were everything for Bucky. You always were, you always would be. But you were sometimes stuck in your mind, thinking about all the girls who looked better than you — all the ones he could have. And then you didn’t notice that he didn’t m care about a single one of them, for Bucky it was just you. You were his one and you Would always  be his one — he would spend his lifetime to make sure you understood that there could be everyone but he only wanted you.

“I don't mind that,” you giggled, following Steve further into the living room. ‘I actually love it when people notice that I belong to you’.

Every pair of eyes was on you and Bucky when you walked into the room. Some of them were curious, some of them had an expression on their faces like ‘knew it, pal’. Through the whole evening and night Bucky introduced you to everyone with a proud smile. His hands were always somewhere on you, either around your waist or holding your hand.

His teammates were really nice, they were interested in you. And you had a lot of fun with them all, no one was mean and even the girls — mostly girlfriends of the other boys — were nice. They never looked at you with judgeful expression but they talked and laughed with you. No jealousy, no hate — just fun and a bunch of new friends.

You never would have thought it would feel amazing to be shown off by a man who owned your heart. But with Bucky it felt just perfect.

After the party you spent a few more nights with Bucky and the others, they became your friends and everyone knew that the two of you really needed to confess your love for one another. Most of the time Bucky was either hugging you from behind or you were sitting on his lap. There was no just you or just Bucky — it was always you and Bucky.

The weekend before college started again Bucky had to go to his apartment again. He called you every night, sleeping with you on the phone or he just watched you half of the night because he still couldn't keep his eyes off of you. Heeas addicted to you, you were like his air — he needed you to live.

So while he had some talks with the team and the coach and also organized all of his school stuff, you did the same. Most of the time you wrote him messages and waited for his response. Until the sunday before school, where you felt like your heart was ripped out of your chest.

John: Hey, I'm sorry I broke up with you. It was a shit decision and I couldn’t stop thinking about you all summer break. I love you.

John: I know you love me too. You know there is no one who loves you, they all just play with you. You're pretty but they only want to fuck you, come back to me and let me make it better this time.

Sobs and tears wrecked your body, you couldn’t  believe him. He hadn’t  tried to talk to you the whole summer break and suddenly he wanted you back. And maybe he was right, no one else showed any interest in you, only John. But now you had Bucky, who spent all summer break with you, he showed you what it meant to be loved even though he was ‘just��� your best friend. Bucky could have asked to have sex with you the whole time but he never did, he just wanted to cuddle, to see you happy, so maybe John was wrong and there was someone who loved you without just wanting to have sex.

Bucky wrote you a few — a lot of messages — and tried to call you but you didn’t answer him. Maybe he wanted to tell you that he had enough of you, that he was going to be happier with someone else. You didn’t want him to hear your broken voice and you didn’t want him to see your tears because of John's messages.

You didn’t love him anymore, but the voices in your mind — the ones John could control so perfectly — screamed at you, that he was right. So you just wrapped yourself into a blanket and watched all the movies Bucky loved, making your heart ache even more, especially when his scent came into your nose whenever you moved because of the hoodie you were wearing – his hoodie.

Bucky told you that he would be busy all day with the coach and the team but it didn't stop him from sending one after another message, calling you every hour until he started to speak messages on your voicemail.

Bucky: Hi, babydoll. How are you? Just checking after you before the next meeting starts, would prefer to be cuddled up with you.

Bucky: Are you okay? Do you need anything?

Bucky: I asked the coach to make it short so I can come over but he has a lot more shit for us to do, I'm sorry.

Bucky: Fuck, are you alright?

Bucky: Please, answer me. I come over!

You read the messages but never opened the chat. Tears streamed down your cheeks while you stared at your background and the incoming messages. 10 missed calls: Bucky. You just couldn’t bring yourself to answer him, to tell him what was going on and you knew you couldn't find an excuse to tell Bucky.

Around half an hour later Bucky knocked at your door, calling out your name. He called out your name. Bucky always used your pet name, the one he gave you but right now he called you by your name. His voice was broken, Bucky sounded worried but you didn’t want to move, your body felt way too heavy.

After a moment you heard the familiar sound of the key in your door. You gave Bucky your keys a while ago so he could come home whenever he wanted. He stormed into your apartment, shrugging off his shoes and jacket before he literally ran to you into the living room. His heart broke at the sight of you laying there, crying and wrapped into his hoodie and a blanket.

“Babydoll!” He said, crouching down next to you. Bucky eyes roamed over your body, trying to find something that could have hurt you but when he didn’t notice anything he narrowed his eyes. He brought one of his big hands to your cheeks, wiping away the tears and a few strands out of your face. “Look at me please, what's going on?”

You hadn’t even noticed that you closed your eyes until he asked you to look at him. You inhaled deeply, your body shaking as you slowly opened your eyes. His blue eyes pierced into yours immediately, he looked worried. You had never seen him like that, almost broken. More tears fell down your cheeks as you looked at him, noticing the love and care that's mirroring in the eyes you fell in love with.

You shook your head slightly, you didn’t want him to hear your broken voice. Bucky got up, wrapping his arms around you to lift you and sit down with you on his lap. Your head fell down against his shoulder and you inhaled his scent, feeling the warmth of him against you. Bucky wrapped his arms tightly around you, pulling you as close as possible.

“You came…” you mumbled into his shoulder.

“You didn't answer,” he replied, leaning his head against yours. You felt a bit of wetness against the side of your forehead, noticing that Bucky was finally relaxing since he had you safe in his arms. You never thought he would cry because he was worried about you, but he did — maybe even relieved that you're fine.

“But the meetings. He could throw you out of the team,” you said, leaning back slightly. You looked into Bucky's face, seeing the soft smile on his face but also his red eyes. Slight trails of tears slid down his cheeks and you captured his face to wipe them away. Bucky tilted his head slightly, leaning more into your soft touch.

“It doesn't matter. Nothing matters when it comes to you, babydoll.” You inhaled deeply, leaning your forehead against his. “But I told him that my girl needs me and that I will win every fucking game this season when you're at the side in my jersey. You will watch the games, right?”

You chuckled softly, nodding. Bucky just came because he was worried, he didn't mind that he could be thrown out of the team — he came because he was worried. And you planned to go to his games anyway, but now it made your heart beat even faster. His girl. His jersey.

“Are you going to tell me what happened? You won't just ignore my messages and calls,” Bucky asked, his voice soft. His breath was warm against your lips and you closed your eyes for a moment.

“John wrote me…” you mumbled, feeling Bucky tensing. Without him asking you knew what he wanted to ask ‘What did he say? Did he hurt you?’ “He said… he said that he wants me back and that no other guy wants me anyway. Unless it's about sex, so you know…”

Bucky nodded, leaning back on the couch. He brought some distance between the two of you to look into your eyes. “Do you want to go back to him? Whatever your answer is, I…” Bucky trailed off, closing his eyes to take a shaky breath before he looked at you again. Something in his eyes switched and you squirmed slightly. “Whatever your answer is, I want you to know that you're really loved by me. And I want you for more than just sex. If you want to go back to John I will accept that, but I just— I want you to know that I love you, forever already and it will never change.”

Bucky's confession caused your jaw to drop open. You thought about a lot that he could say but hearing him confess his feelings for you wasn't one of them. It was the most obvious but you felt so insecure, so scared that it wasn't what you thought.

“I— You love me but you would let me go back to John?” You asked, you had so many thoughts but that was the first that came past your lips. Bucky nodded, a sad smile flashing over his face.

“I don't say I would like it. But I don’t want to be the barrier that stops you from being happy. When you love someone, you're willing to break yourself to see them happy,” Bucky said, another tear rolling down his face. He was scared to say those words, he was scared you would go back to John but he knew he had to accept whatever you thought was best for you. “I'm willing to give everything for you because I love you.”

You smiled softly, the urge to punch him grew about his words. You were never more happy than the weeks of summer break with Bucky. So how could he even think about breaking himself for you? “You're an idiot.”

“At least I'm your idiot,” he smiled softly, shurgging. You stared into his eyes, nodding while he brought your hand to his chest, pressing it down just above his heart. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against your hand and you sighed softly.

“I can’t give ya the whole world… not the one ya think at least. But I can give ya my world — our world. I can make everything shine for ya like I took every star and gave it to ya,” he mumbled, reminding you of what he said before summer break. “But I can tell ya, I'm so in love with ya. My heart, it's beating for you — only for ya. You're my world, everything for me.

You leaned closer to him, until there is barely an inch between the two of you. You smiled softly, his words and gesture making your heart beat faster and a warmth spreading inside of you. “When you're willing to break yourself for me because you think I would ever be happier with someone who isn’t you, then I have bad news. There is no one who makes me happier than you. And I'm willing to fix everything that broke when the thought that someone could be better than you crossed your mind.”

“Can I kiss you now, or do you want to tell me you love me in another way than you just did?” He asked, chuckling softly. You didn’t say those three words but you didn’t  have to. You told him that you loved him with so many more words but in the most perfect way he could have ever imagined.

You leaned even closer, allowing him to finally press his soft, plump lips against yours. You could taste both of your tears while he deepened the kiss softly. Bucky pulled you even closer, your hands wrapped around his neck and you played with his bun, making him growl playfully into the kiss.

After a moment you pulled away, panting softly. Both of you had heated cheeks and you leaned your forehead against Bucky's shoulder to hide your growing smirk. “I know that ya smiling,” Bucky said, his accent back and you melted into his embrace, giggling softly. Neither of you had to say anything about the kiss — it was indescribably perfect. “How long have you been in love with me already?” you asked, turning your head, still resting it against his shoulder. Bucky drew small circles on your back, a low chuckle escaped his lips.

“Forever…” he said. “I'm not sure, but it's like forever. And then before summer break, my heart broke when I saw you there so sad. I could have told you I love you, fucked you and could have helped you to get over John but I wanted to show you what love means before i confess my feelings. I could have told you at the beginning of summer break but I wanted you to know how it feels to be loved and cared for, how to treat the girl you love right. I wanted you to be just as much in love with me as I am with you.”

“Then congratulations, you made me fall in love harder than I thought I could ever fall in love. And I don't love John anymore, long ago I did but I don't, I just…” you trailed off, letting your fingers wander over Bucky's neck, admiring the goosebumps. “His words, they just hurt.”

Bucky grinned, having already a perfect idea for the next day. “Babydoll, i don't want you to feel that i just use you to make you jealous, because I really fucking love you, but…”

“I love you too, but what?” You giggled, wrapping your arms tighter around Bucky's neck. You kissed your way along his jaw, pulling him in another kiss before you listened to his plan.

— —

The next day — the first day of school you were walking next to Bucky from his car toward the building. He held your hand tightly and you felt a lot of people staring at you, maybe it was because of the man next to you, but maybe it could have also been because of…

“Y/N!” John shouted behind you and when you turned around his face was pale. He thought you were wearing the hoodie with Bucky's number and name on your back to make him jealous but when he saw the thick man next to you, holding your hand, his eyes narrowed. “Why are you wearing his name, why are you holding his hand?”

You didn't plan to have that conversation in front of everyone but you didn't mind it either. Bucky gave you a strength you never thought you had. With a soft smile and a look at Bucky you inhaled deeply before looking at John, smile fading away.

“I wear his name on my back because it belongs there. I hold his hand because he’s my boyfriend. And instead of being ashamed and hiding our relationship like you did, he likes to let everyone know that I belong to him. Bucky doesn't mind, that everyone sees us together.”

“I actually do love to let everyone know that this pretty girl is mine. She is mine and she will be forever. And ya, Walker, can fuck off. Ya didn't know how to treat her right but don't worry, I love her enough to make ya shit up to her,” Bucky growled before he grasped your chin.

It wasn’t part of the plan, you knew what he was going to do but you didn't care about the plan to just wear Bucky's hoodie to show John that you were with Bucky now. Bucky turned your head toward him, pressing his lips to yours and you sighed softly, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him even closer.

The people around you clapped and screamed about this news. Who watched Bucky knew that he had the biggest crush on you. Even Bucky's whole football team jumped and shouted like they just won a game. You heard John muttering ‘but he is my rival, and so are you now’ but you couldn't have cared less.

Bucky smirked against your lips. “Mine, all mine, babydoll. You belong to me, just like I belong to you, I know.” He chuckled and pulled you into another kiss, letting you know that everything he said was true. He loved you with his whole heart, his soul.

You could feel his heart against your chest, feeling it beating the same rhythm yours was beating. His words from the day before where he confessed his love echoed through your mind. And suddenly everything made sense, everything lit up — no fear, no doubt. Bucky loved you — he really loved you. This was different, it was more than you ever had with John, more than you ever felt for the other one. Buckys and your heart beated in the same rhythm, they were connected — you were connected. He had used his whole summer break to prove that he loved you, to let you see how much worth you had, how much you meant to him. And finally, he was able to let his girl know, to show you his real feelings. This man — your man, your Bucky — he belonged to you, just like you belonged to him. You would take care of one another, love one another like nobody else ever did. He showed you the whole summer break that you were his one and now the two of you had the rest of your lives to be just happy with one another. Your journey, your life together had just started — in the most perfect way ever.

Taglist -> @kandis-mom @sergeantbarnessdoll @identity2212 @km-ffluv @lunaalovesyouu @armystay89 @suz7days @etherealdisneyvillainness @pono-pura-vida @somnorvos @meowmeowyoongles @randomawesomeperson102 @rogersbarber @sebastianstanisahotmf @loki-laufeyson68 @winterschildren8 @bxtchboy69 @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @im-alestan @felicitylemon @cjand10 @bookishtheaterlover7 @lives-in-midgard @casa-boiardi @futurequeen2018-blog @flstrawberry @nervouseden @jiyascepter @princesscore-angel @mrs-katelyn-barnes @sasha-writing @blackhawkfanatic @fanfictionreaderfan @multiversefanfics @angelbabyyy99 @looking1016 @aphrodite-xoxo @fanfictionreaderfan @iris-xoxo-juhu @holylulusworld @bucks-babe @whatever-lmaoo

[wzrd-wheezes]

Our Band. Part 1

Remus Lupin x Reader Band AU

AN - hello i've been absolutely itching to write this fic since I started thinking about it. I'm sorry if not a great deal happens in this part but I just wanted to set the characters up for the next parts. Pls let me know your thoughts and if you would like another part of this because I have lot of ideas.

1.7k words

Part 2

The rain pattered against the windows of the coffee shop; it had been storming outside for most of the day and the place had been rammed with people stowing inside to escape the weather. As the day dwindled away, so did most of the customers leaving the café almost empty as it neared midnight. Y/N was working a late shift and was currently busying herself wiping down the counter and listening to the radio that was humming lowly in the background. She snapped to attention as the bell above the door jingled as someone walked in. She recognised the man as one of her regulars who often came to the coffee shop late at night. His hair was plastered to his forehead from the rain, and he ran his hand through it, ruffling it up as he walked to the counter. 

“Hey. What can I get for you?” Y/N asked, tying her apron around her waist. The man looked up, a smile forming on his lips. 

“A black coffee, please.” his voice came out a bit husky and he coughed to clear his throat, “could you put some extra sugar in it? A lot?” Y/N nodded and turned around to make him his drink. She handed it to him and told him his total. He handed her a note and when she gave him his change, he quickly dropped it into the tip jar that sat on the counter. 

“What are you doing working so late, anyway?” he asked, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his coffee.  

“I prefer doing the late shifts.” Y/N shrugged, wiping up some coffee that had spilled onto the side, “not many people like doing them but I love them.” 

“I understand completely. Can’t beat the peace at this time of night. Just you and the coffee machine – and all the drunk blokes that come in to get a coffee to sober up before they go home to their wives.” The man chuckled sarcastically. Y/N let out a laugh. 

“They’re harmless. What are you doing out this late then?”  

“That’s a great question.” he said, “I couldn’t sleep.” his voice was a bit raspy, and he ran a hand through his hair. 

“Ah, yes, coffee – the perfect remedy for someone struggling to sleep.” she joked, rolling her eyes playfully. 

“Mhm. A black coffee with four teaspoons of sugar at two in the morning seemed like an appropriate cure.” He deadpanned. 

“Seems like a solid choice to me. Absolutely normal in my opinion.” 

“Absolutely normal.” he confirmed, “What’s your name by the way? You never introduced yourself,” 

“It’s Y/N,” she pointed to her name badge that was pinned to her apron and laughed. 

“Well. It’s nice to meet you Y/N. I can’t believe that with all the times I’ve come in here I’ve never once asked for your name.” he took another sip of his coffee, “I’m Remus. I’m sure that you’ll remember me.” 

“You’ll forever be remembered as that bloke that came in at two in the morning and ordered a black coffee with four sugars.” Y/N joked, “Maybe I’ll ask my boss to name a drink after you on the menu.” She saw Remus’s eyes light up when she said that. 

“I’m obviously joking.” she quickly added. Remus’s clutched his chest dramatically, faking being hurt. He leaned further onto the counter, resting his chin on one hand and holding his coffee cup in the other. The neon lights overhead illuminated his face, the shadows from his eyelashes casting crescent moon shapes onto his cheeks. His soft brown eyes looked tired, and he had dark smudges under his eyes – remnants of many late nights. Remus swilled the last bit of coffee around in his cup before drinking it.  

“I know, I know, I’m irresistible. It’s hard not to remember me.” a smirk played on his lips. His eyes danced lightly, twinkling beneath the fluorescent lighting. 

“I genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking or if you’re really that full of yourself.” 

“Oh, it’s a bit of both. It’s called confidence, Y/N. I’m sure you’ve heard of it before.” he mocked. 

“And you seem to have bags of it.” 

“You seem to like it.” he shrugged, “You haven’t looked away since I entered, love.” 

“Yeah, only ‘cause you’ve been stood here bothering me,” she quipped, “Now, do you need anything else, or can I get on with my job?” 

“Another black coffee and then I’ll leave you alone.” he held his hands up defensively.  

He stayed true to his word, as soon as she handed him his coffee he retreated to a table in the corner of the room. He sank down into a chair, propping his boot clad feet on the chair opposite him, the battered leather resting against the plush material. He shrugged off his leather jacket that was still damp from the storm and draped it over the chair. His hair fell messily around his face, some pieces curling up slightly as they dried from the rain. Every now and then he took a sip from his coffee, humming a tune softly under his breath.  

Remus must have sat there for a while, staring at the raindrops that raced down the window, completely in his own world. He only looked up when a familiar voice called out his name and smacked him playfully on the back. 

“There you are, Moony!” a dark-haired man spoke, appearing suddenly behind him, breaking Remus out of his trance, “I told you that he would be here, James!” 

“Sirius, what the fuck are you doing here?” Remus asked, his head whipping around to look at his friends. Sirius and James plopped themselves down on the sofa next to the armchair that Remus was sat in, the girl that was with them, perched herself on James’s knee. All four of them looked tired. Sirius was eyeing up the coffee that Remus was sipping.  

“Hey, Moony. Can I?” Sirius pointed to the coffee cup, his fingers itching to grab it. Remus raised his eyebrow and his lips pulled into a slight grimace. 

“No.” he said firmly. 

“Why so sour?” Sirius asked, his eyes looking at Remus and then darting around the coffee shop for a clue as to why he was being grumpy. “Oh my god. Did the pretty barista girl turn you down?” 

James snickered and the girl slapped him on the arm to shut him up. 

“Oh, sod off.” Remus rolled his eyes, dragging his coffee cup away from Sirius’s outstretched fingers, “I didn’t even ask her out for starters.”  

“C’mon, mate. She’d definitely want you.” Sirius said in a teasing fashion, his voice a bit more hushed than before. 

“Oh my god, Remus.” that girl that was sat on James’s lap spoke, “what if you’re losing your charm!” 

“Shut up, Lily.” Remus snapped, shooting her a look. The red-haired girl was unphased and just let out a laugh at her friends' grumpy behaviour. Remus drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. 

Y/N couldn’t hear their conversation from where she was working but she looked over when she heard the group laugh. Sirius’ face grew red when he caught Y/N looking at the group. 

“Shit. She’s staring at us, mate.” Sirius whispered.  

Remus smirked, “No, really? I never would have guessed that.” he mumbled sarcastically. He glanced up at Y/N who was now making her way over to their table. Remus raised his eyebrows, taking a sip of his drink as he watched her approach. 

“Can I get you guys anything?” Y/N asked. The boys fell quiet. Remus’s eyes were on her, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. It seemed like he wanted to say something, a small smile on his lips. Yet, he didn’t. As he glanced at his friends, his fingers gripped his cup, his knuckles whitening as he squeezed it. Sirius looked at James with a panicked expression on his face.  

“Yeah, I'll just get a latte, please. Seen as Remus is paying.” James grinned cheekily and looked at Remus who flipped him off. 

“I’ll get the same.” said Sirius. 

“And me.” added Lily. Y/N nodded and disappeared to get their drinks. She returned a short while later with their mugs and set them down on the table. Remus pressed a note into her hand and told her to keep the change.  

Y/N’s eyes travelled down to the faded black t-shirt that Remus was wearing. She hadn’t noticed it earlier when he had his jacket on. It was oversized on him, hanging off of his shoulders and skimming over his stomach.  

“The Marauders?” she read, her eyes glancing over the words that were written on the front of his shirt, “what is that?” 

“A band.” Remus answered. 

“Our band.” Sirius confirmed, gesturing at his friends. 

“You wear your own bands merch?” Y/N laughed a little, “And you said earlier that you weren’t full of yourself.” she looked over at Remus and smirked. James, Sirius and Lily all let out a loud laugh at Y/N’s response. 

“I like this girl.” Lily said, smiling at her, “she’s fiery.” 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Remus is slightly narcissistic.” James said jokingly. 

“James, babe, you literally wear the merch all the time.” Lily said, “You can’t talk.” James rolled his eyes and wrapped his arm around her. 

“Maybe I’ll check you guys out then.” Y/N said, “And then next time you come in you can bring me a t-shirt.”  

“And why would I do that?” Remus asked, his voice getting slightly flirty, “I can think of a few reasons.” Y/N raised her eyebrows at him, silently gesturing for him to elaborate.  

“Well, number one, I think you’d look really hot in it.” Remus said, “Number two, Sirius has been badgering me for a shirt for ages and it would really, really piss him off if I gave the one I’d been saving for him to you.” Sirius jabbed Remus in the ribs sharply. 

“Oi! You're saying that she would look better in it than I would?” Sirius asked, a shocked expression on his face.  

“Without a doubt, Pads.”  

[mylarena]

EVERYBODY shut the fuck up. coffee shop barista au. soap is a barista and this one guy comes in at the same time on the dot every day and orders the same thing every time. (its straight black coffee with so much added caffeine that soap thinks it could kill a horse.) the man is like, 6′4″ and built like a brick house. soap is a pretty big guy himself, but god does he makes him look tiny.

his hair is blond, light enough that in some lighting it looks nearly silver. it seems to be a mess constantly- wavy locks that curl around the tips of his ears, fringe just long enough to partially cover one of his eyes. just long enough that someone could reach up and tuck it behind his ear. and soap wants to, if not just to get to feel his hair- it looks so fucking soft and smooth and soap wonders what his hair care routine is. (because surely you cant get hair that good without putting work into it, right?)

his upper face is littered with scars; over the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, under his eye. theres probably more, but anytime he shows up he has a face mask on, one with some dumb skeleton design on it that would probably look stupid on anyone else, but somehow he makes it work.

and his eyes- god, his eyes. his left eye is a brilliant shade of blue with a shock of green at the bottom, something soap has never seen before. the two colors seem to clash and meld together all at once, an enchanting phenomenon that soap wants to study. his right eye is a deep, gorgeous chocolate brown, swirled with a lighter caramel tone that brightens his eye but makes his gaze no less intense. anytime he locks eyes with soap, he loses his breath- hes never seen someone so fucking beautiful in his entire life.

his voice is low and gravelly, a deep, accented rumble that soap swears to god he can feel in his bones. the man doesnt mince his words, but every time he does speak soap can feel himself shiver. he hopes it isnt visible.

the only name he gives for his order is ghost. that isnt enough for soap. he wants his first name- his real name, a name he can place to the beautiful face that lurks in his mind. (and in his sketchbooks.)

so he tries to pry it out of the man. he offers his own name first, john mactavish, but ghost doesnt give him his own name, instead opting nod and hum. he takes to calling soap ‘johnny’, something that soap has notably refused to let anyone call him, no matter how close they are. he allows ghost to call him it, finding the heat it spreads through his body pleasant and welcoming it. gaz, his fellow barista, is disgruntled when he finds out that soap is letting someone call him johnny when he was firmly denied the permission to do so himself.

every day soap asks for a name for the coffee, hoping that one day he’ll slip and tell him, but he never does. its always ghost, you know this, johnny. he keeps trying despite the ineffectiveness.

sometimes he throws out guesses. over time they get increasingly ridiculous, trying to get a huff or a snort out of the man when he looks at his cup. whatever name he chooses is accompanied by some shitty dad joke- one time ghost had told one that was god awful, but soap could see the glee in his eyes when he groaned and complained. he sees ghost look at the writing everytime he hands over the drink, and he adores the amusement he sees dancing in his gaze at the jokes, so he keeps it up.

their banter shifts from friendly teasing to flirting constantly- oftentimes mid-conversation. sometimes its soap who does it, (”the maaask... take it off?” “show my face?” “yes.” “no.” “are you ugly?” “quite the opposite.” “i doubt that.”) and other times its ghost. (”you like tequila?” “could use one right about now.” “id murder for a whiskey.” “you mean scotch?” “i drink bourbon.” “like a good ol’ boy...” “...  i love kentucky.” “yer out o’ yer mind, ghost.” “thats for sure.”)

(gaz is this fucking close to complaining to price about the sexual tension around them. if he has to deal with soap making eyes at this customer for one more fucking minute he thinks hes going to snap.)

[physalian]

So you’ve got an idea for a story….

Once again and as always, writing is highly subjective and any writing advice that says you *must* do X or all books *must* include Y or doing Z during your writing process is *wrong* kind of misses the point of the freedom of storytelling and I’m not a fan. This is how I approach writing and one way you could consider doing the same if you’ve got all these ideas and nowhere to put them, not the way you must approach writing.

Cool? Cool.

—

We’ll start with how I write fanfic because that’s a far less intimidating market. I don’t write drabble fics and coffee shop AUs. I grew up writing fix-it fics and in-universe canon divergences. Essentially: Stop the real story right here, now what if this happened instead?

Personally, I just don’t get fulfillment from writing fanfic fluff (though I do love reading it). Even if I’m committing time and effort into something that will never make me money and that people might not even read for fun due to dead fandoms or whatever, I’m still going to use it as writing exercise and give it some substance.

That’s just me, though. I used to write stuff like character studies and deep dives, and the last fic I wrote to date was a “hey what if this villain went to the good side way sooner and it wasn’t just played as a joke on his cowardice?” and its sequel.

So I started that first fic with an idea: What if K joined the good guys earlier? How would that impact the story?

Immediately after that, I was thinking about the ending and what tentpole ideas in the canon I wanted to keep, but the meat of the story I knew I wanted to focus on K’s emotional and existential struggle of switching sides, risking becoming an enemy to both factions, after the inciting incident of his (absolutely canonical) partner’s murder, that, in canon, did not get the justice he deserved. When I wrote my post about beginnings and endings, I said that endings for me are way easier than beginnings—this is why. Before I even start writing, my ending is decided.

Basically: Yes, I’m writing a story using someone else’s fictional characters, as one does when writing fanfic. The story uses cartoon characters, but it’s about one person’s struggle with their identity in the wake of tragedy, and how they take life by the horns to make it out of the story the hero they deserve to be recognized as.

And with that core idea in mind, then I write the story around it. The story, which, outside the canon that I had to keep, I had no plan for. The settings and minutiae of the set pieces weren’t as important as what each scene did for the themes and K’s emotional reaction to them happening. I needed to give him enough alone time with the characters of the hero team to learn something from them, enough time on his own to test his new loyalties, and enough time with his old team so he can juxtapose the two and make sure he’s doing the right thing by deserting.

The last thing on my mind was what tropes I wanted to fulfill. Romantic subplots and the like just kind of happened organically and weren’t planned.

—

For Eternal Night of the Northern Sky the idea I had was this: Most vampire stories are about the drama surrounding vampires that depend on humans to survive. So what if I wrote a story where humans depended on vampires to survive, in the exact same way?

Yes, the story is about vampires and everyone can say what they will about people who write vampire fiction. But it’s really about what it means to be a monster when survival demands some brutal decisions. What does it mean to be a monster if everyone is a monster?

ENNS wasn’t planned, I just started writing and had the first draft done in 31 days and through the entire editing process, the plot didn’t change from draft 1 to draft final, save for a few scenes where I had to fix the surface level problem some characters were facing, but not the reason why they were facing it.

The plot never needed massive rewrites because every scene reflected back on the core themes of the story, and every single scene was necessary to tell it. So even when I had to change the intensity of an argument or flesh out a conversation or change the tone of something here or there, the purpose of whatever was underneath remained.

With that throughline in mind, the rest of the book fell into place around it. My core characters each have a role to answer that thematic question, and side characters around then were created to fill in the world, provide friends, relatives, romances, and the like, each with their own perspectives still on that one big question. My villains, too, all exist to answer that question. Outside of the romances, every single scene is doing at least one thing either for the plot, the protagonist, or the deuteragonist to answer that question. ENNS’ secondary themes were also written into as many scenes as I could (of which I won’t spoil here).

When you write with a theme like this in mind, it gives you these sort of bowling bumper rails to help keep you from straying off into superfluous storylines that bog down the pacing and start to feel messy.

Yes, you’re writing fanfic. But what is it really about? Now maybe it is just a coffee shop AU or 50k words of smut—you do you. Not everything has to be deep and meaningful beyond being entertaining. Themes just provide direction.

For example, I like the idea of slowburn fanfics. The idea. I will happily sit down for a fic that’s half a million words long if the characters and the slowburn are compelling enough. There might not be themes, but the story never forgets its throughline—these two characters eventually coming together.

In practice, though, I see way too many “slowburn” fics out there that are just 90% fluff. The chapters stagnate, trading development for taunting the audience with the will they/won’t they. The plot toddles off to to play around in irrelevant scenes with irrelevant characters. Things that probably wouldn’t bother me if I wasn’t already expecting the romance that was promised, the romance I have to keep waiting for when I could just go read something else that delivers it faster and clearer.

—

Even if your writing process begins with a few scattered sticky notes and a notion of what you kind of want it to be about, you don’t have to hammer out pages of prose to be productive.

If you get stuck halfway through, having your throughline helps you sit back and ask yourself this very important question: What does Character want, how do they get it, and what’s in their way?

[rmd-writes]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

thanks @liminalmemories21 @lemonlyman-dotcom for the tags! It's been a minute since I've done a version of this game

1. How many works do you have an AO3? 92

2. What's your total AO3 word count? 678,345 but that includes a bunch of collabs and co-written fics so not all of those words are mine. I never tracked my actual word count, but at a guess I'd say at least 150,000 of those words aren't my own

3. What fandoms do you write for? Red, White & Royal Blue, 911 Lone Star and, theoretically, Schitt's Creek although it's been a very long time since I've written any SC fic.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? leaving out the multi-author collabs that I've contributed a chapter to, I am unsurprised that these are all RWRB fics:

Everybody needs good neighbours | RWRB | E | neighbours au | 14.3k

to the victor, the spoils | RWRB | E | lawyer au | 19.4k

yours for the afternoon | RWRB | T | coffee shop meet cute | 4.6k

What, like it's hard? | RWRB | E | lawyer au prequel | 65.1k

this one surprised me because I haven't actually checked my stats in ages:

Are You Screwing With Me? | RWRB | E | grindr au | 6.5k

5. Do you respond to comments? I try to! I'm not particularly punctual about it though.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? The only fic(let) I've ever written with an angsty(ish) ending hasn't been published and I'm not sure it ever will, but it's the result of @howtosingit saying something like, "whatever you do, don't imagine that the Huntington's test went the other way and the ending of Queen Charlotte."

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? all of them? idk they all have happy endings, maybe What, like it's hard? (obligatory A/N to say do not read that fic if you haven't read to the victor, the spoils first, please.)

8. Do you get hate on fics? It's not a regular thing, thankfully.

9. Do you write smut? lol (that's a yes).

Oh actually! Lil bit of railmedaddy lore: when I first started writing SC fic and chose my ao3 name (which was inspired by Dan Levy's appearance on SNL), it was meant to be a joke because railmedaddy was never ever going to write smut, didn't think she'd be capable of ever doing that, actually. That lasted all of ... maybe 6 months.

10. Do you write crossovers? The closest I've ever come is this snippet in response to an ask about how and where David, Patrick, Alex, Henry, Carlos and TK might meet.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I know of, I hope not!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! Make the Yuletide Gay (Tarlos) was translated into simplified Chinese. I was honoured that anyone would want to go to the trouble of doing that!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? yes, with @welcometololaland my beloved 💖 and I love doing it because it's so much fun

Call Me (By My Name) | Tarlos | E | phone sex au | 65.5k

(Un)professional Services | Tarlos | E | lawyer/accountant au | 63.3k

I do have a bunch of other collaborations, but they're not co-written per se, in that we each wrote a chapter but didn't necessarily write the whole thing together.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I'm not sure that there's anything in actual WIP form with words on the page that I both want to finish and don't think I will? There are a lot of ideas that I'd like to write but don't think will ever actually happen.

16. What are your writing strengths? Someone tell me, please. Thinking about comments on my fics and the things that I actually like writing (I think my writing is better when I'm really enjoying it), it's probably banter and smut with feelings.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? World building, pretty metaphors and similes. I think my writing is repetitive so don't look too closely, especially if you read my fics in more than one fandom.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? If it's in character, then why not? The times I have included substantial Spanish dialogue, I have a native Spanish speaker look over it and help with translations because I don't want to rely on google translate.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Schitt's Creek

20. Favorite fics you've written? The collabs with Lola I linked ^^, The Grindr Toolbox: A Guide to Getting Nailed series is something that I had so much fun with and I'm very proud of, who am i if i can't carry it all aka June fic which I poured my heart and soul into, I don't think there's any other fic I've written that has so much of myself in it, this year i will fall which is my RWRB Hallmark Christmas fic.

tagging @welcometololaland @kiwiana-writes (mostly to make you compliment yourself again ily) @indestructibleheart @three-drink-amy @reyesstrand @carlos-in-glasses @heartstringsduet @orchidscript + open tag

[olderthannetfic]

hello otnf what is your opinion on tradpub that begins its life as fanfic?

--

Depends how good the results are.

In general, a lot of books start life as fanfic plotbunnies, and it usually works fine. Books that start as actual fic tend to fare less well, in my experience.

The advantage of repurposing a fic plotbunny is that it often helps an author stay excited about an idea or to come to grips with how many characters they want in the main cast and what their spread of personalities should be. And because it's only a plotbunny, there's plenty of time to retool the concept to work better as original before the actual writing starts.

But when an existing fic is cleaned up for publication, it's usually not rewritten heavily enough to fix all the problems the conversion causes.

I don't know of a ton of cases where traditional publishers were willing to take something on that had been available openly online before. There's 50 Shades, of course, which needed major structural rewrites that it didn't get. I can think of a bunch of small presses of the past that republished slash zine fic. Those were a bit better written than 50 Shades, but they had similar issues.

One really huge problem with a lot of fic-->original conversions is that people often pick a mundane AU. Those typically get a lot of their zing from the contrast between what we know of canon and the new coffee shop AU version. They might have good vibes, but they don't always have a lot of conflict or an actual structure. This can be okay in fic, but contemporary romance and such genres do need some kind of conflict or structure.

A complicated vampire AU or something would be easier to work with because the fic already built up so much original material that wasn't from canon, but even then, if the author has too many cameos from other canon characters or events that parallel canon's plot, this does not convert well to original. Those in-jokes and callbacks suddenly seem like dangling plot threads or misaimed foreshadowing.

--

So, generally, I think authors should just write something new if they want to go pro, but it's not for... like... ethical reasons.

It's just because rewriting your fic as much as it actually needs takes forever and is a lot of work for what's often a poor reward.

[sunflowervolvimp3]

from eden: I

A/N: alright SO!! if you were around in summer 2020, then you know I started planning and writing a witchrry au that got pushed to the back burner when drea and I began collabing on you're someone I just want around. that fic quickly took over our entire lives, and every other story got put on pause, including this one. flash forward to present day, where after finishing one degree, moving, finishing ANOTHER degree, and beginning a career in my profession, I finally have a bit of time to write again!! I'm so excited to FINALLY be able to share witchrry with you, as well as my first OC on here. I haven't officially written in...a long time, so I apologize if I'm a bit rusty. but any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!! letting content creators know that you're enjoying their content helps motivate us to create more ��� I really hope you enjoy this story and these characters, because I have a lot planned for them!! someone asked me yesterday if this story was going to be fluff or if it was going to get twisty, and the answer is always, ALWAYS twisty, so I hope you stick around to see it 💌 also!! i would like to give a big thank you to drea for creating this beautiful banner and story dividers (graphic design is not my passion)!! go give her a follow @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy if you haven't already!!

masterlist : askbox : read on wattpad

word count: 15.7k

content/warnings: YOU get mommy issues!! and YOU get mommy issues!!! EVERYONE GETS MOMMY ISSUES!!!!, an overwhelming use of hand imagery, the normalization of talking to pets as if they can respond, Harry doesn't understand how to use figures of speech, drugs: just say no, time to meet the man of your dreams (literally), Rowan "well mark me down as scared AND horny!" Frances, and the beginning of a journey to see how many references to Practical Magic (1998) can be made in each chapter.

When Harry first stumbles through the door of the shop, the rain pounding on the roof is reaching biblical proportions, and Rowan is convinced that the universe is playing some sort of cosmic practical joke on her.

If the day, which had just entered it’s thirteenth hour, hadn’t already been bad enough—if she hadn’t already spilled coffee down her front, staining her favourite ivory shirt and forcing her to change; if she hadn’t already misplaced her favourite pen, the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless inventory forms she has to fill out; if she hadn’t already knocked over a flower arrangement that had taken two hours to construct and two seconds to destroy, shattering the sea-glass green vase that she had waited three weeks for in the mail; if none of that was enough—she had forgotten to flip the sign on the door to say that her floral shop was closed for lunch (which, because of her rush this morning, would be her first actual meal of the day), and now there is a soaking wet stranger standing in her doorway, who is shaking out his sopping hair with an urgent glance around the store, and his eyes settling on Rowan with unspoken need.

The moment she heard the bell of the door tinkle from his disturbance, Rowan had turned toward the entryway, a strained smile pasted to her face before she even made eye contact with the stranger. “I’m sorry, sir,” She says, her voice barely meeting sorry, and edging more on irritation with every passing moment. “But we’re actually closed for lunch. You can come back at two, if you’d like.”

The man—who is dripping all over her freshly cleaned hardwood floors, she notes wryly—looks up at her with a raised brow, as if he’s surprised to find that there’s someone inside the small shop. Perhaps he’s just flustered from being caught in the storm, Rowan thinks, because it’s clear that the rain has soaked straight through his thin army jacket and maroon knit sweater, and is coating his entire being in ice, right down to his bones. The rain had come on rather quickly; Rowan recalls hearing the sudden thundering outside just after she had shattered the beautiful vase. It makes sense that the man looks like he hadn’t been expecting it. In fact, he still looks rather unmoored as he runs his ring-covered hand through his sopping wet chestnut ringlets once more, his hunter eyes darting another round over the store before refocusing on Rowan.

“I’m very sorry to disturb,” Rowan is surprised to hear the silky British accent that slips from his raspberry mouth, the hue matching the ruddiness of his cheeks—a sure side-effect of the freezing weather in which he’d found himself caught. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry, and I was wondering if you had any yarrow flowers.”

Despite her mouth already open to inform the man that, once again, her shop is currently closed, his incredibly specific request makes Rowan pause. Yarrow flowers are hardly a popular arrangement choice for someone who’s annoyed their partner—which she assumes this man has, given the hurry that he says he’s in. Normally, when men show up in her shop with a desperate look on their faces and urgency in their voices, they’re searching for flowers such as roses, calla lilies, daisies—things known to bloom for love. Yarrow flowers, with their small clumps of pastel petals offset by long, wiry stems, hardly match that description. 

The curiosity peaking inside her chest, more than anything else, is what prompts Rowan to change the response that’s resting on the tip of her tongue. “I, um, may have some in the back,” She says slowly, as if feeling out the words as she utters them. “I use them as fillers, sometimes, in arrangements. I can…check for you, if you’d like.”

The man visibly breathes a sigh of relief, his face relaxing just the slightest bit as his shoulders slump beneath his soaked clothing. “That would be lovely, thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

Rowan nods again, giving the man one last look of pensive confusion before stepping out from behind her (messy as usual) desk to make her way to the back of the store to the workshop. As her shoes echo against the wooden floor, she wonders if this is a smart idea; should she be leaving a strange man with even stranger requests unattended in her shop? Should she be turning her back on him while walking towards a private back room that contains multiple objects of the heavy and sharp variety? Objects that she’d hate to see catalogued by a forensics team when her body is eventually discovered with a pair of gardening shears protruding from her chest? 

Reaching the half-opened door of her workshop, Rowan pauses in the frame just long enough to glance back over her shoulder at the man. With her promise to check her inventory for his requested flowers, he’s allowed some of the tension to slip from his body, and is busying himself by extracting a leather journal from an inner pocket of his jacket to thumb through. No, Rowan decides as she studies his furrowed brow and focused gaze. The man, albeit a little strange, isn’t a potential 48 Hours suspect; he’s just a little frazzled by the unexpected events of the day, a feeling to which Rowan can relate. And perhaps, if she wasn’t as frazzled as she is, she would have noticed the peculiarity of the man’s entire person being soaked while the yellowed pages of his leather-bound journal remain completely dry. 

Or maybe she wouldn’t have. After all, she’d spent her entire life ignoring the irregularities around her. What’s one more anomaly to turn a blind eye to?

Rowan doesn’t bother to close the door behind her, knowing that she’ll only be spending a few minutes inside her slightly chaotic workshop. The long wooden table and decorating stations are just as she left them an hour ago—meaning they’re covered in tissue wrappings and loose, wilted petals, with clipped leaves and discarded stems littering the floor below her—and she bypasses the mess to pull open the heavy insulated door that leads to her freezer.

She shivers as she steps into the refrigerated room, pulling her cable-knit cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she begins to scan the alphabetized shelves. Rowan’s eyes quickly scan one label to the next until she finds the little label that says “yarrow” in her neat writing on the lower half of the second metal shelf, nestled neatly beside a pile of violets. There are only a few of the little white flowers left in her stock, enough for about two small bunches, so Rowan removes both from the shelf before stepping out of the freezer and shutting the door tightly behind her to preserve the other flowers that are stocked away.

Clutching the two miniature bouquets in her hands, Rowan nudges the door of her workshop open a bit more as she passes back under the frame, picking off a few browning petals from the blossoms. She wishes the blooms were fresher—it wouldn’t be easy for the man to make amends for whatever he had done if he showed up with wilted flowers. Still, Rowan thinks as she flicks the dried petals to the ground, it’s better than nothing, and hopes that the small bouquets will be enough to appease whoever the soaked stranger had managed to piss off. 

“I found a couple bunches, and I wasn’t sure how many you needed, so I brought both—” Rowan stops short as she enters the front of the shop again, expecting to find the man near the door where she had left him, but finds only a damp spot on the wood where he’d dripped after his entrance. “Hello?” Confusion settles into her voice as she tentatively steps forward again, her gaze sweeping the perimeter of her shop.

“Oh, thank you,” The voice emerges from around the corner and behind a shelf of succulents, making Rowan half jump in surprise, and a small and shocked gasp leaves her mouth as the curly haired man steps out from behind the greenery.

“Oh—!” She clutches the flowers to her chest, taking a deep breath and releasing a strained laugh at her own over the top reaction, the sound both an apology and a nervous tic that’s lingered from childhood. “You scared me.”

With his emerald eyes tinged with regret, the man offers a peacemaking smile that borders on a grimace as he peers at her from the aisle. “I’m sorry,” He says slowly, his voice accented with sincerity as he presses a tattooed hand to his soaked chest, as if needing to catch his own breath as well. While it’s the movement that originally catches Rowan’s eye, it’s the tattoo inked into his skin that keeps her attention—it’s a strange symbol, resembling nothing she’s ever seen before, and yet…something about the crossing of lines and gentle curves of ink seems familiar. 

Shaking herself out of her thoughts with a quick jerk of her head, Rowan offers a smile to the man in return for his apology. “It’s fine,” She eases her tone to match the tilt of her lips, holding out the previously requested flowers to him. “Will these be enough for you?”

The man’s strawberry lips rise to mirror Rowan’s smile as he gives a gentle nod, relief and gratitude dancing through his sea glass irises. “Yes, thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Rowan waves off the praise with a casual flick of her hand before beckoning him back towards the counter, doing her best to ignore the strange spark of pleasure in her belly upon hearing the stranger’s praise. “C’mon, I’ll just ring you up at the front.”

The man follows her to the front of the store, his polished shoes squeaking against the floor with every step and keeping his presence in her peripheral thoughts—as if Rowan could forget it. Reaching the counter, however, provides her with a familiar sense of comfort that she didn’t realize she’d been craving until the mahogany bench is between their two bodies. It’s strange, though, she thinks as she curls her fingers around the edge of the counter, drumming them once against the wood before beginning to ring in the flowers on her tablet that’s housed on the front counter. Despite the distance bringing her comfort, there’s a distinct sense of lack that comes with the separation; her eyes flicker to the stranger in front of her once again as she sets the bouquet of flowers onto the tissue paper lying in front of her. The brunette man is searching for his wallet in his rain drenched pockets, extracting a misted phone and the surprisingly dry journal from his jacket in his vain efforts. His eyes flicker to hers in apology, his smile growing back into a sheepish lilt as he clutches the objects within one hand while still searching with the other.

“I know I have it—somewhere—” He mutters, his drenched locks curling into his eyes as his head drops back down to examine his clothing. “Sorry, I’m usually—a little more organized than this, I swear—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Rowan offers the usual method of banter she employs with customers, in which she just agrees and relates to anything they say to put them at ease. It’s a little fake, to be sure, but what isn’t fake about customer service? It’s not like she can roll her eyes each time someone makes the “it must be free!” joke when her debit machine takes a moment to boot up. “It’s been a strange day for everyone, I think. I spilled coffee all over myself, knocked over arrangements…and then to top it all off, the weather began to act up, when it had been so nice for the last few days.”

Cocking his head to the side, the stranger considers her small talk for a moment—which is more than most customers have ever considered her in her life. The curiosity of his gaze ignites that unfamiliar feeling again, once more making her contrastingly thankful and remorseful for the mahogany barrier between them. “Yes, it has been strange,” Despite the lightness of his tone, Rowan doesn’t miss the way his eyes shift a hue darker as he speaks. “Certainly seemed to come out of no—got it!”

The florist watches as he triumphantly extracts a brown wallet embossed with a marking she doesn’t recognize (a brand logo, perhaps? For a company more luxurious than she’s used to?), tucking the rest of his items back into his jacket with one swift motion. 

“Wonderful,” Rowan means every syllable of the word as she begins to key in the purchase on her tablet, her expert fingers tapping away as relief flows through her body, both from having a new center of attention, and knowing that she’ll be able to really take her lunch break soon. “I’ll ring those in for you—” 

 “That’s an interesting marking,” The man interrupts her focus with the offhand comment, and when her gaze snaps up to him once more, she finds him nodding to the door of the shop as his ringed fingers open his wallet. “Do you know what it means?”

Rowan tears her eyes from his flushed skin to where his own gaze rests, settling her sights on the top of the door frame, where a black hand painted symbol sits in stark contrast with the white of the walls. “Oh, it’s just something my mom used to draw all the time,” She explains with a shrug, dismissing the symbol as her eyes turn back from the familiar six petal flower wrapped in a circle to the questioning man in front of her. “She used to say it was for protection of homes, so when I opened the shop, I figured…well,” Rowan offers a sheepish smile in return for her superstitious explanation. “New York can be a dangerous place. It can’t hurt to have extra protection, right?”

Not for the first time, an undecipherable response flits through the man’s hunter eyes, but it disappears just as quickly as it appears, before Rowan can make anything of it. “Right,” He agrees quickly, his nod more serious than it had been a moment before. “You can never have too much protection.”

Although his words echo the very phrase Rowan just spoke, something about his cadence of voice gives the simple saying a double meaning. The florist ponders it for a moment, her eyes searching the stranger’s as much as she dares, but decides it’s best not to pry. It’s not her place, really. She doesn’t know this man, and she doubts he’d bother to recommend her shop to anyone he knows if she tries to interrogate him over his expressions.

Clearing her throat, Rowan decides it’s time to change the subject, and refocuses her attention to the task at hand. “So, um—” She glances back down at her tablet, forcing herself to remember her usual spiel with her customers. “I’ll just need your name for records—your first name, if you don’t mind. It just helps me with counting and keeping track of stock.”

“That’s no problem,” The tone of his voice flips back to something more casual with ease as he rakes a hand through his damp curls once more. “My name is Harry.”

“Harry…” Rowan quickly types the simple name into her inventory logs before setting her tablet down on the counter. With nimble and practiced fingers, she begins to wrap the yarrow flowers in tissue, but Harry interrupts her with a shake of his head.

“Actually,” He gives an apologetic smile—something he seems to do a lot, she’s noticed (not that she’s noticed much about him, she tells herself). “I don’t need any wrapping for them; I’ll be using them right away, and I’d hate to waste the tissue.”

“Oh,” Rowan’s movements pause at his request, and she removes the flowers from the wrapping carefully before handing the bouquet to Harry. “Are you sure? It’s still pouring, and the rain will ruin them…”

The stranger—Harry, she reminds herself—waves away her concern with an unbothered flick of his hand. “Yeah, it’s alright. I’m going to be pulling apart the blossoms anyway.”

“You’re—” Despite the majority of this interaction being the strangest she’s had in a long time, this is the first comment of the man that’s made Rowan pause completely. Were these flowers not a gift for someone, like she’d originally assumed? “What?”

“I needed yarrow blossoms for a little…project of mine,” The molasses-like speed at which Harry utters the words gives Rowan the impression that he’s choosing them very carefully, and the florist can’t help but wonder what explanation pertaining to flowers would ever need to be so carefully considered. “Normally I keep a stock of them, but I ran out last month and forgot to order more, and I was in the middle of my project by the time I realized…” As if realizing he’s beginning to ramble, Harry offers another shy tilt of his lips before laughing lightly at his own antics. “Well, anyways, I don’t need the wrapper. But I really appreciate the help; I know I kept you open past your usual hours.”

The strange—albeit rambling—explanation leaves Rowan speechless for a moment as she debates whether or not it’s worth questioning Harry more about his project—what kind of project would so urgently need yarrow flowers? What kind of project would be worth running out into this increasingly raging storm, soaking oneself clean to the bone just to retrieve the small bouquet currently clenched in Harry’s hand?

A project that’s none of your business, Rowan tells herself firmly. None of your business. “It’s—don’t worry about it,” She straightens her spine in resolution, mimicking his earlier action of waving off concern as he sets a twenty dollar bill down on the counter. “Oh—no, it was only twelve dollars, actually—”

“Keep the change. As a thank you.” Harry tucks his wallet back into his pocket, as if his soaked jacket could do much to protect the object from the rain. “Oh, by the way—” His jade irises brighten once more as he extracts his tattooed hand from his pocket, holding out an object to Rowan in offering. “I found this on the floor—meant to give it to you…”

Grasped between his long, lithe fingers (that she is not staring at. Not in the slightest.) is Rowan’s favourite pen—the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless information forms she has to fill out. Her mouth drops open as realization lights up her face, and she retrieves the pen from him with a new and genuine smile painted on her lips. “Oh, I’ve been looking for this! It’s my favourite.” Clicking it once as if to test if it’s working, Rowan regards the soaked man with newly warmed eyes. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry’s expression molds to match her own the moment their eyes meet, and he tucks the flowers under his arm before sheathing his hands within his pockets. “No need to thank me, Rowan. I’ll be seeing you soon.” His shoes click against the ground as he retreats back to the front door, casting one last glance at the floral symbol painted over his head before pushing the barrier open. “Stay dry, alright?”

Rowan nods automatically, repeating the phrase back to him as she waves goodbye with her pen still grasped between her fingers. The moment the door closes behind him, her previous hunger returns with more insistence than before, turning her stomach and effectively erasing all aspects of the strange meeting with the reminder that she needs to walk upstairs to her apartment to find something to eat.

It’s not until she’s sitting at her kitchen table, her cat sprawled languidly across her lap as she takes a bite of her cobb salad, that she realizes she had never told Harry her name.

…

“Oh, Christ—Butternut!”

The ginger cat scatters from underneath Rowan’s feet as the girl manages to catch herself on the edge of the kitchen counter, using the fern green cabinets to support her weight as she regains her balance. With one hand still holding the cat’s plastic food dish, Rowan uses the other to push herself away from the counter with a roll of her eyes, and resumes walking to the corner of the small kitchen to set the food dish down in its regular spot as Butternut watches from beneath a kitchen chair

“There you go,” Rowan sighs in exasperation as Butternut scurries from his hiding spot to the dish she’s just set down, and begins to feast on his wet and dry mix while Rowan brushes her fingers over his soft auburn fur. “You have to learn how to be patient, you know that?” She murmurs with a quirk of her brow. “You’d think after ten years, you’d have figured that out.”

The cat meows in response at her between bites of his food, and Rowan smiles softly as she gives one last stroke to his plush fur before straightening herself up and grabbing her mug of tea from the kitchen counter. It takes her the usual three steps to reach the small living room of her apartment, and she sets her mug on its usual spot on the coffee table as she grabs her journal from the couch, where she’d left it that morning, just as she always does when she realizes she’s running late for work. She’d hoped that owning her own flower shop would have cured her of her perpetual lateness that had plagued her childhood, but it seems that her lack of punctuality is just one of the many traits she’d inherited from her mother, in addition to being one of her least favourite traits she’d inherited from her mother.

“What did you get up to while I was at work today, Butternut? Anything interesting?” Rowan asks, only half-rhetorically as she picks up her mug again once settled into the couch. “Any important business I should know about?”

Rowan receives the usual meow in reply, and she hums thoughtfully in the back of her throat as she takes a small sip of tea. The boiling liquid scalds her tongue just the way she’s grown accustomed to—another trait she picked up from her mother, who had had a habit of setting down her teacups and promptly forgetting their existence for the better part of an hour. Drinking the piping hot liquid immediately, Rowan had learned the hard way, saves her the disgruntlement that comes with discovering ice-cold tea three hours after she’s made it. 

Blowing over the steaming mug, Rowan watches as Butternut continues to munch on his food. “I thought as much,” She replies to the cat seriously, giving Butternut a stern look as he continues to eat his food and pay her little regard. “I told you to stay away from Mrs. Piper’s cat, didn’t I? We both know Zipper is a bit of a heart breaker, and I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Butternut squeaks out another meow, this one sounding more indignant than the last, which Rowan greatly appreciates. It’s easier to talk to the cat without sounding crazy, she rationalizes (as she has hundreds of times before), when the cat’s responses vary in tone, as if he can actually understand her.

“You’re a glutton for punishment, you know that?” Rowan clicks her tongue as she opens her journal, reading over her messily scrawled entry from that morning that she had barely managed to finish. “I’m just trying to look out for your best interests, and—”

A tapping sound from outside the living room window interrupts Rowan’s one-sided conversation, and she twists her head towards the source of noise with curiosity sparking across her face. When the tapping occurs again, sharper and more insistent this time around, Rowan stands up urgently, nearly spilling her tea in her haste to set down the mug and walk the short distance to the window. Although she can’t see anything that could have caused the noise when she arrives in front of the pane, Rowan’s curiosity is still unsatisfyingly unsatiated, and she quickly flips the latch on the window in order to push it open, the half-rusted mechanics squeaking in protest as they always do before she leans out towards her fire escape. 

With half her body now hanging out of her living room window, Rowan swiftly scans over the familiar view of Greenwich Village. Having lived in the Village her entire life, Rowan has to admit that there’s a satisfying, pleasurable comfort in her stomach every time she looks at the skyline of the neighbourhood. It’s a feeling of home, she thinks, as well as belonging, and she knows that she could never find anywhere else quite like it. There was a reason that her mother chose this as the place to settle down after moving from London; she had always told Rowan that the city called to her, even from across the Atlantic Ocean, like a siren stringing her towards her deepest desires. And when Rowan has the honour of watching the orange autumn sun sink down in the sky, staining the tops of buildings in a burnt glaze, she feels the same call. And, in a perhaps more easily explainable way, the Village reminds her of her mother. She’d never be able to leave it, even if she wanted to.

A now familiar tapping pulls Rowan from her admiration of the city she’s called home for her entire life, and the young woman cranes her neck to the left just in time to settle her eyes on the source of the sound, her brows creasing together in bemusement as she does so.

The crow perched on the edge of her fire escape has to have the blackest and shiniest feathers that Rowan has ever seen. The onyx tone of its wings is accented by the golden light of the setting sun, which sparkles in the creature’s knowledgeable eyes. Knowledgeable, Rowan observes, because the crows eyes seem to meet her own, both with purpose and some sort of recognition. 

Rowan cocks her head to the side as she engages in the staring contest with the bird, her state of mind growing more and more confused and unsettled with every passing moment. Were crows known to be the kind of bird that stared back at you? She wondered, her mouth opening and closing as she pondered the question without speaking it aloud. And were they not skittish? Rowan had made enough ruckus as she opened her window that she would have thought the bird would have long flown away by now, and yet, its piercing black eyes continue to stare back at her own. It’s ridiculous, and she knows this, but Rowan can’t make herself look away. Who loses a staring contest to a crow? She scoffs internally, leaning a little further over the ledge of her window. She refuses to be the first to blink. Surely it’s not that hard to outlast a bird; after all, she’s the one with a brain bigger than a ping bong ball. She can outlast a bird in a staring contest. Not that any sane person would ever actually challenge a bird to a staring contest, of course, but Rowan is sure stranger things have happened. And, furthermore, she’s not the one who started this. If anything, the bird challenged her—winning the imagined contest is a matter of honour.

And then Butternut jumps out the window, effectively breaking her perfect concentration, and sets all hell loose.

If Rowan hadn’t been so distracted by the crow’s strange behaviour, she would have remembered the dangers that come with leaving her window wide open as she had. Part of the reason the old mechanisms had squeaked so much when she yanked the fixture open was that she—save the few times she’d burned something while cooking and had to air out her apartment from the smoke of her failed dinner endeavors—very rarely opened the window more than a crack. Just as Rowan has a long list of troubling habits, so does Butternut, and one of those habits includes jumping out of open windows and giving Rowan a heart attack. 

The young florist had discovered this habit the first day she met him when she was twelve years old and found him wandering the streets of New York. His burnt orange coat had been speckled with mud and dirt, grown long from what seemed to be months of a lack of attention, but that hadn’t stopped her from scooping the surprisingly pliant cat into her arms and carrying him home to her mother. She’d been prepared to beg and plead on behalf of the animal and her right to keep him, but as it turned out, that hadn’t been necessary; all it took was one look at the poor creature, and Winnifred began to fill the copper sink with hot water and soap to bathe him. Rowan had been delighted at her mother’s acceptance of the new pet—until said pet jumped from the counter and out their kitchen window, which had been open to release steam from the soup Winnifred had been making. To this day, Rowan remembers peering out the window with horror as Butternut scurried along the ledge outside of their sixth floor apartment, and how she’d had to coax him back to safety with strings of shredded cheese. As terrifying as it had been, however, Rowan had learned her lesson—if Butternut is in the room, windows have to be closed. There had been a few close calls over the years, but never anything as bad as that first day, when she thought she would lose her new friend before she’d even had the chance to truly befriend him.

Until now.

The moment Butternut’s paws meet the rusted metal of the fire escape, he bounds after the crow, leaping for the ledge of the fire escape before Rowan can even absorb what’s happening. The crow, however, doesn’t have the same processing delay that she does, and flies away before the cat can sink a claw into his shiny feathers. Unfortunately, Butternut has always been determined, and by the time Rowan has scurried out through the window and onto the fire escape, Butternut has already begun bounding down the rusted metal steps and onto the street below.

“Fuck—” Rowan curses loudly, nearly tripping over herself in her hurry to clamber back from the window ledge and into her apartment. Grabbing only her keys from the catch-all table by her door, Rowan throws open the door of her apartment and slams it behind her, not bothering to check if it’s locked before hurling herself towards the stairwell of her building. 

Brushing her chestnut hair out of her eyes as she rounds the corner of the stairwell, Rowan has to give credit where credit is due; for a cat that’s over a decade old, Butternut moves fast, and that knowledge only incites more intensity in the girl as she tears through the stairwell and onto the street. Rowan pants as she surveys the bustling crowds, scouring the bottom of every black and grey raincoat until she just barely catches the yellowish hue of Butternut’s tail disappearing around the corner.

“Butternut!” She yells loudly, receiving a scoff and a dirty look from an old lady whose ear she’d just accidentally yelled in. “Sorry, ma’am, I just—sorry!” Rowan offers one more quick apology before dashing down the street towards Butternut. “Come back!”

Although she does her best to avoid pedestrians around her in her pursuit of her pet, Rowan still manages to ram her shoulders into four different people as she runs through the crowded Greenwich Village street. She spits out speedy apologies whenever she does so, her hickory eyes flashing with what she hopes is sincerity and not annoyance, but she doesn’t stop to say anything more; already, Butternut is disappearing in a sea of New Yorker ankles, and she’s worried that if she doesn’t grab him soon, someone else will.

After five blocks of pursuit—how does an aging cat have better stamina than she does?—Butternut seems to disappear completely, his fluffy tail nowhere in sight amongst the throngs of people. Rowan slows her pace to a light jog, her legs aching and lungs burning in protest as she pants so loud that passersby keep giving her concerned stares. There’s a feeling of dread beginning to coil itself around Rowan’s intestines, and she’s not sure if it’s the fear of losing Butternut, or the oncoming asthma attack, but it nearly doubles Rowan over as she struggles to move breath in and out of her lungs.

“I need—to work—out more—” Rowan puffs to herself, folding one hand over her stomach as she continues to push her way through the crowded sidewalk at a reduced pace. “I—” Her eyes widen as she spies an amber tail among the crowds. “Butternut!”

Although her loud exclamation once again startles an old lady (seriously, just how many old ladies are wandering around the village right now?), Rowan doesn’t stop to apologize this time, and instead simply offers a flash of an apologetic grimace before jogging after the fluff of golden fur that she just caught ducking into the open door of a shop.

Still wheezing loudly when she reaches the storefront, Rowan manages to crane her neck up to catch sight of the sign above her. The white washed wood plank with dark green letters reads Verbena & Birch Apothecary, and Rowan only takes a moment to admire the craftsmanship that must have gone into carving the plant sprigs next to the logo before she remembers the reason she’s here, and yanks the wooden door open to run inside.

“Butternut?” She calls out, still breathless from her impromptu marathon down the streets of Greenwich Village. “C’mon, stinky—” Her eyes scan over the countless shelves lined with delicate-looking glass bottles, and a feeling of dread grows in her stomach as she tucks her wild locks behind her ears. All it would take is one pounce from Butternut to destroy everything on these shelves, something she wouldn’t put past the mischievous cat that just scampered down five city blocks. “You can’t be in here! Let’s go!”

Rowan pauses for a moment and listens closely for the sound of familiar paws against the wooden floor, or the usual indignant meowed response when she calls Butternut stinky, or any sign that the cat is wandering the breakable-filled store, but hears nothing save for her own laboured breathing. Bracing her hand against her heaving stomach again, Rowan lets out a groan, hanging her head and letting her hair fall into her face as she bends over, submitting to another cramp that’s working its way through her insides.

“Does he belong to you?”

The lilting British accent that rings through the quiet shop pricks Rowan’s ears with familiarity as she snaps herself back into more appropriate posture, her palm still massaging her belly over her shirt. “What—?” Rowan whips her head around, searching for the source of the voice behind the towering shelves surrounding her. A flicker of movement from the corner of her eye catches her attention, and Rowan turns slowly towards a tower of white candles organized in glass jars as the owner of the disembodied voice emerges from behind it.

The first thing Rowan notices—to her immense relief—is Butternut happily situated in the man’s arms, purring contentedly as he stretches out languidly, seemingly pleased by the stranger’s body heat. This odd response is the second thing Rowan notes, as Butternut has never had an affinity for those he doesn’t know, and usually prefers to claw at strangers rather than flop over within their grasps. The third thing that Rowan notices, however, might be the oddest thing of all; the stranger in front of her is, in fact, no stranger at all.

Or, at the very least, she’s met him before.  Although his clothing isn’t soaked to the bone from a surprise thunder storm, his curls a bit lighter in colour and bouncier than ever when dry, and his cheeks displaying a tint of rosiness to them in the heat of the shop, Rowan recognizes Harry the moment she’s able to get a good look at him, even before noting the forest green apron with his name embroidered in the corner over his white t-shirt and tan cardigan. It’s his eyes, she thinks, cocking her head to the side as she appraises the familiar young man in front of her. The way his jade irises appear to swirl and shift in the light filtering through the storefront windows is so unmistakable that it’s branded into Rowan’s head from just their one brief meeting. And if the way those eyes are crinkling in the corners as his expression twists into a grin, Rowan can tell that Harry recognizes her, as well.

“Yes,” The florist finally replies to him, breathing a sigh of relief as she steps towards him. “Yes, that’s my cat. I’m so sorry, he just escaped from my apartment and ran all the way here, and I couldn’t stop him before he got inside—”

“It’s alright,” Harry assures her with a small smile that tugs at the corner of his reddened lips as he scratches Butternut behind his ears. “Worse things have stepped into this shop, I can assure you. And given how cute this particular intruder is, I can’t bring myself to mind it.”

Rowan’s upturned lips, while tentative, slowly lift to match the grin on his face as the full relief of knowing that Butternut is safe washes over her. “Thank you, really,” She reaches out and scoops Butternut into her arms, pressing the cat into her chest protectively while ignoring the burning feeling of Harry’s fingertips brushing over her own. “He didn’t break anything?”

“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” Harry says easily, waving one nail polished hand without an air of concern or notice of the contact. “No harm, no foul, and all that.”

“That’s a relief,” Rowan bounces Butternut in her arms absentmindedly as she glances around the shop, appraising the fragile wares more thoroughly than she had when she first entered. “His second worst habit after jumping out of windows is breaking things, and a lot of things here seem breakable.”

Rowan isn’t exaggerating for effect. Now that the relief of finding Butternut has uncoiled her stomach and she can take a moment to really look around the shop, she’s amazed that she managed to collect him without paying a small fortune for items destroyed in his wake. Every wall of the store is lined with a wooden built-in shelf, each one filled with an assortment of products, with the types of products varying from each wall. It’s much more organized than she’d thought at her first glance, and she allows herself a moment to sweep over each product with errant curiosity.

The wall to her left has shelves labeled with what she assumes are different kinds of teas, sorted by their uses, such as “awake and alive,” “blood pressure support,” and “happy tummy,” as well as sorted by flavour and blend. Another shelf is lined with small dropper bottles labeled with various types of oils, and the shelf to the right of that one is lined with small brown bottles labeled as various tinctures. The opposite wall to her right hosts a wide variety of salves and balms, also sorted by uses such as “super healing,” “anti-anxiety,” and “mood boost.” Along the back wall are rows of bulk bins usually found in the grocery store, except these bins are filled with large amounts of ground dried herbs, all labeled neatly to match everything else in the store. Despite the great quantities, however, there are also jars filled with unground herbs still attached to their host plants sitting neatly above the bins. The last wall, however, has the greatest variety of anything else in the store, and stocks row upon row of various crystals, stones, and minerals, all hosting neat labels with their properties and meanings underneath the names. And if all that product wasn’t enough—enough to pique her interest as well as her anxiety at the thought of Butternut roaming free in here—there’s stand-alone shelves throughout the store, displaying more tinctures, oils, and products, as well as candles, incense, and things that Rowan can’t even put a name to.

If Harry’s tone when he interrupts her observations is any indication, then her curiosity about the products is written clear across her face. “See anything interesting?” He asks conversationally, tucking his ringed hands into the pockets of his apron.

“I’d think it’s all interesting,” Rowan murmurs in reply, keeping a firm grasp on Butternut as she steps closer to a shelf of incense, squinting her eyes to read the—quite messy—handwritten labels. “What is all this stuff?”

“Well, they’re a wide variety of things, but to put it simply…they’re natural and organic products. I make them all here, in the back of my shop,” Harry untucks one hand to motion his thumb over his shoulder as he watches Rowan lean down to smell the incense, Buttercup meowing indignantly in her arms as she tightens her grip once more. “Well, except for the incense and candles. I have a supplier in Brooklyn that provides those for me, as well as some of the herbs. But all the oils and balms…I make those in house.”

Rowan doesn’t miss the hint of pride that lingers in the back of Harry’s voice, nor can she blame him for it. If she’d concocted all of this, she’d have more than just a hint of pride. “You make these?” Rowan repeats back in amazement, walking slowly to another shelf, this one housing a variety of creams and balms. Each row has a neatly labeled tester pot, and she runs her finger over the cool glass of the jars as she reads the labels out loud. 

“‘Patience’… ‘prosperity’… ‘protection’…” Rowan tilts her head towards Harry and raises a brow as the alphabetized names fall from her tongue. “How does a cream offer protection? Protection from what? Dry skin?”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch. “Well, yes. Among other things,” He strides over to stand next to her, picking up the tester jar labeled “protection,” and dips a jewelled finger into the surface of the light cream. “May I?” He requests, extending his other hand to her.

“Oh, uh…” Rowan shifts Butternut’s weight to her left arm, freeing up her right arm for Harry to take between his fingers. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Harry’s left hand grips her wrist with a warm and gentle touch, the curves of his fingers molding into the shape of her body easily. Despite feeling it a few moments earlier, Rowan isn’t prepared for the strange feeling that hums up and down her arm when Harry’s skin meets her own. Her walnut irises capture his own hunter pair, and the question that flashes through them quickly tells her that she’s not the only one noticing the buzz.

Harry, however, seems to be better at keeping his expression unreadable, because as soon as the question appears in his own eyes, it disappears again, his gaze returning to her hand. His fingers begin to dance over her wrist as he carefully rubs the cool balm into her skin, and Rowan watches the practiced motion for a moment before her attention slips to the strange tattoo that occupies the back of his hand, the one that she’d noticed in her own shop a few days before. It almost seems to dance over his skin, flexing and flowing with the movement of his muscles as he works the cream into her own palm. 

If the smell of sage and sandalwood filling the air hadn’t distracted her, Rowan might have begun to center her attention on the lithe movements of Harry’s calloused fingers over her hand, and how warm and welcoming his touch felt along her body, which would have led to her thinking about his hands traveling up her arm, following the natural line of her body to her collar bones, and then—  

 “That smells so good,” She says quickly, struggling to keep her voice balanced and even as she allows the fragrance to fill her senses, rather than her thoughts, which seem to be getting away from her at the moment. “Is that sage?”

Admittedly, the smell is quite distracting all on its own, even without Harry’s tantalizing touch working the scented balm into her skin, but Rowan can’t help but think that the relaxed and tranquil feeling flowing through her body has less to do with aromatherapy and more to do with the way Harry’s fingertips are pressing between her knuckles. Despite her brief encounters with him, there’s a familiar feeling in the way they interact; when he touches her, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or unfamiliar, like the touch of a stranger should feel. Instead, the sensation that hums over her skin and settles inside her chest reminds her of the warm burn of a hearth, as if her body were a home that has been waiting for him to arrive and light the fire for the night that will keep the dark and damp away.

“I’m glad you think so,” Harry’s low and lilting voice cuts through Rowan’s trance as he rubs the last of the cream into her skin. Although his fingers cease their gentle massage, he still keeps her wrist clasped within his hand, the pad of his thumb brushing over her knuckles absentmindedly. 

“I make the oils for these myself. This one has some sage, angelica, clove, and sandalwood. I mix it with organic cocoa butter, organic coconut oil, and beeswax from my supplier in Brooklyn, and melt it all together while—” Harry stops talking abruptly, his poetry-like tone cutting off with a nervous glance and a sheepish smile. “Actually, I shouldn’t be telling you all this. S’a trade secret, you know. If I tell you, then you might tell someone else, and soon I’ll be boarding up my windows because everyone is cooking up their own balms in their kitchens. Won’t have any need for me anymore.”

Rowan, who had been more focused on the hypnotic cadence of Harry’s voice to process exactly what he’d been saying, offers a half-hearted laugh as she shifts Buttercup within her arm. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” She does her best to reassure him, but it’s hard to sound convincing when Harry squeezes her hand within his own, because for some reason, Harry is still cradling her wrist, which only stokes the hearth within her chest. “I don’t really understand it, anyways. You said it…offers protection?” Rowan blinks at his simple nod of explanation. “Um…protection from what?” 

Harry loosely lifts his shoulders into a noncommittal shrug. “Anything, really. Whatever the wearer feels like they need protection from.”

“Okay, but…if I felt like I needed protection from…I don’t know, a robber…” Rowan spins an imaginary scenario as she speaks, shifting Butternut in her arm once more as the cat begins to fuss (she should extract her hand from Harry’s. It would make holding him a lot easier). “How would a cream protect me from that?”

“It’s not so much the cream as what it’s made from,” Picking up the jar again with his free hand (despite his eyes flickering to the increasingly annoyed cat within her grasp, he still hasn’t relented his own grasp on her), Harry twists the container so that the ingredient list faces Rowan, leaving him to speak from memory as he recites it. “Sage, angelica, clove, sandalwood…all of those things have protective properties. Their aromas bring comfort and tranquility to those who smell them. Using them in a cream allows their fragrance to go anywhere with the wearer, so it can bring continual comfort. Think about that symbol above your door, the one you said your mum used to draw. That was for protection, wasn’t it? It’s the same idea.”

“Oh…” Realization sparks in Rowan’s mind as she glances around the shop again, taking in every item with newly opened eyes. “Oh. Like in a metaphysical sense, right? Like how lavender is meant to bring luck?”

Harry’s brows arch up in surprise at the connection as he sets the jar back on the shelf. “Exactly like that, yes,” He says slowly, his emerald eyes watching Rowan’s renewed examination carefully as he finally relinquishes her wrist. “How did you know that?”

Rowan clutches Buttercup tighter to her chest, and while the movement is easier with both arms at her disposal, she can’t deny that she misses the sensations Harry’s touch provided her. “It’s another thing my mom told me when I was a kid. She always kept a little lavender plant in a window box.” Her eyes settle on the glass bottle filled with lavender sprigs on the shelf nearest to her, the sight jogging memories she hadn’t played in her mind in quite some time. “She used to make me lavender and chamomile tea when I was a kid, because I had trouble sleeping sometimes. It always knocked me right out,” The florist shrugs lightly. “You know, looking back, she probably mixed in some Nyquil too, but…”

Although Harry offers a small chuckle at her joke, the sound that falls from his mouth is strained, and when Rowan turns her attention back to the man again, his face has shifted into an expression she can’t read. His previously relaxed brow has furrowed and creased, and his cherry lips have transformed from an easygoing grin to a thin pursed line. The dimples that had adorned his rosy cheeks have all but disappeared, and without them, Harry looks ten years older, and ten times more intimidating.

Rowan clears her throat in an attempt to ease the newfound tension. “That—that was a joke,” She mumbles with a weak laugh, stroking the amber fur of Butternut’s back as he fusses once more. “She, uh, she didn’t do that.” Turning back to the shelf of teas, Rowan scans over the labels swiftly to find one like she’d described. “You sell one too, huh? A bedtime tea?”

Harry gives a terse nod of his head as his eyes follow the gesture of Rowan’s chin, his gaze seemingly glued to every one of her actions. “I do, yeah. Would you—?” Although he cuts off the question before he can even ask it, he only pauses to run his tongue over his darkened lips once before beginning again. “Would you like to try some? I can make a little sample tin for you. Or…” When his irises meet her own, Rowan finds they’ve shifted once more, moving further and further from the brightness she’d first seen upon their initial meeting. “If there’s nothing here you’d like to try…I live above the shop, in the flat upstairs,” He jerks his chin upwards, as if the motion is supposed to convince her he’s telling the truth. “I’ve been testing out some new blends that you might like, if you want to try them…?”

The sudden invitation to come up to his apartment isn’t exactly unwanted, but still leaves Rowan taken aback nevertheless. It’s not so much the invitation itself, Rowan reasons, her fingers massaging down Butternut’s back lightly, but the way it was delivered. Every interaction she’s had with Harry so far has felt organic, as natural and easy as breathing. This, however…this request feels anything but. “Oh. Uh—”

“You’re under no obligation, of course,” Harry clarifies, straightening the jars on the shelf while his cheeks stain a darker shade of crimson. “I just thought—you may like to see more of—of some things I’ve made, or—”

“No, I would!” Rowan’s heart hammers in her chest as Harry stumbles over his words, the apparent anxiety in his strained explanation endearing him in a way she hadn’t expected. “I would, and it sounds wonderful, but…” She raises Butternut in her arms in lieu of an explanation. She’s not exactly sure what’s bothering him, but from the way he’s been fussing throughout their entire conversation—especially when he’d behaved so well while in Harry’s arms—it’s clear that there’s somewhere he wants to run to. Or something he wants to run from. “I should be getting this guy home.”

A sheepish look paints itself onto Harry’s features, dragging down his eyes and creased brow, and before Rowan can say anything else, an apology tumbles from his downturned lips. “Right, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—to make you uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable!” Rowan assures him just as quickly, giving a firm shake of her head as reinforcement. “I—actually, I’m very comfortable with you, which is strange, given we just met—” Her own cheeks flush at the candid admission, growing to match Harry’s in hue. “But I just—I have to get Butternut home, but—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, it’s fine—”

“But if you’re free tomorrow afternoon, I’d love to come over for tea.”

Harry’s hasty apologies cut off before they can echo out of his throat, the unspoken words practically visible as they hang on the tip of his tongue. “You would?”

“I would,” Rowan confirms, the corners of her lips tugging up at the endearingly dumbfounded expression that sweeps over Harry’s entire face. “Maybe 2 o’clock, if that works for you?”

Tugging on his chestnut curls as his grin begins to grow once more, Harry gives a sharp nod of agreement. “That would be wonderful, yeah. I’ll see you here at 2 o’clock.”

…

At 1:59PM the next day, Rowan stands beneath the cream and hunter sign reading Verbena and Birch Apothecary, and re-evaluates her life choices. 

She’d like to consider herself a smart girl. Her mother had raised her to be thoughtful, introspective, and aware of her surroundings, as well as the people in them. If she had a bad vibe from Harry, or believed him to be dangerous in any way, she would turn on her heel and march back down the streets of the Village until she reached her own apartment. Or, even more, she probably wouldn’t have left her apartment in the first place, and would have let 2 o’clock come and go without a second guess. But Harry hasn’t given her any reason to think that he could hurt her; if he’d wanted to hurt her, it would’ve been much easier to have dragged her upstairs the day before. No one had seen her quickly ducking into his shop, and she’d been so busy chasing Butternut that she hadn’t told anyone where she was going. Their meeting today, however, has been pre-planned, meaning that Harry could assume that she’s told someone where she’s gone, or at the very least, left a note in her apartment in case police search it after she goes missing. There’s no reason for her to be concerned.

Then again, Rowan remembers the stranger danger lessons given to her in elementary school by New York police officers, and is reminded once more that the decision she’s making is probably a stupid one.

It’s just… Rowan touches the stone pendant hanging around her neck. The shining tiger’s eye had belonged to her mother before she passed, and Rowan could remember her rubbing a worried thumb over the smooth surface any time something was troubling her. Rowan herself thumbs over the honey-streaked stone, her own brow furrowing. Just.

It’s just Harry. It’s just something about him, something coded within his emerald eyes that makes her question everything she’d been taught. Of course she shouldn’t be having tea with a strange man she’s spoken to for barely fifteen minutes over the course of two encounters. Of course she shouldn’t accept an invitation into his home as if she was a lamb volunteering for her own slaughter. But Harry doesn’t feel like a stranger. At least, he feels unlike any stranger she’s ever encountered before.

The minute hand of the watch on her wrist slips past the twelve, leaving Rowan with no more time to dwell on the matter. Taking a deep breath as she tucks her shoulder length waves behind her ears, she pulls open the front door of the shop and steps inside.

Harry is standing behind the counter, writing in the leatherbound journal she’d noticed on his person the day he stumbled into her own shop. Upon hearing the tinkle of the chime above the door, his head turns up, and his emerald gaze meets her own.

“Rowan, hi,” Harry smiles easily at her as he shuts the journal, looping the leather tie around the bindings with practiced ease. “Right on time.”

“For once in my life,” Rowan jokes in an attempt to hide her nerves. She slips her hands into the pockets of the worn trench coat she’d found at an estate sale the previous year, trying to curb her habit of twisting her rings around her fingers when she’s nervous. “Sorry, am I interrupting your work?”

Tucking the leather bound journal underneath the counter in one smooth motion, Harry shakes his head. “No, not at all. It’s been a fairly slow afternoon. Not much to interrupt.”

“Really? No stray cats have run into your shop today?”

The small laugh that falls from Harry’s lips is light and easy, and lodges itself somewhere deep within Rowan’s chest in a way she doesn’t quite understand. “No, but the day is still young.”

Harry steps out from behind the counter, and for the first time, Rowan notices that his outfit is devoid of the hunter apron he’d worn the day before. Instead, Harry is dressed in a chunky knit chestnut coloured sweater with green detailing around the cuffs and hem. His pants are olive toned, baggy in their fit, and pool just above his black vans. He looks comfy. Cozy, Rowan thinks. Like he could laze back on a couch in the evening, his hands a bit sooty from stoking the fire, but that doesn’t matter, because he’ll laugh and try to swipe a charcoal covered finger over her cheek, and leave fingerprints along her skin when he—

“So you said you live upstairs?” Rowan’s voice is breathless when she pulls herself from her daydream, and she fidgets with the tiger’s eye around her neck in an attempt to calm herself with the familiar motion.

“Uh, yeah, I do. I—sorry, is that…” Harry’s gaze drops from her eyes to her fingers, watching as she twists the pendant up and down the old chain. “Is that tiger’s eye?”

Rowan glances down at the pendant caught between her fingers. The honey-streaked stone is cut in the shape of an oval and set into a metal backing, worn smooth from two generations of Frances women habitually rubbing it. It’s pretty, to be sure, but it’s never drawn anyone’s attention so quickly. But then again, Rowan’s sure the stone is stocked on the shelves behind her; it’s no wonder Harry’s noticed it.

“It is, yeah. My mom gave it to me,” Rowan says, letting the pendant fall back against her navy turtleneck. Technically, her mother didn’t give it to her. In all actuality, Rowan had claimed it after her mother passed away five years ago. However, now didn’t seem the time to dump all her mommy issues onto a virtual stranger, no matter how familiar he felt. The death of your only parental figure is more of a second date conversation, she thinks.

Not that they’ve had a first date. This is tea. She’s just here to try tea that Harry’s made. This rendezvous probably falls more under the category of a sales pitch than a date, and Rowan’s not sure why that fact makes her stomach churn in discontent, but she’s determined to ignore it.

“It’s lovely,” Harry says, seemingly unaware of the debate that’s playing out in Rowan’s mind. “May I?”

He reaches his right hand towards her, and Rowan’s eyes once again focus on the strange symbol inked into his smooth skin. A shiver runs up her spine as the uncomfortably familiar feeling of deja vu settles over her. His words are identical to yesterday, when he offered her a sample of the protection balm he made. But underneath that memory, there’s something else, something that settles at the very edge of her mind’s eye, just out of reach of clarity. That same phrase— “May I?”— echoed in a lilting British accent, a flash of a ringed, tattooed hand tugging at blush coloured sheets, the dangle of her tiger’s eye pendant over a flushed chest that’s inked with tattoos she can’t quite place…

The hand in front of her pauses, and its owner’s eyes find her own. Harry flicks his eyebrows up as if to repeat his question, and Rowan realizes he’s waiting for her to give him permission to examine her necklace.

“Yeah, sorry—” She hastily reaches behind her neck to undo the clasp, brushing her bobbed hair out of her way. “Let me just—”

She cuts off her speech with a stuttered gasp as Harry’s nimble fingers find the pendant that hangs over her turtleneck, carefully securing the stone between his digits without touching her.

It’s not until this moment that Rowan realizes that Harry is standing close enough to her that she can see the flecks of gold in his emerald eyes, which are trained on the pendant in a focused manner. The tip of his nose is flushed the same shade as the strawberry of his mouth, and the hue also skirts along the apples of his cheeks, barely visible with the concentrated expression that’s painted on his face.

Rowan doesn’t know much about Harry, but she stocks this new knowledge—how he’s careful to ask for her permission to move towards her, but merges his personal space bubble with her own once that permission is given—in the back of her mind. It’s so familiar that it produces an ache deep within her chest that confounds her.

“It’s a beautiful necklace,” Harry keeps his eyes on the pendant as he twists it between his fingers. “You said it was your mother’s?”

Rowan forces herself to sound calm and collected when she answers. “I did, yeah. She used to call it her lucky charm.”

“Tiger’s eye provides protection,” Harry murmurs the words quietly as he lets go of the necklace. It falls lightly back onto Rowan’s chest. “It’s a lovely piece. She was very kind to give it to you.”

“She was, yes,” Rowan fidgets with the necklace, fixing its position around her neck. “She’s—she’s a very kind person.”

Rowan’s not exactly sure why she slips into the present tense to describe her mother. Sure, she’s already decided that the death of a parent is a second date topic, but she’s also already decided that this isn’t a date. From past experience, she knows it’s better to rip off the “my mother passed unexpectedly when I was twenty years old and it tore apart my life” bandaid sooner rather than later, but she also knows that most men tend to stray away from the topic of mothers when they invite women up to their apartments for tea.

Then again, Rowan thinks ruefully as she follows Harry behind the counter a moment later at his request, Harry hasn’t acted like most men she’s ever met before.

The small corridor that leads towards the back of the shop is dark, lacking the sunlight that illuminates the front of the store. Instead, the floor creaks under Rowan’s feet, accented by the click of the heeled boots she may or may not have worn to bring herself closer to Harry’s height.

Harry pauses before an open doorway, and Rowan can smell the room before she sees it— lavender and sage, lemon and cloves, cinnamon and rosehips, and a thousand other scent combinations that Rowan can’t name. She peers over Harry’s shoulder to see a cluttered workbench, not unlike her own, covered in little glass bottles, bunches of greenery, and the familiar petals of yarrow flowers that she’d sold to Harry previously. Along the back wall, under a small window, is a row of bottles with different oils inside, and to the left is a gas range with two separate pots set on top. One of the pots is still steaming, the vapor coiling lazily above its contents, despite the range being off (Rowan checks with a flick of her eyes).

“This is where I make most of my inventory,” Harry says with a motion of his hand. “I had to add the range myself when I bought the place, but the butcher’s block and the work spaces were already here. I got pretty lucky.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Rowan replies, and she pauses a moment, waiting for the invitation to step inside and explore. When the invitation doesn’t come, and Harry turns his attention to the door to the left of the corridor, just before the entrance to the back room, Rowan can’t deny that she’s disappointed. However, part of her understands; she hates when anyone steps into her backroom. The organized chaos is always just one stray hand away from descending into madness, and what she stores in her workroom isn’t nearly as breakable as what’s inside Harry’s.

Instead, Rowan turns her gaze to the door that Harry’s unlocking with a key from his pocket. The key itself is small and brass, with a tarnished, well-worn handle and a detailed head. The object resembles something Rowan would expect to see in a movie set in the early 1900s rather than on the keyring of someone around her age, but it fits perfectly into the lock on the inconspicuous door. As Harry slips the weathered key back into his pocket, Rowan notes that it’s the only key on the keyring. She can’t say she’s surprised that there’s no car key present— hardly anyone she knows in New York has a car, much less their license. She’s one of the few of her friends that does, and that’s only because her mother had insisted she learn when she was eighteen. However, she is surprised to see no key to the shop on the ring. Rowan has three separate locks on the door to her own store, and keeps all the keys jumbled together with her apartment set.

“Like I mentioned, I live just above the shop,” Harry interrupts her pondering as he nods up the steep set of dark stairs. “Follow me, and try to watch your step. These stairs tend to trip people the first time they climb them.”

“Right, okay,” Rowan does as Harry says, following his practiced steps at the pace he sets. She lasts about three stairs before stumbling, and grabs hold of the worn railing to catch herself before she falls forward.

Harry turns around as much as the small space lets him, and the look on his face is concerned, but not surprised. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just regretting my choice of shoes right now,” Rowan laughs airily, hoping the darkness of the stairwell hides the blush she’s sure is working its way over her cheeks. “You really weren’t kidding, huh?”

“No, I wasn’t,” A set of fingers brushes over her hand that clings to the railing, and there’s a moment of hesitation before Harry tugs her hand away from the railing and grasps it gently within his own. “Here, just go a little slower. I’ll help you.”

It’s clear that Harry’s dashed up and down these stairs hundreds of times, because he has no trouble navigating the steep flight with his body turned sideways to guide Rowan to the top. His hand stays locked around hers, comforting without being controlling, until he pulls her onto the cramped landing at the top of the stairs.

“There we go,” He grins at her, his dimples barely visible in the dim light as he releases her hand. “You made it.”

“I did,” Rowan hopes the embarrassment isn’t detectable in her voice. “Only almost died once.”

Harry laughs, low and melodic, as he fishes in his pocket for something, and pulls his ringed hand back out with the same key he used to unlock the door to the stairwell. He presses the key into the silver lock on the door, and Rowan is surprised to hear the click of the lock two seconds later.

With a quick twist of the squeaky doorknob, Harry pushes open the door and leads Rowan into his apartment.

Although she’s only known Harry for a short time, she can’t really say she’s surprised by anything she sees in front of her. Harry’s apartment is big by New York standards, with exposed brick walls and greenery draped along every shelf. There’s a large set of windows along the far wall that sends a spark of jealousy down Rowan’s spine, and a velvet emerald-coloured couch that turns the spark into a flame. The scent of incense floats through the air, evidenced by the multiple holders she sees scattered along the living room, and pressed against the left wall is a bookshelf that holds multiple aged books set in leather and embossed with gold.

Harry’s apartment is earthy, and centered, and quite possibly the most beautiful space Rowan has ever seen.

“This is gorgeous, Harry,” She says breathlessly, her hand rising of its own accord to touch the frame of a print hung in the hallway by the door. “How long have you lived here?”

“God, about…eight years now, maybe? To tell you the truth, I think I’ve lost count,” Harry toes off his vans, and Rowan follows suit, tugging off her own boots and thanking her past self for deciding to spend the extra time to find matching socks this morning. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure, thank you,” Rowan begins to slip the trench coat over her shoulders, unsurprised when she feels a second set of hands help slide the fabric down her arms. She’s adjusting to Harry’s easy way with touch— revels in it, actually, which is new for her.

Harry hangs her coat on the stand just beside the door, and that same dimpled smile is on his face when he turns back around. “The kitchen is just through here, I’ll show— Jesus—”

Rowan nearly slams into Harry’s back as he comes to a quick stop in front of her, his arms braced against either wall in the small front hallway. Before she can stumble more from the sudden pause, his hand reaches behind him, finding her waist and steadying her.

“Harry?” Rowan’s skin feels as if it’s burning underneath her sweater, the sensation warmest at her core where Harry is touching her. “Is everything—?”

“Yes, sorry, it’s just—” Harry lets go of her with a sigh, stepping over what appears to be a large smoke coloured furry pillow in the middle of the hallway. “It’s just Clint.”

Rowan regards him with confusion, her chestnut eyes searching his own emerald for an explanation. “Clint? Who’s Clint?”

“That’s Clint,” He nods down to the furry pillow and nudges it with his sock covered foot. The pillow twitches, stretches when provoked, and Rowan suddenly realizes it’s not a pillow at all, but in fact—

“You have a rabbit named Clint?”

Harry’s already walking towards the kitchen, unconcerned about Clint’s nap spot that blocks the entryway of his apartment. “I do.”

A million questions flood through Rowan’s head, a million different things she could say about this new tidbit of Harry trivia. But instead of asking how owning a rabbit works in a New York City apartment, why said rabbit seems to have an infinity for inconvenient nap locations, or if tripping over him is an everyday occurrence (which, based on Harry’s exasperated sighs, she thinks it might be), the comment that leaves her mouth is, “Clint is kind of a weird name for a rabbit.”

Harry pauses his movements in the kitchen, one hand frozen on a mahogany cabinet while the other holds a jar of a dried tea blend. “You think so?”

Rowan flinches inwardly, still stuck frozen behind the rabbit in the hallway. “I— shit, sorry, that was rude. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. It is weird, I know,” Harry laughs, and the sound immediately drains the tension that had seized Rowan’s entire body. “But he likes it, and refuses to change it, so…yeah. Clint the rabbit. You can just step over him, by the way,” Harry says as he notices Rowan has yet to leave the entryway. “He’s pretty used to it, because he’s also stubborn about where he takes his fifteen daily naps, the lazy bugger…”

Stepping carefully over the rabbit as instructed, a smile plays on Rowan’s lips as she makes her way to the kitchen. “Damn. Sounds like Clint really needs to start pulling his weight around here.”

Harry snorts as he picks up the copper kettle located on his stovetop and fills it with water. “Try telling him that,” He says, flicking the gas range onto high and setting the kettle on the burner. “Even Atticus contributes more to the household, and I hardly have to feed him.”

Rowan leans over the stonetop counter, her eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Who’s Atticus? Another pet?”

“No, not a pet. More like a…friend…” Harry’s voice is barely above a murmur as he looks between the jar of tea in his hand, and the multiple jars lined up in his open cupboard. “Sorry, just…trying to choose what blend to give you.”

Tapping her index finger against the knuckle of her other hand, Rowan watches as a crease of concentration forms between Harry’s stern brow. “I can try any blend,” She offers, hoping to help with the indecision that seems to be plaguing him. “I’m really not picky.”

“No, but I am. I don’t want to give you the wrong one.”

“The wrong…?” Rowan tilts her head to the side, her own forehead creasing identical to Harry’s. “How can a tea blend be—?”

“This one,” Harry says triumphantly, swapping the jar in his hand with another stored at the very back of the cabinet. “I’ve been tweaking this recipe lately. I think you’ll like it.”

Harry opens another cabinet full of dishware, and grabs a midnight blue teapot with white detailing along the sides. After he sets the teapot on the counter, he pulls out two teacups with the same white detailing over midnight paint. 

It’s fascinating to watch the practiced ease with which Harry brews the tea. He’s added a few scoops of the blend into the diffuser that’s set inside the teapot by the time the kettle starts to whistle, and once he’s taken the kettle off the heat and poured the boiling water into the teapot to steep, he immediately reaches for a glass container that’s set on the counter. From her vantage point, Rowan can tell that it’s filled with honey.

Harry doesn’t ask her if she takes cream or sugar in her tea, and Rowan doesn’t interject to say she prefers one scoop of sugar and a dash of milk. Instead, she lets Harry dictate exactly how she’ll test out his own blend, observes carefully how he fills each teacup almost to the brim, but leaves enough room to add a few drops of honey with the glass wand that he keeps inside the matching jar. It’s clear that all of this is a science to him, from the amount of golden liquid added, all the way down to how he carefully stirs each cup before setting the drink down in front of her with a shy smile.

“Keeping with yesterday’s theme…” He says quietly, turning the cup so the handle faces Rowan for an easy grip. “Tea for protection.”

Rowan slowly lifts the delicate china to her mouth, blowing over the boiling liquid before inhaling the steam. “I smell…cinnamon, I think? And a little bit of lemon?”

Harry’s smile grows until his dimples flash at her. He’s still leaning over the countertop, mimicking Rowan’s curved posture. When she inhales again, she can smell the light scent of Harry’s cologne mixing in with the vapours of the tea.

“Good catch,” Harry praises her easily, tapping his ringed fingers against the countertop. “The base of the tea is a black tea blend, but there’s cinnamon and lemon balm in it, along with a few other things. A little cardamom, clove, nutmeg, ginger…a couple other spices. But they all do a really good job of keeping away things that could hurt you.”

Rowan doesn’t bother to inquire about how lemon balm can keep away something that could hurt her again; she doubts she’d get an answer that she really understands. Instead, she just blows over the surface of the tea one more time before taking a small sip. The flavours Harry listed rush over her tongue at a just below scalding temperature, swirling in her mouth before running down her throat and leaving a pleasant warmth behind.

Harry watches intently, his body still leaning across the countertop towards her. “What do you think?”

Rowan takes another small gulp of tea, more mindful of the heat this time. “It’s really good, Harry. The honey in it, too…adds just the right amount of sweetness.”

Rowan hadn’t realized the amount of tension that had strung itself between Harry’s shoulders until she watches it roll out of him. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it,” He says, straightening up before grasping his own teacup to take a sip. 

“Were you nervous I wouldn’t?”

Harry’s answering shrug is just on the edge of sheepish. “Maybe a little. I’m always a bit nervous when someone tries one of my products for the first time. I want them to like it, you know?”

“I get the same way when I design custom arrangements for clients,” Rowan confesses, swirling the tea in her cup. “There’s this moment, right before I show them their arrangements, when I swear I can feel my heart in my throat. I used to get so nervous that I felt like I was going to pass out.”

“Really?” Harry raises an inquisitive brow. “How did you stop it?”

“I started using this trick my mom taught me. Right before I show the arrangement to a client, like right before, when I’m getting it from the fridge, I picture what I hope their reaction will be. Excitement, surprise, happiness, things like that. More often than not, clients usually react the way I imagine they will. It helps keep me calm.”

That crease appears between Harry’s brow again, but smooths out a moment after Rowan takes notice of it. “Your mother is a smart lady.”

“She…yeah,” Rowan clears her throat and takes another sip of tea, the temperature more comfortable now. “And she keeps coming up in conversation, which is probably pretty annoying. Sorry.”

It takes all of Rowan’s self control to stop herself from pressing her thumb between Harry’s brows as that damn crease comes back. “Why are you sorry? I like hearing about your past. It makes it easier to understand you in the present.”

The sincerity in his tone brings a flush to Rowan’s cheeks. “Is that something you’re having difficulty with? Understanding me?”

Harry hums in consideration as he brings his teacup to his lips. One of his rings, the one set with a red stone— a garnet?— flashes under the light. “It’s becoming progressively easier the more I’m around you. But there’s still so much that seems…clouded.”

Rowan can’t suppress the shiver that runs down her spine at his words, but tries to disguise it under a humorous tone. “Well, we only just met. I’d be a bit concerned if you knew everything about me.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to know everything about you; I said I wanted to understand. You don’t have to know every facet of someone’s life to understand who they are,” Harry argues in a tone that borders on defensive. 

“And is…understanding people something you’re good at?” Rowan asks after a moment, fighting to keep her own tone light.

“Usually. It’s easier to understand some people than others.”

“Where do I place on that scale?”  Rowan pitches her voice lower than she means it to be, as if she’s whispering something in the dead of night. As if she’s afraid to be heard. “In, like, terms of difficulty…if one was the least difficult person to understand, and ten was the most difficult. Where do I sit?”

“The difficulty of understanding you…” Harry trails off, and for the first time, Rowan realizes that understanding is a placeholder word for Harry. It’s a word that’s almost synonymous with what he means, but doesn’t carry the same intention. It’s a verbal facade, disguising what he’s really trying to say behind a half truth.

But the thing about half truths? They’re always half lies, as well.

“I don’t know,” Harry says after a weighty moment, his tongue swiping over his lips. “I can’t quite place you yet.”

This time, Rowan detects the half lie right away. But she doesn’t push it. In all honesty, she’s a little afraid of the answer. There’s something in the way Harry’s jade eyes regard her, the way he leans into her space, both mentally and physically…she’s almost convinced that if Harry were to tell a whole truth instead of a half, the answer may break her.

Which is dramatic, and unfathomable, and even as Rowan repeats that to herself over and over internally, she knows that only half of what she’s repeating is true. A half lie, born of her own mind.

“Well,” Rowan drops her eyes to the contents of her teacup as she lifts the drink to her lips. “Let me know when you do.”

If Harry’s aware of the charged nature of her words, he doesn’t say anything. The two of them finish their tea with casual small talk, rather than more evaluations of the other’s character. Rowan reveals that she’s a born and raised New Yorker, while Harry tells her about growing up in London (Rowan mentally pats herself on the back for restraining her instinct to tell Harry that’s where her mother grew up). Harry talks little about his family, mentioning an older sister who’s married, a mother who passed away when he was a boy, and a father who still lives in his childhood home. When Rowan asks when Harry last visited the country of his birth, his eyes drift a shade darker, and his tattooed hand drifts upwards to his chest, rubbing the area with the same subconscious movement that drives Rowan to fidget with her necklace. The tone of his voice when he says that he hasn’t been back since his move brings her to drop the subject altogether. 

The two of them learn that they both share the same love of the first snowfall of the season, and a sense of melancholy when it rains. Both Harry and Rowan experience deja vu frequently, as well as knock on wood to prevent themselves from indirectly jinxing things they say. They both record their dreams in a journal, both sleep better with the sounds of the city as a lullaby. And by the time Rowan stands up to leave, they’ve both agreed to see each other again.

 As per Harry’s request, Rowan types her number into Harry’s cell phone as he carries their used teacups to the sink. When she hands him back his phone (her number is saved under the name Flower Shop Girl, which Harry had confessed he thought of her as before he knew her name, and the admittance brings so much warmth to her chest that Rowan forgets again to ask how he knew her name during their first meeting), Harry has a small satchel in his hands, which he gives to her in exchange.

“This is another new blend I’m working on,” Harry’s fingers just barely brush over hers as he slips the satchel into her hands. “It has chamomile and lavender in it, so I recommend drinking it before bed.”

Rowan brings the satchel to her nose, inhaling deeply at the pleasant scent. “I can smell the lavender, and…cinnamon?”

A small smile plays on the corners of Harry’s lips as he walks her to the door (he takes Rowan’s hand to help her step over Clint, who’s still asleep in the entryway). “You’re good at that.”

“Thanks. I guess spending pretty much all my time around flowers is useful for…scent identification,” Rowan flinches internally as she slips her boots back onto her feet. Who the hell says shit like scent identification? She switches the topic back to the satchel in her hand, hoping she doesn’t sound as awkward as she feels. “Is it meant to help with sleep? The tea, I mean.”

“It can, yeah. It’s, uh…well, it’s meant to help with clairvoyance,” Harry slides Rowan’s trench coat off the coat rack and holds it open for her to slip on.

Goosebumps prick up along Rowan’s skin as she slides on her jacket. “Clairvoyance? What do you mean?”

“Just…someone’s perception of things,” Harry shrugs nonchalantly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “It helps clear the mind, keep it open, that sort of thing.”

Rowan looks down at the unassuming satchel still clutched in her hand. “There’s not, like, magic mushrooms in here, is there? Because I had a really bad experience once in university, and I’d rather not—”

Harry’s laugh is loud and rolling, echoing enough through the entryway that Clint’s ears prick up. “No, no psychedelics. Not in this blend, anyways. But I’d love to hear about your experience with shrooms, if you’d like to share.”

“Maybe some other time,” Rowan rolls her eyes as she tucks the satchel into her pocket. “We can swap embarrassing intoxication stories another day.”

“We could, yeah. Maybe over dinner?”

There’s a note of hopefulness in Harry’s voice that fans that flame inside her chest. “Yeah. Maybe over dinner.”

Harry’s shoulder brushes against hers as he reaches past her to open the door. “It’s a date.”

…

In her dreams, Rowan is in Central Park.

At least, she thinks it’s Central Park. It’s pitch black, with the only light to illuminate her path being the shine of the full moon above her head. Rowan knows the trail through the park like the back of her hand, having walked them most of her life. However, she’s never traversed through the park in the dead of night, let alone by herself, and there’s a sense of uneasiness resting over her.

She wants to turn around. She wants to find her way back to the busy streets, and hail a taxi that’s surely still cruising through the city that never sleeps. She wants to make her way out of the freezing cold of the night, and retreat back into the comfort of her tiny apartment. She wants to be anywhere but here.

And yet, her feet keep taking measured steps forward, further and further into the only forest in the middle of a suburban sprawl. When she was a child, she’d been fascinated with photos of the park from above, by the stark contrast of nature and industrialization. She’d often dreamt of being a bird, and flying over the city so she could make the comparison for herself.

Dream, Rowan thinks, and her steps pause. This is a dream. She doesn’t need a taxi; all she needs to do is close her eyes, and think about being back home, and then—

A hand wraps around her waist from behind, and before Rowan can scream out in surprise, another clasps itself over her mouth. Fear courses through her body, freezing her limbs more than the bitter winter air ever could, and she shudders as a pair of lips brush over her ear.

“It’s okay,” A voice says in her ear, and the low British lilt is familiar to her now, as easy to place as her own. “It’s alright, love. S’just me.”

Rowan relaxes in Harry’s arms, but only by a fraction. She tries to mumble against his hand, but he keeps it pressed tight over her mouth, careful not to obstruct her nose as well.

“You need to listen to me, okay?” Harry’s breath is hot on her neck. While Rowan typically finds sensations to be dampened during dreams, the feeling of his breath rolling over her skin is so pleasurable that her knees almost buckle. “Nod if you’re listening.”

Rowan nods, the urgency in Harry’s words being just enough to keep her from succumbing to the newfound desperation supplied by his proximity.

“Good, that’s good. I don’t have long, so you need to listen carefully.”

Humming against his hand, Rowan knows that Harry senses her meaning: get on with it. 

“When you get to this night— this night, this specific night— you need to pause when you reach the fork in the path, alright?” Harry’s thumb strokes over her cheek as he murmurs the instructions in her ear. “Look up to the sky. Do you see the moon?”

Rowan’s chocolate eyes tilt up to the sky as she hums her understanding. It would be so much easier to communicate if he would uncover her mouth. Why won’t he uncover her mouth? She could talk to him if he did, tell him she understands, tell him what the feeling of him pressed so tightly against her back is doing to her, tell him to bring his lips just a bit closer to her skin…

“It’s a full moon. Memorize what the cold feels like against your skin,” Harry’s voice reaches hypnotic levels as he commands her. “The smell of pine in the air. You need to remember this moment, okay? Remember this night, remember this dream, and remember to pause when you get to the fork in the path.”

“Harry…” Rowan tries to whisper his name from underneath his hand, but the plea comes out muffled, barely audible over the whistling of wind through the trees. 

The hand over her mouth tightens reflexively, rings pressing so hard into her skin that Rowan thinks it’ll leave an imprint of the metal band once she’s released. The thought sends a ripple through her body.

“You need to be quiet, love. It’s almost time, and it’ll hear you,” Harry squeezes her body tighter against his, almost like an apology. “I have to go in a moment, before it knows I’m here.”

The sound that falls from Rowan’s lips is involuntary, and strays so close to being considered a whine that she’s glad Harry’s grasp on her is muffling her words.

“I’m sorry,” There’s a new note in Harry’s voice, a tone of distress just barely straining his normally soothing speech. “I wish I could tell you more. I wish I could explain, but I can’t. Not yet. Just— just remember what I said. Pause when you reach the fork in the path. Promise me you’ll do that.”

Rather than try to speak incoherent words behind Harry’s hand, Rowan raises her own and brings it to her mouth. With her index finger, she draws two lines over the back of his hand, hoping he gets the message. 

Cross my heart.

The sigh that Harry heaves blows the hair around her neck in separate directions, and Rowan’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as the sensation rolls over her.

“Good girl,” Harry breathes the words into her ear, and the breath that Rowan pulls into her chest is shakier than ever. “I have to go. And you need to wake up.”

Rowan shakes her head as her hand settles on top of Harry’s, keeping his palm pressed over her mouth. It feels so good, so much better than she ever could have imagined. It’s been so long since someone’s touch has made her feel like this, like she’s falling into their heat without a second thought. She doesn’t want to leave this moment. 

“You need to wake up, Rowan,” Harry’s voice grows more persistent in her ear, more urgent. The wind picks up around them, whipping her hair around her face as she leans into him more. “Wake up!”

…

It’s still dark outside when Rowan jolts upright in her bed.

For a moment, she thinks she’s still in her dream. She reaches behind her for Harry, but instead of finding the warmth of his body, she encounters the smooth cotton of her pillow. There’s a movement to her left, and she whips her head around, almost expecting to see Harry there, his emerald eyes intent on her. Instead of emerald, she finds ochre, and sees that Buttercup is watching her, clearly awoken by her own abrupt start.

Finally accepting that she’s in her bedroom, Rowan flops back into her pillows, ignoring Buttercup’s meow of indignation at being jostled. She pulls the cat into her arms, and the familiarity of his fur against her skin calms her racing heart. 

It was a dream, she tells herself. It was an incredibly vivid dream, one that brought to life desires that she didn’t even know she had, but a dream nonetheless. With a sigh, Rowan glances at the mug of tea on her bedside table, still containing liquid that’s turned icy cold while she’s slumbered. She hadn’t even finished half of the brew before it knocked her out. Rowan wonders if it’s possible to ask Harry if the tea contains anything that could cause strangely vivid and…Christ, she can’t deny it— arousing— dreams without giving away the fact that he was the star of them.

Buttercup purrs against her chest, and Rowan sighs again, gently moving him back to his preferred spot next to her before curling onto her side. She can worry about her weirdly touch-centered dreams in the morning, she decides, when she’s more fully awake to process them. It’s been a long day, and Rowan is tired. She needs some rest, proper rest. She’s too exhausted to think right now.

And too exhausted to notice the imprint on her lip that resembles the band of a ring.

[writerinparadox]

Oh yes, Bsd. I have been wanting to write about my ideas regarding the characters of the series for a long time, and what better than with a café AU?

◇ Characters : Ranpo Edogawa!

— Coffee!MaleReader x BSD

◆ "Working in the new cafeteria, you receive a somewhat... sugary order."

Wow... It sure was exhausting to work, being you, a slacker. It really didn't seem to be the most suitable or comfortable for you, but, you were aware that you couldn't just walk away from work as you did before, especially when your dear friend, F/N, is the boss.

You let out a clearly exhausted sigh as your hands, still active, moved fluidly. Each new day at the coffee shop is a new challenge, you select the beans carefully, grind the coffee with precision and prepare the cup of the order as if it were the only one of the day.

Letting out a slight hum as you listen to the coffee pot roar to a familiar tune, moving as if the sound had called to you, you end up picking up the pot as you notice the strange addition to the order that you hadn't noticed before.

Why so much sugar?

Almost instinctively, you squinted, curious about the extravagant addition. You understood that some people might like their coffee a little sweeter, but with the amount of sugar it called for... It only left you thinking about one thing.

It had to be a joke, right?

Wasn't it?

Almost as if the spoonfuls of sugar you were pouring in were burning you alive, you did as it was written, hoping and almost begging some being watching you, that you wouldn't end up with an angry person because of the addition they ordered.

You moved the spoon trying to beat a little large amount of sugar without moving it too much to avoid spreading the coffee a little. Only to pick up the order and read the name of the coffee buyer.

Before bothering to call him you noticed how a boy with green eyes, black hair and a brown cap was looking at you with curiosity, apparently waiting for his coffee, maybe you had not made it yet? You doubted that, since you had noticed him a while ago and you usually didn't take so long with coffees.

"Is Ranpo here?"

Focusing on finishing this order, you hurried to ask for the buyer out loud, just as you had done with the previous coffees you had made.

"Here."

"Oh, take your coffee with 8 tablespoons of sugar...."

It was the same guy you had noticed before, now visualizing him with a name, Ranpo, he received the coffee with a giant smile, as if he was pleased that they had actually added the spoonfuls of sugar. You could have sworn you saw just a few seconds of the way he looked at the coffee before taking a sip.

"To think I almost regretted coming in here, considering the small variety of sweets available at the counter." You squinted almost instinctively when you heard him speak.

"Excuse me?"

"You are excused." There was really no way to even try to understand this strange talk you were having. It would be best to just leave the conversation there. Lucky for you, you still have to continue making coffees.

As if in silent agreement, you nodded once in his direction, only to end up being greeted by the same action from him.

Finally, you had turned to walk towards your present co-worker, receiving the next order and getting ready to work properly, though of course, still, with the reminder of what had just happened.

.

He was lost, Ranpo was walking through the streets of Yokohama looking for a stable place to wait for one of his colleagues, free, to come and look for him.

Although, he had said he was going for candy, it was not his fault to go the wrong way, it is a big city and besides he just wanted to look for a new place to waste, to take advantage of his money in the best way, buying candy.

He is a detective at first, obviously he needs to have enough sugar to be able to work properly, every detective mostly needs sugar to work, and who better than him, one of the best detectives in Yokohama?

With his hand in his pockets, as he searched for an ideal place worth entering, in his vision, he caught a glimpse of a cafeteria that, he deduced, looked like it was recently opened and welcomed by a high quality of customers.

And obviously, since it's a coffee shop, it should have sweets, right?

His idealization at the fact that it would probably have a large amount of sweets completely clouded his judgment, causing him to enter without hesitation, despite naming himself the best detective in the world, he just ended up with a sad reward, there wasn't even a variety of sweets, being only a few that were there

Sighing in annoyance, he ordered a sugary coffee, just for the purpose of what minimum to get something good from the place.

Ordering without problems with the lady that attended, he went to sit in one of the seats, looking at the decoration and the good atmosphere that there was, well, it was not like the cafeteria that was near the Agency, but it would serve to pass the time in what they came to look for him.

He looked at the boy in charge of the coffees, precisely how he made his own, observing and counting how he poured the extra spoonfuls he had asked for, letting a slight smile show with only the frame of his lips at the fact that he really added the extra ordered.

He did not avoid getting up beforehand wanting to ask for the sweetened coffee that you put on the table where you delivered the coffees, hearing his last name, leaving his lips, he did not avoid feeling happy about it, walking towards your direction while you waited for him to make his presence known. If you already felt the slight nervousness at having to hear his last name, coming from the lips of that stranger as coordinated as if it was made to call him.

Now he just hoped he didn't end up making a bad impression. Which he did, but not as bad as he thinks, surely he would have to return to this coffee shop to be able to leave a better impression, he's not the best detective for nothing, is he?

Surely, if he does it better the second time, he will be able to deduce whether this cafeteria was worth his time.

[shanardo13]

Obikin College Au - RA/Don! Obi-Wan/First Year! Anakin - Part Three

Honestly, at this point I should probably just start writing it, but I keep thinking of little ideas for this au and want to keep track of them, so I present to you: Part Three 😈

Link to Part One

Link to Part Two

At this point, they are becoming inseparable - Ahsoka would say insufferable. Both are applicable.

Whenever Anakin has errands to run, he texts Obi-Wan to come with him. Obi-Wan has started to do the same. Now most of their outings involve running errands for each of them.

Anakin: u free? I gotta hit Walmart and get supplies for my project.

Obi-Wan: yeah I’m free. Think u could get it from staples at the mall instead?

Obi-Wan: I wanna go to Sephora and Hot Topic. Need eyeliner and I wanna look at band shirts.

Anakin: omfg 🙄

Anakin: jk jk that sounds perfect! Meet outside subway station in ten?

Obi-Wan: sounds good!

And then they meet in front of the subway station like they planned.

They both bring earbuds to the subway, so really they could listen to their own music, but they never do. Instead they share a pair and sit huddled up together, taking turns picking songs.

They can both be kind of pretentious with music, so they work well together. Despite their differences, they impress each other with their knowledge and love of the same music.

“Anakin, Wings is leagues better than Plastic Ono Band, and anyone who doesn’t think so is just stupid.”

“Oh, McCartney is just bubblegum pop and we both know it, Obi. At least Lennon had substance.”

“Substance abuse issues, maybe.”

“Can we at least agree that Harrison’s work is significantly underrated?”

“Oh definitely. All Things Must Pass is the best post-Beatles solo album in my opinion.”

“Yes! Thank you! Do you want to listen to it?”

When they get to the mall, they immediately head to their favourite little coffee shop in the centre of the food court. Obi-Wan always buys, so Anakin usually makes it up to him by finding him a little gift.

“You just want your regular?”

“Obi-Wan, I’ve told you numerous times. I can afford my own coffee. You don’t have to buy it for me.”

“Shut up, I want to.” He turns to the employee and repeats their drink orders. “And a strawberry danish please!”

They sit in the food court while they drink their beverages and Anakin eats his danish, conversation flowing endlessly. Lots of inside jokes and giggles are shared. Then they continue on with their shopping.

They go to staples first, as Obi-Wan has dubbed it the ‘not-fun’ part of their trip.

“Anakin, you’re getting office supplies for a school project. Boring! Let’s get it out of the way first!”

“Okay, fine.” Anything for you! Literally anything you ask, any time, I would say yes. I’m at your mercy

They grab what Anakin needs at Staples and then head to Sephora.

Obi-Wan spends far too long sifting through various shades of black eyeliner. They all look the same.

“Anakin, which is better? ‘Midnight’ or ‘Jet Black’?” He holds up two pencils.

Anakin studies them. He tries really hard to spot a difference between them and to subsequently make a decision.

“Uhh… I guess, ‘Midnight’ ?” He suggests, pointing to ‘Jet Black’.

Afterwards they head to Hot Topic to look at the band shirts. This has both of them captivated.

“Anakin, it’s buy three get the fourth free. If we each pick two we can get the deal and then just split the cost for the rest.”

“Yes, Obi-Wan, I understand. But what if we each picked four?”

“You don’t need four new shirts!!!”

They settle on each getting two. When Anakin buys Obi-Wan a cool chain necklace with a scorpion on it that he had been eyeing, it’s only as a repayment for the coffee. Nothing else.

When Obi-Wan buys Anakin a pair of dangly sword earrings, it’s only because he thinks they would look really good on Anakin and he’s not too bashful to admit it. He wasn’t going to spend any time thinking about what that might mean.

“Please put them on! They totally suit you!”

“Oh fine!” Anakin obliges. They’re in the washroom after leaving Hot Topic. He puts the earrings on, as Obi-Wan watches him in the mirror.

“See! You look hot, Ani.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He mutters, blushing a fierce red as the two of them maintain eye contact in the mirror. You can’t just say something like that and expect me to be normal about it!

So Anakin walks around the mall, sword earrings proudly on display.

They go to Indigo because Obi-Wan is an English major and is passionate about literature. He wants to buy a book for Anakin to read so they can talk about it.

“I think you’ll really like Slaughterhouse-Five. Vonnegut is a very satirical author, and I think you’ll appreciate his dark sense of humour. Plus, it has science fiction elements! He uses aliens and a warped concept of time to highlight the trauma and impact of war. You’ll love it!”

“It sounds cool! I’ll give it a go!”

Anakin likely would have never picked it up on his own, but the way Obi-Wan’s eyes lit up and the pace of his speech quickened as he spoke with great passion about the novel made it entirely worth reading.

After the mall, they go to the park together. They sit down at a spot under a tree. Obi-Wan leans against the tree. He grabs a journal from his book bag and begins writing in it - just lil poems and thoughts. Definitely not about Anakin.

Anakin stretches out and rests his head on Obi-Wan’s lap. He starts reading the copy of ‘Slaughterhouse-Five’ that Obi-Wan bought for him.

They sit there for a long time in silence, each focusing on their own task but enjoying each others company.

Eventually Obi-Wan stops writing, putting his journal away in his bag.

The sun is starting to set, and as he glances down at Anakin, he notices how it highlights his features.

He notices the warmth of his skin brightened by the light - the gold of his curls enunciated in the glow.

He reaches down and rakes his fingers through the curls as Anakin continues reading.

“Thank you for today. Trips like this mean everything to me.” You mean everything to me.

Anakin stops where he’s reading and folds the corner of the page. Obi-Wan winces - he would never damage a book like that.

Anakin looks up at him, leaning into the fingers in his hair, practically purring. It’s enough to stop Obi-Wan from cursing him for folding the pages of a book.

“Of course, Obi. Things are always more fun with you.” He hums.

Obi-Wan smiles down at him, giving his scalp light scratches. I’m not thinking about kissing him.

“You’re like a little cat.” He ruffles his locks before pulling his hand away. He gives Anakin’s nose a boop.

Anakin huffs and pulls himself into a sitting position so they’re face to face. He stares at Obi-Wan for a moment, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

Suddenly, he stands up, reaching for Obi-Wan’s hand. “C’mon.” He says.

“Oh, what now?” Obi-Wan groans and grabs the offered hand, allowing himself to be pulled up.

“You’re going to buy me ice cream from the stand over there!” Anakin beams, interlocking their fingers and pointing to an ice cream cart in the distance.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes but can’t control the smile tugging at his lips.

And so they go to the cart. Obi-Wan buys Anakin an ice cream cone. He wouldn’t do it if it didn’t make him happy - or rather, if it didn’t make Anakin happy which in turn made him happy.

As Anakin devours the cone they make their way back to the subway station. Their hands stay intertwined the entire way.

Mindlessly, Obi-Wan rubs his thumb up and down against Anakin’s palm.

All in all, it was quite a perfect day.

I promise at some point I’ll actually start writing this - I can’t promise I won’t post more of these before that though. 😎

[beelmons]

A story of 'maybe's and 'what if's

cw: @snarkylinda made a post about when JJ asks Spencer what he would have been in another life and said Spencer probably writes coffee shop AUs. So here's a small peek at cowboy!spencer with his small town!BAU AU. Gif credit @imagining-in-the-margins (couldn't find it on tumblr's gif search bar so I had to use a link). Nothing happens in this fic, just Spencer doing cowboy stuff and being happy with his life, like he deserves.

Focus: Spencer Reid x Reader (vaguely), everybody else on the team is mentioned.

The rule of the land was to trample or be trampled, a rule that was much to the dislike of Spencer Reid.

"Stop moving, let me see you." the young cowboy would shout as the small animal thrashed around in his arms.

Once he was able to contain it, he could notice the fracture on the middle part of its leg. A youngling rabbit had wandered into his ranch early in the morning and his cattle, albeit small very lively and wary, had tried to kick it out of their area by force.

During his first round, early in the morning, of revising the cows, he noticed his herd dog heavily interested on a random hollow rock, barking and bending with his tail wagging from side to side. To his surprise, the source of amusement was no other than an injured rabbit, to whose rescue he went.

"I don't think I have enough to take care of it here, we're going to have to go the sanctuary." he huffed in disappointment.

The small animal was put into a weary satchel after being given a light sedative, this to protect it from hurting itself, and Spencer went on his merry way. As routine marked, he stopped by the local coffee shop to grab some liquid energy for the day, and after chatting with his friend Kate, he headed to the flower shop down the street. Something caught his attention inside the café, though, a face he had never seen before. A passer by, he figured, and he didn't pay much attention before he left.

"Morning, Reid, you're out early." Will pointed out as Spencer entered the small venue.

"There's something I have to do right away, is JJ in?" he asked

"She's in the back, I'll tell'er you're here." the man, dressed up in local police uniform, reassured before disappearing behind a cloth door. Shortly, Jennifer came out with a bright smile on her face.

"Good morning, Spence, good to see you awake before nine." she joked.

"I'm usually awake, I just don't go out until I make sure the horses are clean for the day." he quickly explained before he turned attention to his original purpose "do you have any lilies or daisies?" he asked.

"I must have some left in the back. Got a date?" the blonde woman teased.

"Haha" he mocked "Could you please go get them, I'm in a rush." Spencer said.

"Yes, just let me— Oh, welcome!" she suddenly changed her tone and Spencer could notice it was because of another costumer behind him.

"Hi" you said, walking to stand next to Reid by the registry "I'm here to pick up an order? I'm—" you began to explain until JJ interrupted you.

"Yes, my husband said you called last night. Your order is ready, I'll go get it." she turned to face her friend instead "And I'll get your daisies for the date you don't want to tell me about, lover boy." she teased Spencer.

The man simply made a mocking face that caused her to laugh as you were left alone in the room. He took a second to try and glance at you from the corner of his eye, trying to double-check of the suspicion of you being the same person as in the coffee shop was true.

"Daisies for a date?" you said, trying to break the ice "A bit unorthodox, they aren't necessarily the most sensual of flowers."

"It's not a date." he said politely, although his slightly awkward pursing of the lips made you realize he was not the most comfortable, so you decided to shut up.

"Here." thankfully, JJ appeared once again to give you the order, and after taking your cash you dashed out of the place.

"Who is that?" he asked, his eyes looking back to the door you had just walked through.

"Oh." JJ said with a specific suggestive tone "Why, interested?" she propped herself curiously onto her elebows on the counter.

"You know what?" he was about to start telling her off when he felt a slight twitch in his satchel "Actually, I have to go." he said in a hurry and snatched the flowers from the counter to head to the sanctuary.

Maybe not interested, yet, but he was certainly intrigued by the random, and in his opinion quite attractive, stranger that just appeared in his town.

However, he would have time for that later, he needed to get to the animal sanctuary.

"—and over there you take a left and you will immediately see the police station." or not, since you were right there in the animal sanctuary, conversing with Morgan "You can ask the secretary for sargeant Hotchner, if he isn't there he might be at Rossi's, the local saloon, you can ask detective prentiss to take you."

"All right, thank you." you said with smile

"Welcome, take care, sweetheart." he charmingly saw you off.

Before you could exit the place, though, you crossed sights with Spencer. The awkward smile appeared on his face once again and he raised a hand to give a lame, weak wiggle of his fingers.

However, this caused you to get a warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest, and you hit him with a smitten grin.

"Good luck with whoever is on the receiving end of those daisies, lover boy." you joked in his direction before you disappeared, yet again, behind the entrance.

Morgan stared with raised eyebrows and startled eyes.

"She hasn't been here more than a day and you already bagged her?" Morgan let out an impressed sigh "Gotta get me some of that cowboy game."

"Can everyone stop? I don't even know her name." he said as he stepped closer.

"Whose name?" Penelope entered the waiting room with her particular beaming attitude.

"The girl who was asking about Hotch's." Morgan clarified to her.

"Oh, I think she's pretty, do you?" Garcia asked Reid.

"No!" he almost yelled defenssively.

"Oh my god! You totally like her!" she shouted and Morgan laughed in response.

"Can we get back to my actual problem?" he once again tried to change the subject, gently laying the bag on the counter to open it "Poe found it hiding, I think the cows broke the leg. Can it stay here for a couple of days? Brought flowers as a payment." he raised the bouquet in her direction.

"I love daisies, they are like the poster flowers of joy. Thank you, Reid." she took the flowers before setting them in an empy container on the fron desk "Now, let's get you better, little thing."

With care, she took the bag to take it to the hospital area, leaving only the two men there.

"Rossi said he is hosting a private dinner at the saloon tonight, you coming?" Morgan asked.

"I don't know. Blake asked me for help to prepare some material for her class." Reid answered with tiredness.

"I know for a fact that she's gonna be there." Morgan teased with a grin, subtly referring to you.

Spencer remained quiet, apparently unamused, for a second.

"We'll see." he said.

However, there was nothing to see. He was intrigued, and if there was something Spencer Reid couldn't control about himself was his curiosity.

[shifterdomain]

Thankyou! I'd like to say anon if that's okay.

I was thinking (non celebrity figure)

Jonah owns a coffee shop, yn goes there to blow off steam everyday after her shift (she's a doctor/surgeon), and she'll go there to read and have a very milky hot chocolate. She would stay there for hours, sometimes even past their closing time. Jonah just admires hers, and let's her stay until he's finished closing down

Eventually he starts to get to know her and then he's sitting with her on his breaks, talking, laughing, being touchy, joking about how milky she likes her hot chocolate.

Hand holding, first kisses, midnight chats, first time staying around at his place and being nervous (above the coffee shop)

His parents also work in the coffee shop too, and they're watching the love grow between the two of you, and they find it very cute.

I was thinking she could bring a guy to the coffee shop because he was upset at work, but instead of biting two coffees, she bought three, one for Jonah too. As if to say "you have nothing to worry about" even though Jonah and yn aren't a couple yet, he really appreciates that and knows what she meant with the coffee, even though she didn't say it out loud.

First dates, first kiss, finding her fall asleep everywhere, her looking cute in scrub tops, moving in and proposing, reflecting on how they met and how beautiful their relationship has become?

It sounds a lot, I know! Simplify it however you want, long or short, doesn't matter! Thankyou very much ❤️❤️

#jonahhauerking

My Milky Way / Jonah Hauer-King X Reader AU

A/N: I'm so, so sorry that it's taken so long. There's been a lot going on in my life lately that made me lose interest in writing for a while (and it didn't help that I lost the story multiple times). But it's finally here. I really hope your guys will like it. It's basically a set of short stories.

REQUESTED BY ANON

Summary: Jonah owns a little coffee shop in the outskirts of London and every time on your break you go there to rewind. But as time passes, you find that the coffee is not your only reason for coming there. Warnings: A little cringe sometimes. Can't really think of anything else. Word count: 4415.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

It was cold out. The snowflakes fluttering down from the gray clouds as the cold wind colored your cheeks a rosy pink. Pulling your coat tighter to block out the winter cold, your steps quick as the snow crunched under your boots.

Winter was nice. As long as you were inside, curled up under a warm blanket with your fuzzy sucks and a good book. But people didn’t stop getting sick just because you wanted a quiet winter, quite the opposite, in fact. Winters were the busiest times at St. Louis Hospital and being a family medicine doctor, you dealt with a lot of variating cases. But luckily there was ‘The Pink Deer’, a small, cozy coffee shop just outside of Central London.

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth when you saw the front of the shop, it’s wood curling around in pillars with the words ‘The Pink Deer’ engraved into the wood in bold letters above the door. Hearing its little bell above the door ring was enough to give you a sense of calmth, together with the warmth inside and the scent of freshly baked goods that filled your nostrils.

Inhaling deeply, you let your coat fall open and stepped up to the counter. “One hot chocolate with extra milk to go, please,” you order, offering the young man behind the counter a soft smile.

“For Y/N?” he questioned, his eyebrows raising slightly as you gave him a surprised look.

“How did you…?” You didn’t need to finish your sentence as he pointed at your chest, your name embroided on the blue scrubs above your breast pocket. Chuckling softly you look back up at him, your cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah, uhm, Y/N,” you repeat your name.

He wrote the order down on the cup before going about preparing your drink. You didn’t notice it until you had left the coffee shop that next to your name, he had drawn a small winky face, earning a soft laughter from you.

A few days later you returned to the coffee shop, placing the same order, except this time taking a seat in one of the booths in the far corner by the window. Pulling the book you had brought from your bag, you got comfortable in the corner. You liked to bring a book with you, even if you did not read it. Although working with people was fun and very fulfilling, it was nice to have a moment to yourself and you knew that with a book in hand, people would be less likely to disturb you.

“Hot chocolate, extra milk,” you heard a voice say as your order was placed down in front of you. Looking up only to say thanks, your gaze couldn’t help but linger as you saw the same boy from a few days ago standing there.

With a soft smile gracing your lips, you replied: “Thank you, sir.”

Not noticing the evening fall, you sat in your corner, enjoying your copy of Little Women. Patrons came and went and most of the staff had already left the coffee shop and moved on their way home.

“Sorry, miss, but we’re closing,” a girl announced, making you look up from your book, acknowledging her with a small smile. You were about to gather your things and leave when the man from earlier spoke up again.

“Don’t worry, you can stay a little longer if you’d like,” he spoke up, his words catching you by surprise. “We’re uhm, we’re staying open a little longer because this evening is a special anniversary for The Pink Deer,” he explained and the girl gave him a confused look, unaware.

“Thank you,” you reply kindly, turning your attention back to the book.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Days turned into weeks and you kept on returning to the coffee shop. At first it was just because you liked the peace and quiet it brought, but eventually your motives started to change. Hiding behind your book, your eyes kept on returning to the young waiter.

He was quite handsome, you surely weren’t going to deny that, but it was his eyes which caught your attention. Blue like the stormy nights at the uncharted seas. They drew you in and you found yourself unable to focus on any word in the pages of your books.

And when he smiled, those beautiful blue eyes lit up and dimples carved into his cheeks. You were curious about him, but too shy to make any move, in fear of it becoming awkward. So you were surprised, pleasantly so, when he approached your booth in the table.

“Is everything alright?” he asked you, his voice slightly hushed as he talked, just loud enough to come out over the soft chatter of the other patrons. As you looked into his eyes, you could almost swear that there was genuine concern there. Though there was no reason for a stranger to feel that way, so you shook off the thought.

“Yes, why?”

“You just… I couldn’t help but notice you haven’t turned a page since you got here. I wondered if there was maybe something wrong,” he explained, your cheeks flushing as you realize that he too had been paying attention, that he had been watching you. “Not to pry or anything, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he added quickly, but you held up your hand to ease his worries, lightly shaking your head.

“Don’t worry about it. Really, it’s all good. But uhm, can I maybe have another hot chocolate?” you ask. “Extra milk,” you both say in unison, your blush only darkening.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

You didn’t just come during your breaks at work or after your shifts anymore. Coming to the coffee shop had become a daily routine when you noticed your mystery waiter worked every day. Asking around, you had found out that his name was Jonah and his parents owned The Pink Deer.

And every day when you came to get your hot chocolate with extra milk, Jonah would let you stay late. Even after the other patrons had left, you remained in your booth, watching him over the edge of your book.

“You really like that one, huh?” he questioned, wiping down one of the tables as he looked back up at you.

“Yeah, how’d you figure?”

“You’ve been coming for almost half a year,” he begins, tossing the towel over his shoulder and walking over to your table, sliding into the booth across from you. “Yet I bet you haven’t advanced a single page since.”

“I like to take my time with reading,” you state, trying to hide the embarassment that you had been caught. “It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

“Really? I’d figure it would be quite boring after saving people’s lives,” he replied, a teasing edge to his voice as he crossed his arms, leaning forward on the table.

“Boring?” you scoff with a small laughter. “Excuse me, Jonah, but it is far from boring.”

“And apparently you don’t find me boring either,” he grinned and it took a second for you to realize that you had actually just called him by his name. It had simply slipped out, but it had felt so natural that you had not even noticed.

“I like to call it curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“But satisfaction brought it back,” I add, putting in my bookmark before finally closing my book and putting it down. “People always forget that part.”

“Well, Y/N, are you satisfied?”

“Maybe bring me another drink and I’ll know.”

“Hot chocolate?”

“With extra milk,” you nod, smiling as he got up to prepare you another drink. You watched as he took extra care in putting in the right amount of milk, a small gesture that made your heart flutter.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Ever since then Jonah would join me by my booth during his breaks and after his shifts. He would sit down across from me with his own cup of coffee. You tried to convince him to try the hot chocolate with extra milk, but he insisted that he didn’t like hot chocolate, going with a simple cappucino instead. And every time it would spark an argument of playful teasing on which was better.

“One hot chocolate with extra milk and one cappucino,” Debra said as she placed the orders down in front of us. “And an extra cookie for you,” she gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, throwing you a playful wink before leaving you and her son be again.

“I never get an extra cookie,” Jonah grumbled, looking between you and the cookie with a pout on his lips.

“You never give me an extra cookie either,” you retort with a quiet chuckle before breaking the chocolate chip cookie in half and handing one part over to him. Had it been anyone else, you would have joked with a ‘Joey doesn’t share food’ pun, but Jonah had the gift where you simply couldn’t deny him, couldn’t tell him no. And a part of you wished he would notice just how far your affection for him stretched.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Today had been a rough day at work and Jonah had noticed how you had not come in during your break, but it was when he saw you enter the coffee shop with another man that he truly felt his heart drop. The smile he wore slowly fading away with a gloom expression fading over his eyes. Normally he would have thought nothing of it. He was not a jealous man, but even if he were, there was no reason to be. You were not his anyway. But seeing you walk in with another man, laughing the way he thought you only laughed with him. It was foolish to think so, he thought. Why would he be the only one you laughed with like that? Well, you were the only one he laughed with like that.

“Daniel, you go take a seat,” you tell your collegae, pointing over towards the booth where you always sat, watching as your friend went to take a seat.

You walk over to the bar to place your order, greeting Jonah’s mom with a small wave and a kind smile before Jonah walks over to you. You couldn’t help but notice the dull look in his eyes. “Jo, everything okay?” you ask him, worried.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Hot chocolate with extra milk?”

“Yes please,” you smile at him. “And a black coffee for my friend,” I add, watching as he scribbles down the orders. “And a cappucino. With an extra cookie.”

He looks back up at you, his smile returning before he scribbles it down with a quiet chuckle. He watches as you go to sit at your usual spot, bringout out your orders a few minutes later.

“Jo, this is Daniel,” I introduce them, scooting over to give Jonah some room to sit. “Daniel, meet Jonah.”

They shake hands and Daniel looks him over before looking back at me with a smirk as Jonah sits down next to me. I place my hand on the table, my pinky timidly brushing over Jonah’s, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks at the small touch.

“You were right, Y/N,” Daniel states. “He’s a catch. Anyway, thanks for the coffee, but I gotta run,” he says, teasingly wiggling his eyebrows as you stare daggers at him. You should’ve expected something like that, after all you had been talking to him about Jonah for months.

“A catch?” Jonah questions, his gaze returning to you, though you were pleased that your cheeks were not the only ones that were flushed. “You know, if you want, you could uhm, catch me here tomorrow evening? 8 PM?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

You didn’t know what to expect, how to view this… impromptu outing. Was it a date? Or just a friendly hangout? No matter what it was, what he had expected it to be, you had probably overdone your preperations. It felt good to put some effort in, especially after wearing those scrubs all day, but there had never been this much attention to how you looked. Your favorite outfit, not a lock of hair out of place and your make-up on point.

It was chilly out, so you hugged your winter coat closer, though it was mostly the persistent pounding of your heart that kept you warm. And then the cold came as you rounded the corner, met with the familiar sight of The Pink Deer, which had become your very favorite coffee shop. But it was the unfamiliar sight of him that brought the cold along. No longer in his working uniform with the stains of coffee on his shirt, but instead in a striking blue suit with a woolen overcoat, a bouquet of flowers in his hand as you noticed him fidgeting with a pocket watch in his free hand. He too was feeling overly anxious, unsure of how you would view all of this.

“Hey, sorry if I’m late,” you apologize as you walk over to him, hoping you had not kept him waiting for too long. But as you glance down at your own watch, you see that you were actually over ten minutes early yourself.

“No, no,” he quickly reassured you. “I uhm, I locked up a little early. You look… beautiful,” he complimented, a pause in his voice as he took in the sight of you with an appreciative gaze, one that made you feel warm again despite the shiver it send down your spine. He shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. “Come on in.”

Unlocking the door to the coffee shop, he allowed you to enter first and you were in awe at the sight before you. The shop had always been cozy, but Jonah had lit a number of candles, sprinkled rose petals around a table in the center with two plates already stood waiting.

He closed the door behind you, fumbling with the keys as he locked the door, keeping the cold out. “Oh, I’ve got you these,” he says, handing you the bouquet of flowers.

“These are my favorite,” you state, taking the flowers from him and inhaling their scent, in awe of the thoughtful gesture. “How did you know?”

“A man never reveals his secrets,” he teases, grabbing a vase from behind the counter and filling it with water. “But uhm, it’s mostly because I’ve been watching you. God, that makes me sound like a creep. I mean… well, I have been watching. I noticed these flowers were on your bookmark, and that they were sewn into your bag.”

“My own little stalker,” you tease back with a quiet chuckle, putting him at ease. You knew well enough that you were no better as you had been watching him over the rim of your book for as long as you had been going to the Pink Deer.

You sat down at the table together, soft music playing in the background as Jonah served you a rather delicious, homecooked meal, talking about everything and nothing at all. You told him stories about your life you never expected to share. Not just the basic stories of how you got into med school and how you are with your family. But you told him the embarressing stories of little you that you thought to take into the grave.

“How about some desert?” Jonah suggested once you had both finished your dinner. “My mom uhm, she made cupcakes…”

“She’s a sweetheart,” you chuckle lightly, giving him a small nod as you finish the last sip from your glass of wine. “I’d love a cupcake. And maybe a hot chocolate with it? With extra-”

“Milk?” he interrupts you, a teasing grin playing on his lips as he takes both of your plates. “Any other requests, darling?” he asks, your cheeks flushing at the pet name, his accent shining through more pronounced than usual. Even though the sound of it was normal, living in England, it sounded different from him. Everything did.

“No, no, uhm, that’s- that’s it,” you answer, a slight quiver in your voice. The hold that this man had on you…

He placed the mug of hot chocolate down in front of you, together with the plate with a cupcake on it, putting one down for himself as well. He pulled the can of whipped cream from under his arm, filling up the rest of your mug to the brim and above before instructing you to: “Open up,” and pour a good amount in your mouth as well, making you giggle at the playful gesture, your hand flying to your mouth to keep from spilling.

“The whipped cream milky enough for you?” he teased.

You wiped the essence from your mouth and your chin where it had dripped down. “Jerk,” you playfully insult him, your eyes sparkling with joy in a way that made time stand still for him. He reached out, gently wiping a leftover bit from the corner of your mouth, his thumb lingering on your lip as he had to fight himself from leaning in and kissing you right there. But he kept his restraint. He wanted to take things slow, to give you both the time to really know each other.

He knew what happened when things moved too quickly, how love could fizzle out, and he didn’t want that to happen. Not between the both of you. So he waited.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

You had been going out for two weeks now, spending most of the time you had to spend together. The both of you were on cloud nine and Jonah loved to spoil you by making you little crafts, picking flowers for you and singing you songs.

You were out on another date, having just gone out to get some ice cream and walking through the city. It was late and relatively quiet out as you passed other people. Some were going to clubs or taking a little stroll. You walked hand in hand, close to him as his warmth seeped into you through your clothes. Keeping your hand in his, he swung his arm over your shoulders.

“Do you think we’ll be like that?” he questioned, nodding over to an elderly couple sat cuddled up on a little bench, looking out over the river.

“Old and grey? Hopefully.”

“Together,” he corrected. “Like that. I can see it…”

“As long as you keep taking me out on ice cream dates,” you reply, a hint of playful teasing in your voice as you rest your head on his shoulder, feeling your heart warm at the closeness. “And keeping making me hot chocolate.”

“With extra milk,” he teases back.

You reach the door to your apartment and his arm disappears from your shoulder, leaving you instantly cold, though his hand remains in yours. He walks you to the door before gently tugging you back by your hand. His eyes met yours, seeming to shine brighter as you see the love reflected back at you.

“I want to kiss you,” he states bluntly, causing your heart to skip a beat, rendering you speechless. “I just- I don’t want to push you or go too quickly. Is it too forward of me to ask if I can kiss you goodnight?” His voice softens with each word and you can hear a slight quiver in them, betraying that he was nervous and anxious, waiting with bated breath for your answer.

“Yes,” you answer. “I mean, no. No you’re not to forward and yes, you may- you may kiss me.”

His face lit up, his large hand coming up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb idly caressing your cheekbone as he slowly leaned in. His breath mingled with yours, ghosting over your lips. He hesitated for a split second, giving you time to move away if you so wanted, but you didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You had been dreaming of this moment, of getting to love him, for months.

His lips brushed yours, timidly at first, before you felt him smile against your lips. Your shoulders slumped, your body melting into his as you committed the moment, the touch, the feeling to your memory. Not that it would be the last kiss you would share. But you never wanted to forget this very moment. You loved him too dearly now to let him go, and he was simply enchanted by you.

You didn’t want it to end, but eventually you reluctantly pulled away from him, your eyes remaining shut as you could still feel his touch on your lips. He chased after you, caught in the heat of the moment, before straightening up again and when your eyes finally fluttered open, there was a look of pure joy and adoration in his crystal blue eyes.

“Goodnight, Jonah.”

“Goodnight, love.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

You were in Jonah’s apartment, staying the weekend, as you waited for him to come home. He was working late as the coffee shop was hosting a private party for a bridal shower. Sat on the couch in his living room, you were watching The Little Mermaid, one of your favorite Disney movies, humming along with the soft tunes of the songs.

When Jonah finally returned, exhausted from the day’s work, you had fallen asleep on the couch. He looked down at you, shrugging off his coat and tossing it over a chair and kicking his shoes aside, careful not to wake you.

He loved the little moments like these, finding you asleep on his couch or in a chair, still in your scrubs from work. You knew if you changed into your pajamas, the chance was more likely for you to fall asleep so you stayed in your scrubs in an attempt to stay awake. Not that it worked.

He looked down at you, adoringly, as he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Time for bed, love,” he murmured before carefully scooping you up in his arms.

He carried you out of the living room bridal style, into his bedroom, and gently layed you down on the soft mattress. Removing your shoes for you before quickly changing into his own pajama bottoms, tossing his work shirt aside, he crawled into the bed behind you. You felt the warmth of the blankets being pulled around you, Jonah’s strong arm wrapping around your waist as he pulled you into his chest. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your skin softly.

“I love you,” he whispered softly before drifting off to sleep as well.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

It had been a few years since Jonah and you made your relationship official and Jonah had asked you to come over to his place. He was pacing around nervously, muttering to himself as you let yourself in with the spare key he had given you.

“Jo, is everything okay?” you question, growing worried as you find him pacing holes into the floor. He usually only got so nervous when he had bad news, and there was a guilty look on his face as he stopped to look at you.

“No, no, uhm, I- I made you some hot chocolate,” he answered, the sweetness in his voice working to soothe your worries somewhat.

“With extra milk?”

“Do you still have to ask?” he teases lightly, giving you a soft smile as he walks over to greet you with a gentle kiss to your lips. You smile against his lips, your arms sliding around his neck.

You pull back slightly again, looking up at him. “Have I mentioned that I love you?”

“Once or twice,” he grins. “But I never grow tired of hearing it.”

A few hours later you were sat on the couch, talking about your days, but you noticed that Jonah was still a little nervous about something, but you didn’t want to pry to much. That was until he addressed it himself.

“Okay, I uhm, I want to ask you something. But I must admit that I’m a little nervous about it.”

“What is it?” you questioned, feeling yourself tense up as your anxious mind started to work itself into knots again, imagining the worst case scenarios.

“I want you to move in with me,” he blurted out. You had talked about it multiple times, but you had always told him that you didn’t want to move in yet until you were married as you only wanted to do things the traditional route. But before you could argue, he continued. “And I know what you said. About not wanting to move in before being married. You know, the whole… traditional thing. So…” he trailed off, sliding off of the couch, moving down to one knee in front of you. Your heart was hammering, as was Jonah’s. “Y/N, I love you more than anything in this entire world. I have known that I wanted to be with you, to live my life with you, since our first date at the coffee shop. I have memorized a million speeches, thought of a thousand ways to tell you, but there are no real ways to ever bring to words how much I love you. And I promise to always love you. To cuddle you and to make you hot chocolates with extra milk for as long as we live.” Jonah reaches into his jean pocket, pulling out a velvet box, opening it to reveal a beautiful ring, embedded with Swarovski crystals. “Y/N, will you- will you marry me?”

“Jonah, I- I love you so much. Of course I’ll marry you!”

He pulls you into his arms, pressing a deep, loving kiss to your lips before sliding the ring around your finger. A perfect fit.

“Your my world, you know that?” he murmurs against your lips as you playfully nip at his bottom lip. “My universe.”

“And you’re my milky way…”

[uhuraisgay]

fic writer meme

ty lore @megafaunatic for tagging meee :3c

How many works do you have on Ao3?

fifty three as of today. tomorrow? who knows.... (probably still fifty three)

2. What's your total Ao3 word count?

518,435 words .... wrow.....

3. What fandoms do you write for?

historically its been all over the place but theres so much stuff rotting and dying in my gdrive that has never been posted so i feel like i have a broader actual ouvre than is represented on ao3. which is mdzs heavy at least in the past couple years

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

5. beyond all limit (wangxian i wrote for lore right after i first read the book) 4. if the story's over (moshang post-divorce get-together fic) 3. someone as good for me as you (written in 2016 for holster and ransom when i was reading check, please. LMAO) 2. at least as deep as the pacific ocean (written in 2015 in the clearest example of 'person distraught by the tragic ending of a tragedy misses the fucking point and writes a coffee shop au of achilles and patroclus after she read tsoa' ever, even bigger LMAO) 1. your name safe in their mouth (lsz gets his dad back, and other emotional adventures)

5. Do you respond to comments?

i used to try to reply to every comment i got but i stopped doing that around the same time i went to college and got more depressed. but i love reading comments and i sometimes reply if someone says something that moves me or like. asks me a question about the fic that i want to elaborate on? because i love to yap

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i'm not really good at writing straight angst i feel like it's normally like. angst with catharsis. but i wrote some explorations on grief in the past couple years that i feel like have the angst factor (what i have of you about nhs after nmj dies, and then when your beard fell out about my sweetie pie kageyama tobio in middle school after his grandpa dies)

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

i have a lot of silly fluffy fics... idk i try to toe the line mostly of like. the joys and sadnesses of human experience but sometimes you just gotta fluff it up. i'll set the table, you can make the fire, which is book verse aziraphale/crowley living in a cottage and being in love, comes to mind....i love that one

8. Do you get hate on fics?

i don't think i've ever really gotten hate on a fic? i have been extremely lucky in that regard. especially since my whole ouvre from like 2014 onward is on that damn site and much of it is very cringeworthy.

9. Do you write smut?

not well!

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you have written?

i often will do like kind of a quasi-crossover kind of thing rather than a True Crossover wherein i take characters i like from one medium and plop them into the roles and places of characters i like from another medium. i did a dragon age wangxian fic where lwj was the inquisitor from da:i called we held together the fragile sky that kind of exemplifies this dynamic

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of or that anyone has ever notified me of, but i also don't look that hard. if this has ever happened, it would hurt my feelings, so please don't do it ? lol

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes!!!! and i was honored

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

not as such but i have one not-intended-for-posting fic which is basically just a transcription of jokes i have with my roommate about haikyuu characters LOL which i think counts as co-writing. she's my co-writer in spirit even if i'm the one at the keyboard

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

my answer to this changes with every new fixation i have. like right now it's kagehina. if you asked me four years ago i would have said wangxian. You Know?

15. What is a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

SO MANY...i think probably my fullmetal alchemist nie brothers au....i try not to post things until they are done and fully edited now, but that one was a whim-based fic that i lost all strength for as soon as i started thinking too hard about kagehina. i also had a fem nielan sci fi au that was vaguely based off beauty and the beast but nmj was like stuck in a ship and she thought she was its computer and that she was a program but she was actually a person....which i never posted any of except snippets on twitter and i think it was just too sprawling for my current skill level...i just was never able to wrangle it. but i am fond of it nonetheless

16. What are your writing strengths?

based on what other people have told me i would say the way i write sibling / family relationships, and while my prose is not always pretty i do think it can be pretty at times ...

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

i feel like it's often too self-indulgent even if that's what fic is for lol, and i tend to look back on fics and think, i wrote that because i had feelings about it and wanted to say it, but i'm not necessarily sure that This Character would say/do that at this point in time....idk like i fear that when i don't think about it hard enough my characterization can be weak or guided by what eye personally would do vs. what The Character would do. but some of that is because the majority of my fics on ao3 are from years and years ago and i (hopefully) have continued to improve

18. Thoughts of writing dialogue in another language in fics?

i'm picky about it but when it's done well i think it's really fun and builds so much of the world/character. i think when it's bad it's really bad. when i go about it i try to think about like, a) do i know this language myself/do i know someone who does. if the answer is no i try to keep it really minimal. b) how do people who know multiple languages approach speaking those multiple languages naturally in real life. like (IN MY EXPERIENCE) ppl don't tend to switch languages for random words mid-sentence unless those words are like, mom, dad, uncle, aunt, ect...maybe swearing if they're less familiar with one of the languages and don't know slang/swearing in it...but again when it's done well it's really good and i'm not an expert. i just can kinda tell when it feels off when i read it, if that makes sense...(it's the same way i feel about grammar lol. sometimes i can just tell it's a little Off)

19. First fandom you wrote for?

probably either fma or soul eater or the sister's grimm book series when i was in middle school. or maybe doctor who? idk i had a lot of fanfic notebooks that i have since destroyed and then regretted destroying

20. Favorite fic you have written?

at the present moment it's in these coming years my kagehina love letter but again i feel like it changes constantly. like the more i write the better i get and the more the newest/most polished thing i've written sort of Becomes my favorite just by default of my satisfaction level with it. sorry if that's a bad answer

tagging @yuebings @dcyiyou @burins @cairoscene @cafecliche @perilously sorry if you've been tagged already also if you want to do this and i didn't tag you just say i did. I'll shut up now

[eriquin]

Steddie Superhero AU part 2

Here's the second part of what I've outlined/written for the Steddie Superhero AU. This is what I would consider an outline but I know I'm not going to write it in any more detail that I already have because I have too many other WIPs.

(part 1) (you are here) (part 3) (part 4)

Warning tags: injuries, blood, secret identities

...

In his day job, Eddie is a barista in Steve’s neighborhood and recognizes his face. He’s chatted with him before, but when Steve comes in the next day for his usual morning coffee and pastry, he turns up the charm. Steve is looking bruised and battered, as he always does. The surface level stuff sticks around the longest, like his body gets tired of healing and doesn’t want to do the last mile. Eddie gives him an employee discount on his order and makes a comment about EMTs being the real city heroes. Steve’s a little taken aback by the attention but rolls with it and thanks him for keeping him awake. 

They continue to flirt a little bit every morning, even though the coffee shop is busy. Steve comes in on his day off just so he can wait for the rush to be gone and talk to Eddie when it’s calm. Eddie is dialing the charm up to eleven, talking to him about music and books and whatever else strikes his fancy. He asks about the bruises that Steve was sporting the other day, and if it’s job related. Steve handwaves it away as sometimes the job has to deal with people in bad situations, and how they still need help so he does his best. 

They start dating, casually. Robin figures out who Eddie is because she’s good like that and confronts him and tells him that he needs to tell Steve what he’s doing. She does this when he’s in costume as Hellfire but she has evidence that she knows who he is and what’s going on and says that if he doesn’t come clean, she will tell Steve. He kind of brushes her off. There’s a general rule against compromising secret identities, and Steve doesn’t even seem to have one. He’s just Steve. 

Eddie is trying to determine if Steve is a dick all the time or just to capes, and he’s chagrined to find that Steve is actually a great guy. Sometimes he can be a bit of a dick, but mostly he’s just sweet, especially to Eddie. But it’s definitely not far enough along in their relationship for Eddie to tell Steve who he is, and he definitely doesn’t trust whoever hero-Steve is. He can’t really tell what the difference is and he has his suspicions about the Regal Heroes and their missing Prince, but he can’t prove anything. And if he is that Prince, Eddie really doesn’t want him knowing who he is. So he doesn’t tell him and spends an awful lot of time justifying why it’s okay. It doesn’t keep him from making bad jokes that are plays on his former superhero name, calling him “prince charming” and things like that. It makes Steve feel weird about liking it. 

It’s a double life. Steve and Hellfire interact more around the Party, because they’re both training them. They get into nasty arguments about the way they’re both training these kids. Steve wants them to be ready for whatever gets thrown at them, and thinks they can’t be held back from being heroes. He says they’re idealistic and he’s there to make sure they get patched back up. Hellfire wants them to lay low and use their powers to stay off the radar, but goes with them to take care of anything that might be too big for them. Steve never does this. He has no hero alter ego or mask to put on. They have fights (arguments) about each of them considering what the other is doing cowardly. 

Eventually, things in their relationship get a little more serious and Eddie and Steve are back at Eddie’s place. It’s an apartment in a warehouse. He shares it with his uncle, who is the night watchman of the warehouse, and it’s very isolated. They talk a bit about having some time alone together and not getting interrupted, but right as they’re getting handsy, Steve’s phone goes off. It’s one of those emergency signals that he can’t ignore, and he apologizes and rushes off. Eddie knows that it’s almost certainly not the EMT thing, and he goes to spy on where Steve rushes off to. He sees Erica appear and teleport him away, and then he goes back to put his gear on and catch up with the group. 

Meanwhile, they’ve brought in Steve because Nancy has gotten shot pretty bad and they’ve been patching her up but need his help. He has El take the bullets out with telekinesis and is stitching her up the best he can, but it’s not going well. He doesn’t think she’ll make it if they try to move her to a hospital. 

Hellfire has shown up because he knew it was a Party emergency (and he’s got a basically open invitation because the kids, Dustin and Will especially, like him)  but didn’t expect it to be like this. The kids are all just panicking about what happened with Nancy and Hellfire is trying to get the story out of them. No one is sure if they’re still in danger. He starts circling them up like they need to move or be ready for an attack. 

Steve is still working on Nancy, with some help from the others. He’s annoyed by Hellfire trying to figure out what to do to help, and says something like “unless you can use your powers to summon a doctor, you’re useless.” 

She starts going into cardiac arrest. Steve yells at El to get the bullets out, now, because they’re preventing him from healing her even more so than a stopped heart. There’s a spray of blood where El rips the bullets out and Steve jumps in to do his wound-absorption thing before anyone can stop him. His internal reasoning (if he has any) is that he’s dealt with gaping bullet wounds and a stopped heart so he’ll probably be fine. Robin is already predicting that he’s going to do this and preparing for it. Possibly the other adults are, too, because they’re used to his self-sacrificing ways to the point that they’re mad at it, but Hellfire has not seen him do this before and is freaking out as Steve collapses. 

They then have to switch from dealing with Nancy’s issues to dealing with Steve’s, but it helps that he heals so fast. His heart restarts on its own and he is conscious and bleeding and in pain but realizes that Hellfire is holding onto him. He’s like “S’fine. S’what I do, man,” while they haul him into a hospital bed. 

The kids have never seen him do this for someone who was dying before and it’s terrifying to them. They don’t know what’s going to happen. Dustin is just putting together that they didn’t call Hellfire in and he just showed up, and now he’s cradling Steve like they’re close. He wants to know what the hell is going on. Hellfire is freaked out as they bandage Steve up but don’t do much more than get him hooked up to IVs and machines for monitors. Nancy’s mostly recovered again and angry about Steve having done this. 

The kids (and Hellfire) want to know what the hell has happened. Robin explains that Steve does this as a last resort if someone’s dying, because he heals so fast. Nancy is chiding herself for having been hurt so badly to have this happen, because it’s awful to watch Steve have to recover again. Hellfire wants to know if that’s what happened when he went to see Steve alone, and Robin confirms that it was. 

Hellfire: So he really just healed me? I mean... Why? He barely knew me. Robin: And you came to him for help and Dustin likes you. Besides, he said you weren’t hurt all that bad, you were just being a baby about getting stabbed.  Dustin: You still haven’t told us how you knew to come here. We didn’t call you Hellfire, trying to get his freakout under control: And that hurts, you know. You called Steve, but not me?  Dustin: ... How did you know we called Steve? 

Hellfire realizes that he’s a little caught in this and he can’t think of a good lie because he’s got Steve’s blood on him and Dustin isn’t the only one who looks suspicious. Nancy, who knows him pretty well but also knows Steve even better, is looking angrily at him. Robin’s the one who breaks the tension. 

Robin: He knows because he and Steve were on a date when we called.  Hellfire hisses at her: Damn it, Swift Robin, shrugging: They’re gonna find out eventually. Steve’s not that good at keeping secrets from this group. Hellfire drags her aside: He doesn’t know Robin, flabbergasted: I’m sorry, what? You said you were going to tell him.  Hellfire: Well, I didn’t! It just hasn’t come up.

Robin is now furious and grabs his arm to drag him to the room where they’ve got Steve bandaged up and recovering. "Well, now’s your chance, loverboy."

She shuts everyone else out of the room and tells them that Hellfire needs privacy so he can be there when Steve wakes up. The Party accepts it, but the older group needs more information and Robin isn’t willing to spill it yet. 

Steve wakes up with Eddie sitting next to his bedside. He doesn’t register what Eddie’s wearing, only that he looks nervous about being there. He’s just coming back to consciousness slowly and thinks that Robin must have brought him here, or someone had. He grabs Eddie’s hand and squeezes it and says he can explain, but he’s also a little loopy and says that he’s so very, very glad to see him. 

Steve: I’m not in a hospital, right? Eddie: no, you’re not Steve: Okay, this has happened before. I can explain. I just... I’m glad you’re here.  Eddie: Oh, Stevie Steve: No, I meant to tell you about this, eventually. I didn’t mean to hide it. I just... 

He finally focuses on what Eddie’s wearing and stops talking for a second. Eddie realizes that he’s putting it together. 

Eddie: Look, I’ve got to tell you something Steve: You’re wearing... That coat is... That’s Hellfire’s suit.

He gets a look on his face like he’s come to another realization about what it all means and what the last couple of weeks have meant and how Eddie has been lying to him. He goes from confused to hurt to angry in the space of about five seconds. Then he’s just glaring at Eddie.

Steve: What do you need to tell me, Eddie? Eddie: Yeah... Uh. Robin didn’t bring me here. I was here already. 

Steve keeps glaring until Eddie admits that he is Hellfire and then there’s yelling about lying to him and seeking him out and how he already knew who Steve was and how he must’ve started flirting deliberately the day after. Steve is beyond angry and wants to know if Eddie was actually going to tell him if this hadn’t all happened and then it comes out that Robin knew and made him tell Steve because now everyone knows. Steve is angry and exhausted and hasn’t recovered enough to actually get out of the hospital bed so tells him to get out of his sight. Eddie puts his masks back on before he leaves the room, and says something snide to Robin as he makes a quick exit from their base.

Robin goes in to talk to Steve and bring him some pain meds, and he’s still furious but now he’s mad at her for not telling him. They yell at each other a little bit and the rest of the kids are peeking in and worried. Nancy and Jonathan have figured out what just happened and are trying to do damage control with the kids and get them all home. Steve’s going to stay there overnight and Robin is going to call him in sick to work and make sure his shift is covered, all of the stuff she usually does when he risks his life like this, but he’s still mad at her. She understands that but says that she needed to at least give Hellfire the chance to tell Steve himself, and he said that he would. She’s disappointed that he hadn’t yet, like she misjudged him. 

Steve recovers after a day or two and goes home. He wonders if he should look into moving, but realizes that Hellfire already knew where he lived somehow. He’s annoyed that he’s going to have to find a new coffee shop now, because he really did like the coffee. But he goes on with his life as best he can, trying not to admit that he’s a little heartbroken. He refuses to talk about it to the Party and doesn’t ask them if they’re still working with Hellfire. He just doesn’t want to know. 

Meanwhile, Hellfire has quit his job and moved out of his uncle’s place because he doesn’t want Steve or anyone to find his real life persona. He’s even more sure that he’s figured out who Steve was even though it’s mostly conspiracy theories and rumors around the Prince. But he knows that Steve Henderson used to be Steven Harrington and it all seems to add up for him. Even though he doesn't think Steve would be vicious, he doesn’t want to attract the attention of superhero royalty.

...

There's a part 3 written up, too. And possibly a part 4. I need to figure out how to break it up.

Taglist: @kedreeva, @whydamnitwhy, @fiore-della-valle, @captainhaterade

[noir-renard]

batburger AU is an absolute masterpiece, and I was wondering, if you don't mind sharing, what is your process like for coming up with these incredible plotlines? It's a skill I want to work on, and you, my friend. mmmmMMMMM

ougghhh thank you so much!! ❤️🥰🥰🥰This is a delightful and very flattering question, so I'll do my best to answer it.

I, like many writers, enjoy rotating things in my mind like a rotisserie chicken. (I say "enjoy", but I don't have much say in the matter. These thoughts be roasting and turning 24/7 Costco Style and I'm helplessly standing in front of the chicken rack, warming myself up with the oven heat because I got cold going into the giant refrigerator room to get some berries)(this is a metaphor but it also happens literally to me pretty often. Costco cold. Rotisserie chimken warm.)

Sometimes something good will result from this; sometimes during the more productive sessions of "rotate that thought like a tether ball", neat sentences will form from the ether in my brain.

IYGABAB, for example, was birthed from the randomly generated mind-typewriter paragraph: In a way, it was almost funny. It certainly sounded like a joke—Batman, Bruce Wayne, and Red Hood walk into a bar. Only it wasn't a bar, it was the Iceberg Lounge, and Batman swooped down from the skylight rather than walking in. You might recognize that as the first sentence of the story.

Because I was and continue to suffer from incurable DP x DC Brainrot, my first thought about this paragraph was, heh, that sounds like something Danny would say.

My second thought was, wait, why is Danny at the Iceberg Lounge? And what are Jason and Bruce doing there? And who is wearing the batsuit, and why?

I thought about this scenario for most of the day, coming up with possible answers. When I'd been thinking about it long enough that it was clear Iceberg Lounge Time wasn't going anywhere and the daydream plot was actually kind of interesting and Hey, I'd love to read that story, I started writing it down and kept writing.

The first scene I actually wrote down in full was the one where Sal asks Danny to cover for him at work. Of all the possible answers I came up with for "Why is Danny at the Iceberg Lounge?" the answer I liked the best was "He's covering for a co-worker/friend from his actual job".

Which generated a new question: what's his actual job? Does he work at a coffee shop? At a diner? At a grocery store?

And then I realized the chaos, the beauty, the delightful mayhem that having him work at Bat Burger would be. Like yeah yeah we all know Danny looks like all the Robins already, but to actually make him dress as a Robin for work? I couldn't pass that up.

That's when I knew this story had legs. There was a place for it to start and a place for it to go.

Returning to that initial paragraph helped me generate a lot more questions that needed answering if I wanted to continue the story. Why is Red Hood at the Iceberg Lounge (other than looking for Danny)? What is Bruce doing there (and why does he need to be there as Bruce and not Batman)? Who is wearing the Batsuit (and why are they wearing the Batsuit instead of their regular suit)?

Answering those questions generated a lot of the plot threads, after which I had a general idea of what Bruce, Jason, and Dick were up to (Duke's presence at the Iceberg Lounge came later).

I could have left it at that, but like Marie Kondo I love messes, so I made up some problems for the rest of the batfam and found ways to link them together in obvious and not-so-obvious ways. (If you come back and ask me again after the story is over, I can give a more in-depth answer about this, but I don't want to spoil anything for anyone!)

side note: I wrote the story out of order; when scenes came to me, I wrote them down, even if I didn't know where exactly they fit into the story. Keeping momentum up was more important to me than having a story that made perfect sense right from the start. (I did have to put it in order eventually, and I chose to do this by making a calendar of events as well as document with all the characters and what they were up to at any given point in the story. Was this the best way of doing it? Probably not. But it worked so I'm not going to question it too much)

In this way, I kept building and building the story, layer by layer. I think this method is technically called the "snowflake method", but because I did it kind of haphazardly it didn't really feel like a method 😅

In short, the answer to "what's my process" is this: I find a question so interesting that answering it generates countless other questions that demand an answer, and in the process of answering them all hopefully a story will fall into place.

I hope this is helpful! My mind is a chaotic place that's hard to parse (even for me), but I did my best to describe it in a way that's informative.

[ughgoaway]

✏️ 🌹 🥀 ☂️!!

hiiiii

✏️ when did you start writing fanfic

I can be very specific with this because my first fic was written on April 27th of this year! that was actually the first time I'd written anything as a hobby, I'd been forced to do it in school but I was never interested in doing it on my own time!

so I've only been writing for >6 months, so that's why a lot of it is lowkey shit <333

🌹 favourite kinks to write for

oooh I'm so bad at writing smut BUT I love writing sub matty, I've never posted anything I've written for him but I do have a few pieces in the graveyard for him...

🥀 kinks you would never write for

probably the majority of them BUT not because I don't like them (I am a whore) but just because as I said smut is not my strong suit. you'd be muchhhh better off if you asked someone else to write it lol

but I do fucking love reading kinky fics so I'm open to a lot of stuff!

☂️ your favourite fanfic from another writer

ohmygod this is such an impossible task, I will only name a few otherwise this post would be 100000 words long.

- every single au by the phenomenal @toomuchracket (mainly d-word bc I think that changed me as a person)

- the coffee shop au by @automaticllamacycle was my obsession for MONTHS like I read it daily I'm not joking

- chicken shop date by @alovesreading and @imagine-that-100 is a god tier fanfic, like its just perfection

- @procrastinatinglikeapro entire masterlist deserves a mention just for the sheer number of times I've read it over and over again.

- haunt//bed by @abiiors is one of the few angsts I love and re-read, like yeah it's devastating but so good.

- and clandestine by @shinycollarboneapologist remains my roman empire... I literally dream about it

okay I fear if I don't stop there we will be here FOREVER. but just know if we are mutuals, I fucking love your work, 100% of my moots are just the most talented people it makes me giddy that we follow eachother

(if you want to ask anything, the post is here!)