#a small self-reminder: fix the curtains!

[strangestorytellersims]

Since I'm trying to be back, I reviewed some of my unfinished projects and picked several pretty easy ones to finalize.

At least, that's what I thought. And it's been a long time since I've been so wrong...

But once already started, it's kinda dumb to put lots of effort and quit. So the rough schedule looks like this: first you'll get the wallpapers [ which seemed very easy yet turned out to be quite laborious ], then a set of chandeliers and floor lamps, and then a small set of furniture [ which is not shown with this screenshot ]. Wish me luck, pls!

P.S. Oh, almost forgot about an upcoming bunch of black modern dresses - for no reason, just bc I can.

[powpowstuff]

TW: Death, grief, violence.

Author's note: Hiya ! So here's a story about Jason Todd ! I'm doing Barry next. Please tell me what you think about if and if you want me to write a second part or not. Also I'm sorry it's quite sad ! Enjoy !

You woke up in your bed, greeted by the dim light filtering through the curtains on this cloudy day in Gotham. Turning to the empty space beside you, you couldn't help but let out a sigh. Today marked Jason’s death anniversary, and each passing year seemed to weigh heavier on your heart.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you gazed at the photograph resting nearby, a cherished memory frozen in time. It captured you and Jason in the serene embrace of Wayne Manor's garden, back when life felt simpler and the future held endless promise. Both of you were just sixteen then, your smiles reflecting the innocence of youth. But mere months after that joyful moment, the cruel hands of fate tore Jason away from you forever, a casualty in the ceaseless war against the Joker.

Jason was your first love, a flame that burned brightly in the short time you shared together. Though your teenage years were marked by the chaos of Gotham's streets and the weight of responsibility as part of Batman's team, in Jason's arms, you found solace and a sense of belonging.

Even though your time together lasted  just over a year before tragedy struck, you knew deep in your heart that Jason was the one. A decade had passed since that fateful day, yet the ache of his absence still lingered, a void that no other love could fill. Despite attempts to move on, to find solace in the arms of others, nothing could compare to the bond you shared with Jason. In the years that followed, there were fleeting connections, shallow romances, and empty encounters, but never again did you experience the depth of emotion and connection that defined your relationship with Jason. It felt as though your heart had been forever tethered to his, leaving you yearning for a love that could never be replaced.

You dressed in the familiar attire of your alter ego, preparing yourself to descend into the depths of the Batcave. You had spent five years after Jason’s death not talking to Bruce, the wounds of Jason's loss driving a wedge between you. Yet, the call to protect Gotham remained stronger than the bitterness that lingered in your heart. With resolve, you adopted a new costume and a new name, trying to leave behind the memories of your former self and the pain of losing Jason.

Stepping into the Batcave, the weight of grief hung heavy in the air, palpable even in the dim light of the cavernous space. The silence was suffocating, each member of your small, fractured family lost in their own private sorrow. It felt as though the very walls of the cave echoed with the echoes of your collective pain, a constant reminder of the loss that had brought you all to this moment.

Breaking the heavy silence, Alfred's gentle voice cut through the sombre atmosphere, offering tea as a small gesture of comfort. You accepted gratefully, taking a seat beside Bruce, the years of distance and resentment momentarily forgotten in the shared weight of your grief.

“There’s uh… a new guy in town. Appeared this morning, he robbed a warehouse,” Batman sighed, his hand rubbing his temple in frustration. “Goes by the name Redhood apparently, and his helmet and name seem to be inspired by the Joker’s first identity…”

You let out a weary sigh. “Another fool devoted to the Joker and his madness… great.”

“Yeah… uh… I tracked down what he’s looking for. This guy seems to be trying to build some type of grenade. It's not quite clear, but there’s a chance he’s going to try to break into the STAR Labs warehouse close to the docks tonight. Do you want to take care of it?” Batman's gaze remained fixed elsewhere, his reluctance to meet your eyes palpable. Today, of all days, his guilt and shame weighed heavily upon him, a burden you knew all too well. You had blamed him for Jason's death for years, said things you now regretted deeply. Though you had both spoken about it and tried to move on, the pain lingered, making every interaction a struggle for both of you.

You nodded solemnly. “I’m on it.”

You arrived at the dock as nightfall descended, perched on the roof of the warehouse opposite the STAR Labs building. Through the downpour, you observed figures, likely henchmen of Redhood, attempting to breach the facility. You chose to take your time, waiting to be sure of their numbers before engaging in combat. The rain battered relentlessly, obscuring your vision and adding an extra layer of challenge to the impending confrontation.

“You should watch your back,” a distorted voice rasped behind you. Surprised, you whirled around to face Redhood, his menacing presence looming before you. He pointed at you and let out a chuckle “ I see the old man still has fools to follow him in his war against crime. Let’s see if he still knows how to train fools like you !” 

In the ensuing clash, you found yourself outmanoeuvred and overpowered by Redhood's uncanny skill. Each strike seemed anticipated, every defensive move countered effortlessly. Despite your reputation as a formidable fighter, you struggled to comprehend your sudden struggle.

Summoning every bit of strength you had left, you initiated a move you rarely used, the one you once deemed your signature. But to your astonishment, Redhood intercepted it with ease, seizing you and pinning you against the cold, unforgiving wall. 

“I can’t believe it… Y/N how can you still work with him…” Redhood said in a whisper before taking a few steps back from you.

A wave of disbelief washed over you. He knew your name, your techniques, and referred to Bruce as "the old man." It couldn't be... yet there was no denying the truth that stared back at you.

With a flick of his helmet, Redhood revealed the face beneath, the face you thought you'd never see again. It was Jason, older and scarred, yet undeniably alive. As your eyes locked with his, a rush of memories flooded your mind, the face you knew by heart, the one you woke up to every morning, kissed every night. But now, instead of the warmth and laughter you once shared, all you saw was anger etched into his features, and a jagged scar marred his once flawless visage, a cruel reminder of the Joker's heinous act that had robbed you of Jason years ago. The revelation shattered your world, leaving you kneeling in the rain, tears mingling with the relentless downpour.

“J-Jason?” you whispered, your voice trembling with disbelief. “How... how is this possible?” The torrent of emotions overwhelmed you as you gazed upon the face of the man you thought lost forever 

You couldn't tear your gaze away from his face. The face you believed was lost to you forever. Yet, as you beheld him, a bittersweet ache gripped your heart at the sight of the scar across his once familiar face. Time seemed to stand still as you knelt there, tears mingling with the rain, confronted with the painful reality of seeing the love of your life, now marked by the cruelty of the Joker.

As he stood before you, a tumult of emotions swirling within you: confusion, hope, and a crushing wave of guilt. Guilt for not searching for him, for allowing years of grief to consume you while he was left with pain and anger. The revelation left you grappling with the weight of missed opportunities, the echoes of regret reverberating in the depths of your soul.

[in-a-nook-with-a-notebook]

Life Could Be A Dream

Franchise: Star Wars (but modern AU)

Pairing: Poe Dameron x male reader (reader's pronouns are he/him/his)

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: fluff, modern!AU, implied smut (scratch marks on Poe’s back, hickeys, mentions of nudity if you squint), fluff, established relationship, mentions of Poe being an F1 driver, no plot really just a sweet morning with Poe, did I mention fluff?

Summary: Poe always gets cuddly after a race; the more intense the race, the more he wants to be glued to your side. Yesterday's race was pretty crazy, but you’re not complaining.

A/N: This is ridiculously self indulgent, especially with the breakfast foods (I am a slut for a good serving of pancakes) also the inspiration and the song mentioned is Sh-Boom (Life Could Be A Dream) by The Sh-Booms, highly recommend listening while reading; for some reason I imagine Poe being a Formula One racer in a modern AU so voila

You blink your tired eyes open with the sun peering through the curtains of the hotel room. It’s warm and welcome on your skin. A lazy smile drifts over your face. You stretch a little before curling up under the thick blanket again; it’s smooth against your bare skin, perfect for a morning like this.

You slowly roll onto your side, turning your back to the window. Your eyes land on your boyfriend’s sleeping form. Poe is snoring softly, his dark curls tousled and unkempt. He looks so peaceful. His broad back glows in the morning light, the duvet haphazardly covering the lower half of his body. There are faint red marks near his shoulders, reminders of last night. Even after the longest, most intense races, he still has some… pent up energy.

Careful not to wake him, you lean forward and press a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades. You then silently slip out of the bed, tugging on a clean pair of boxers. You’re grateful for the carpeting under your bare feet until you reach the cold tile of the bathroom. You brush your teeth, considering you can taste how bad your morning breath is, but you don’t bother fixing your messy hair. You wash your face with cold water to wake yourself up a little more, padding it dry with a facecloth. You look at yourself in the mirror, your eyes sliding over the hickeys on your neck and chest from Poe last night. Your fingers ghost over them.

After leaving the bathroom, you grab a shirt from last night. It’s either yours or Poe’s. You’re not sure, but you don’t really care all that much - it’s a shirt either way.

You wander to the kitchen, thankful the two of you had booked at an extended stay hotel; full kitchen with a big fridge, living space separate from the bed area; lots of space for you and him to stay for a while. You dig through the fridge in search of ingredients for breakfast. The two of you went out for groceries a couple days before his big race in Melbourne, so you had everything you needed to make a filling breakfast; Poe’s always hungry after a night like last night. You are too, quite frankly. You grab bacon, eggs and milk and put them on the counter, lightly kicking the fridge closed behind you. From the cabinets behind you, you collect salt, baking powder, white sugar, and a small bag of flour.

As much as you don’t like packing heavy when you travel for Poe’s races, you’ve brought it upon yourself to have some essentials so you aren’t eating out all the time. After the first few races, you pretty much put together a travel kit of cooking/baking supplies and other things you guys would usually have at home.

You grab a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon and begin mixing the dry ingredients together. You snag a normal bowl from the cupboard to mix the wet ingredients with a whisk. You then combine them together and leave it on the counter with a dishcloth over it, letting it rise. From the cabinets underneath the counter, you grab two pans; one for the pancakes when they’re ready and one for the bacon. As you set the pan on the stove to heat up, you hear shuffling from the bedroom area; Poe’s awake.

The pan warms quickly and you start laying bacon on it to fry. The sizzling meets your ears just as Poe appears out of the corner of his eye. You focus mostly on the bacon, but you can sense his presence. His arm snakes around your waist and he pulls your back against his warm, bare chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Good morning,” you say with a smile.

Poe hums, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck. “Morning, baby.”

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like a log, but last night was amazing…” He nibbles on your neck a little, tightening his grip around you. You chuckle, bringing your hand down to squeeze his. “Bacon?” Poe inquires, changing the subject and looking down at the pan in front of you. His chin rests on your shoulder, leaning his head against yours.

“And pancakes,” you add, gesturing lazily to the mixing bowl.

“Mmm, I love your breakfasts.”

“You love all my cooking. And baking, for that matter.”

“Because you, mi amor, are an absolute god in the kitchen.”

“You flatter me, darling.” You reach for the tongs to flip the bacon strips. “I’m assuming you’re hungry. You’re always hungry.”

“For your food, always.”

“Flirt.”

“I’m just speaking the truth here.” He presses a kiss to your cheek. “Want help?”

“I love you, but you can just sit there and look pretty for now.” You turn your head to fully kiss him. “I wanna cook for you.”

“You always cook for me.”

“Yeah, because, no offence, but you can’t cook for shit.”

“I’m a Formula One driver, not a chef.”

“I’m not even technically a chef.”

“You might as well be,” Poe replies, untangling himself from you. “You are probably one of the best cooks I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. And eating with. And, you know, everything else.” He kisses the back of your neck before stepping away to sit at the island, watching you fondly. “You sure you don’t want help?”

“Well, how about you set out the fruit from the fridge?”

“That I can do.”

As you get a plate out for the bacon, as well as a couple pieces of paper towel to catch the leftover grease, while Poe goes to the fridge. You feel Poe’s finger drag down your spine, sending a shiver through your body.

“Tease,” you murmur, looking at him over your shoulder. He smirks at you, blowing a kiss to you. “You wanna put some music on?”

“Absolutely.”

You transfer the cooked bacon onto the plate, then put more bacon on the pan. Poe shuffles around behind you, connecting his phone to the speaker.

Life could be a dream, life could be a dream

Do, do, do, do, sh-boom

A smile crosses your face with you hear the song and you turn to look at Poe. He puts his phone down on the counter. You both begin to murmur the lyrics under your breath.

“Life could be a dream. If I could take you up in paradise up above. If you would tell me I’m the only one that you love, life could be a dream, sweetheart, hello, hello again, sh-boom, and hopin’ we’ll meet again…”

“You look so good in my shirt,” he murmurs, coming up behind you again. He kisses your cheek, resting his hand on your hip. “I ever tell you that?”

“You’ve mentioned…” you reply, relaxing under his touch.

“I love when you travel with me,” Poe says. “Thank you for coming.”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be, my love.”

Poe gently takes your chin in his hand to turn your head towards him. He presses a deep kiss to your lips. When he pulls away, he has a piece of bacon in his hand.

“Impatient?” You tease.

“It’s bacon. I’m hungry.”

You laugh when he takes a bite and his face lights up. “You’re cute,” you remark. His face goes red and he dips his head.

“Shut up.”

“No.” You tilt his chin up with your finger, pressing your lips to his. “You’re downright adorable, Poe Dameron.”

“You’re relentless.”

“You love me.”

“I adore you.”

You smirk. “I know.”

Some mornings, the two of you have to rush around, packing for another plane or prepping for another race, but not today. Poe’s got a free day, and he intends to spend every minute of it with you. Even if it’s just swaying in the kitchen, teasing each other. As long as he’s with you, he’s happy.

A/N: I just wanted a soft morning with Poe and the song had me in a fluffy mood so I hope y'all enjoy this because I know I did! Feedback is encouraged and appreciated! Have a lovely day y'all <3

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

🎀Age in bio or blocked🎀

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Reader

Genre: Smut, no hurt just comfort, fix it fic

Word Count: 3089

Warnings: PWP, mild ddlg, soft dom Nanami, plus size reader, female bodied reader, use of the word 'cunt', no protection, pussy eating, 69, pet names, very cutesey shit.

Summary: Days after the incident at Shibuya, your lover and you finally get a day of rest. But Nanami and you have missed each others company, and you take the opportunity to reacquaint yourself with each other.

A/N: I reject the canon. The canon does not get to have my man Nanami Kento. This is a purely self indulgent fic. It takes place after the incident at Shibuya but veers off after the burning. Nanami Kento LIVES. He is very much alive, in our arms, being loved and worshiped. Mahito? Idk them. This goes out to all the girlies that -- like me -- have lost their sanity a little bit over this man.

There’s a faint fragrance of tea when you open your eyes. The morning light scatters through the windows which have been opened to let the crisp autumn air in. Pink curtains flutter in the breeze – the ones you insisted on having when you saw them in the shop window. You reach out to the other side of the bed and feel the sheets, the warmth of its recent occupant fast fading. 

You swing your legs over the edge and find your fluffy slippers. Another impulse buy, but this time, not yours. His. He’d noticed how you always hated your toes being cold especially when you just got out from under the covers. So, when he saw them in a shop while out on a mission, he’d picked them up for you. After swiftly brushing your teeth in the adjoining bathroom, you head outside. The warmth of the kitchen beckons you, as well as the promise of finding him, so you make your way there, picking at the remnants of sleep from your eyes. 

Your lover, Nanami Kento, stands at the stove with his back to you. “Tea’s almost ready my love.” He says, without turning. Of course, he heard you coming! His senses are as sharp as a cats. You pad up to him and put your arms around his waist feeling the broad expanse of his back against your chest.

“You should’ve woken me” Your voice is soft and still laden with sleep. He loves hearing you like this. Smushing your face into his back you take a long, deep breath. His scent is comforting to you. Like home. Like love. Like tea and biscuits. 

“I was just about to.” He replies. You can feel him moving. He’s pouring out the tea. Black Darjeeling with a spoon of honey. The perfect drink for this weather you think to yourself. You kiss his broad back, as he picks up the mugs and slides one arm over your head, manoeuvring you to come and nestle against his side. Even though it’s not winter yet, there’s a chill in the air, but Nanami foregoes a tee, opting to stay barechested. You hope he doesn’t fall sick, but know that his body runs hot, so for him, it’s nothing really to be in just his sweatpants. The incident in Shibuya had left its scars. He called his left side ‘scary’. He’d been healed of course – physically, but sometimes, you thought, there was still some healing left to be done. He would cover himself as much as possible whenever he was outside, so truth be told, for him to even show you this… The first few days had been the toughest. The fear, the pain that wasn’t really there but still was, the covering up. It had taken a lot of kisses – a lot of love, to get to this. A place where he knew you appreciated him, regardless of the way his skin looked. But a reminder every now and then never hurt.  

The two of you don’t speak much, but you don’t need to really. Five years into a relationship, some things become as smooth as breathing. Morning routines on holidays are one of these very things. Sipping tea, watching the birds fly in the sky as it gets bluer. The kitchen windows are like a small portal to a different world at this time of the day. Outside, you can both hear the people waking up and starting to walk around, up and down the street in front of the apartment. But up here, the two of you are in a little bubble of your own. You turn your head and lay a kiss on Nanami’s chest. He hums a deep rumble that you feel, despite it being soft. A kiss on your head. Another on your forehead. Nanami’s mug set back down on the counter. He places a finger right under your chin and gently tilts your head up; just enough – that he can now lower his and kiss your lips. You melt into his touch. “Min-min…” Things had been getting harder, you know this. The curses were getting tougher, the hours longer, and the time for rest was practically nonexistent. The two of you had barely had any time for each other, so today was precious. Who even knew what the future would bring… 

Nanami backs you into the counter. His hand runs down your arm and takes the mug you’re still holding to place it safely away. His lips don’t leave yours for a moment. Gentle, drawn-out touches soon turn harder and more desperate. 

“I’ve missed you baby girl.” he breathes, crashing his lips into yours. You run your hands through his hair pulling him closer. 

“I know,” you gasp out half breathless, “I’ve missed you too. So much!” He pushes his thigh between your legs and rubs his knee against your clothed crotch. 

“We don’t have anything important to do today. Do we?”

“Whatever it is, it can wait. You’re more important anyway…” 

“More than even, breakfast?” 

“Fuck breakfast…” 

He chuckles. “Good. ‘Cause there’s only one thing I want to eat right now.” Your breath hitches in your throat as Nanami says this, then dips down. It’s a good thing he had you lean against something because your knees buckle and it's all you can do to grab the smooth marble behind you for some support. With one hand pushing up the oversized tee you were wearing in lieu of pyjamas, the other circled round to grab your ass. He began to lay soft kisses all along your inner thigh; palming at your breast, eliciting a wanton moan from you which served to spur him on further. How long had it been since he had touched you like this? Been rested enough to even think about playing with you. You can’t remember. One of his favourite things to do is to trail his tongue along the lightning bolt-like marks across the fat of your thighs. He loves to feel the way you shiver at the touch. He doesn’t do this for long though – or rather, he can’t. The gentle licks soon turn to bites. His fingers toy with your nipple. You feel his nose poke at your skin while he’s biting and nipping at the fat of your thighs. They’ll be littered with dark purple marks tomorrow.  He tugs down at the boyshorts you’re wearing and starts to lick at your folds. His left hand switches to the other breast and you raise your hand to place it on top of his. He laps at the wetness that’s formed through his ministrations; his tongue going a little deeper with each lick. 

“Minmin…” There it is again. Your special name for him. No one else would dare to call him that. Not even Gojo and Itadori, to whom he begrudgingly allowed a ‘Nanamin’. He focuses on you. Your shaky breaths, the faint quivering of your thighs, your fingers clenching the countertop. With every new lick, you clasp a little tighter. A single bead of your slick runs down your inner thigh and he smirks. 

“Having trouble staying upright, my love?” His deep voice comes from between your legs. Your whimper is all the answer he needs. He straightens up and leads you to the living room couch. “I want to do this properly. I’ve missed tasting you so much.” he tells you with a sigh. 

You nod, getting on your toes to kiss him. “I wanna taste you too Ken…” comes the whisper against his lips. “Fuck, lie down please,” you beg. 

He grabs your face squeezing your cheeks and plants a small peck on your lips. “You have a filthy mouth miss. I think we need to take care of that.” 

That makes you giggle and him smile. He knows you swear like a sailor and sometimes in the bedroom, you would be punished for it. However, that didn’t seem to be the case this time. No. This time he was allowing you to have what you wanted. How could he deny his sweet girl after all? He lies back on the couch, shifting a cushion to support his head, and pulls your ass toward him. You carefully straddle his chest taking care not to knee him in the process and start to palm at his crotch. He’s already half-hard. Probably has been since he started working on you; ridiculously turned on by your bare flesh. You pull the band of his sweatpants off while he continues licking you. The new position opens you up to him much better and he hums appreciatively. “You have such a pretty pussy baby girl.” His hands grab your asscheeks forcing you closer. There’s a shift in the dynamic. You can feel it. Hands, a little rougher. Voice, a little lower. 

“It’s all for you daddy...” You offer to your dom. It may have been a while since you had had a chance to play but these were responses, now ingrained in you. 

“Good girl.” 

You know you can’t play around now. No more soft touches and teasing. Your tongue out, you lick a strip up Nanami’s length. He groans into your pussy and pushes his tongue further. You keep, licking and sucking his cock, feeling it grow to full hardness. Nanami’s fingers gently prod at your hole. “Put it in daddy!” You whine to him, needing more. “Please!” And he obliges, slowly pushing in one thick finger. You keen and drool against his length. Nanami has the sexiest hands. And his fingers are long and thick. Perfect preparation for the fat shaft in front of you. 

“Take me in your mouth baby girl,” he tells you encouragingly. So you do. Taking his cock in your mouth you begin to pump it in and out, following the rhythm he creates with his fingers. In and out, working his way deeper and deeper into your cunt. His tongue reaches to your clit and touches the nub softly. It feels almost electric.  Your lips stretch around Nanami's wideness taking him in right to the base till you gag on him. You take care not to touch him with your teeth except to perhaps gently graze. His tongue laps at your folds and he rubs your clit with two fingers. You can feel a familiar sensation building. Something that you’ve only felt alone for a while now but that feels heightened with your partner here. Without realising it your hips roll, pushing into his mouth and making his nose bump against your nub. Its filthy, you’re dripping down his face but he can’t stop either. He jerks his hips up to bury his cock down your throat. Your whole body clenches, desperately trying to keep it in. Keep in buried. You lift a hand and fondle his balls, feeling him twitch slightly in your mouth. His pace doesn’t change though. Steady as ever, knowing just how to make you cum. A little faster exactly as you like. 

You cum first. With a sharp intake of breath and a strangled cry for your daddy. Your body twitches as you ride out your high on his face. Nanami’s cock lies in your hand engorged and throbbing for release. Without waiting for a word from you Nanami taps your ass signalling you to get off. He sits upright on the couch and removes his sweatpants folding them and putting them on the coffee table in front of you. Then, he pulls you onto his lap facing him. “Sit on it darling.” he orders. You follow. Your legs feel like jelly. You’re grateful for his supportive hand making sure you get onto the couch and are in position with your trembling cunt right above him.

“Do we need lube?” He asks you. You don’t think so, but with how large Nanami is its always better to be safe than sorry.

“I dont wanna stop and I’m pretty wet but it wouldnt be a bad idea.” you tell him. He kisses you. 

“Wait here.” he says. Nanami helps you sit on the couch and strides into your bedroom to fetch it from his night stand. If you could have, you'd have followed him but you don’t quite trust your legs to move your body right now. Your complaint doesn't last long though, because when Nanami returns, you’re blessed with a view of an adonis. Long legs, muscular torso, strong arms. Your breath hitches in your throat and tears prick at your eyes. 

You put your arms out and gasp out, “You’re so fucking beautiful Minmin.” Your voice brimming with pride and adoration. Your words strike close to Nanami’s heart. He is not a man easily swayed by praise. But from your lips, he would drink every word like a parched man. You knew how much it would mean to him especially after the incident at Shibuya too; he knew you were not one to lie. To you, he truly was beautiful – the world be damned that’s all that mattered. He stalks over to you on the couch, his hand encircling your throat. Its not dangerous, but comforting. A way of showing his claim over his lover. His lips crash into yours and you can tast yourself on his face. He kisses you with fervour. His tongue glides into your mouth in a delicate dance with yours, and you reciprocate intoxicated by the heat and heaviness of his hands on you. 

Nanami sits down pulling you onto him once again. He makes quick work of the oversized tee you still had on. Throwing it this time, onto some surface – you did not care to notice. His lips drop down to your neck, and you feel dizzy, your whole body seems to thrum with anticipation. With one hand he deftly flicks open the lube squirting out a well sized dollop onto his cock, the other wraps around you to hold you in place. Then, throwing the bottle aside he lifts your hips and helps you sit, slowly pushing his rock-like shaft into you, inch by inch. The lube is cold to the touch and contrasts against the heat of your worked out cunt, but you are grateful for it. The feeling of the stretch as he pushs further and further in is deliciously tight,  bordering on being painful. Your fingers card his blonde hair as you slowly adjust to his length and girth. Every inch of you feels stuffed. Nanami’s lips suck and nibble at the skin of your throat. His arms hold you close making sure you won’t fall over. You move your hips. A passionate raw fucking is what the both of you want now. No niceties, no politeness. You’re both overcome with need and affection – making for a dangerous blend. Nanamis mouth drops to your breast. His lips encircle a nipple and he sucks and bites, drawing out gasps from you. He can feel your cunt convulsing around his cock with every move you make. Up. Down. Up. Down. You know his orgasm is slowly building. He thrusts up into you, driving his cock deep. Slamming against your clit. The pleasure you feel is terrible and judging by the blissed out expression on his face he feels the same way. You swear there is nothing in the whole world left but just the two of you. In that moment it becomes too much for him. Nanami lifts you up in his strong arms. Your fat thighs, spilling over his them. He keeps licking and sucking at your breasts leaving marks wherever his teeth can reach, as he carries you into the bedroom almost slamming you onto the bed as he fucks into you, splitting you open on his cock. You see stars as he buries himself into the hilt, frantic, slamming in over and over. You grab his  hair and tug on it – a silent plea for him to come up – to kiss you. He growls feeling the pull. Nanami bucks into you and kneads at your breast as he captures your lips once again. You feel his hands coax your legs up and you’re forced to spread them wider apart to accommodate his broad body. Your tummy jiggles every time he slams into you and you start to feel yourself coming to a peak once more. Nanami holds the flesh of your thighs and fucks you with a steady pace. 

“My pretty girl. My good girl.” His voice is barely over a whisper but you hear the words over your whines and moans. “I’m gonna cum babygirl. Where do you want it?” he asks. 

“Inside. Please!” you beg. You need to be filled by him. You want the feeling of him emptying inside your cunt. Nanami’s cock spasms inside your hole. You feel his release spill inside you, coating your walls. 

He lies down beside you breathing heavily. His chest rising and falling, glistening with sweat. The blissed out expression on your faces along with the heady scent of sex in the room makes the two of you feel warm. It’s intoxicating. You crawl into his open arms and nuzzle against his side, and he captures you in an embrace. “I fucking love you old man…” you whisper to him. 

He laughs. “I love you too baby girl.” Your fingers trail against the pink skin of his scars. And you lay kiss after kiss on his body as your hand wanders. There’s a smile on Nanami's face. His heart is full. Full of you, and your love… 

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

When the two of you leave the bedroom the sun has risen higher in the sky. But that’s alright… You cuddled together, then had a quick warm shower. Nanami’s arms enveloping you helping you wash your hair, and of course, cleaning the mess he made. Your two cups of tea lie forgotten in the kitchen. As you enter you laugh. “Hey, we never even finished our tea!” 

Nanami smiles. “I’ll get us some more. Oh and I’ve –” he waves his phone at you, “– ordered some brunch. Sandwiches.” 

You curl up on the couch and he bring you both the freshly brewed tea cuddling into your lap. Whenever he did this you couldn’t help but feel like one of those people with a big dog who didn’t really know how big he is. Of course, you didn’t mind. He’s here. With you. Safe and protected. Nothing can hurt him here. 

He looks at you adoringly. “Baby, how about we take a trip to Kuantan? I hear they have lovely beaches.”

The End.

[yessbler]

Stolen Harmony - Chapter 1

Robyn Rihanna Fenty

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual Harmony Hearts Gala," the emcee announced, her voice echoing through the grand ballroom adorned with crystal chandeliers and walls bathed in a soft, warm glow. The hushed murmur of the well-dressed attendees grew louder as they awaited the evening's main event. 

Me, Rihanna, the pop icon.

I took a deep breath.

My heart was pounding in rhythm with the anticipation that filled the air. 

I adjusted the delicate silver necklace that complemented my shimmering emerald gown. The weight of this role in the charity's mission was a melody that resonated within my soul.

The stage was set with a grand piano, its gleaming black frame a stark contrast to the white marble floor. As the spotlight grew brighter, I stepped into the limelight, feeling the rush of energy that came with performing live. The opening notes of my self-penned ballad, "Love on the brain" filled the air, and I began to sing, my voice in a soft yet powerful crescendo that seemed to reach into the very hearts of the audience. 

I scanned the sea of faces, looking for a spark of connection, a glimpse of understanding in their eyes.

And there he was, Keanu Reeves, standing against the far wall, his eyes fixed on me. His presence was like a silent bass line that underscored the melody of my song. He wasn't like the others, who feigned interest or whispered into their dates' ears; he was fully engaged, absorbing every word, every note. Our gazes held, and in that moment, it was as if the world around us faded away, leaving only the music and the undeniable pull between us. I felt a blush creep up my face, and I had to force myself to look away, to keep my focus on the performance.

As the last chord of the piano faded, the ballroom erupted into applause. The crowd's adoration washed over me, but it was his solitary clap that resonated the loudest. I took a bow, my eyes finding his again, and he offered a small nod of respect that sent a thrill through my body. The air between us was charged, and as I stepped off the stage, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was the start of something new, something profound.I knew that so many celebrities had been invited but i never expected him. I wondered if he was as affected by our connection as I was.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of handshakes and small talk, but I felt like a moth drawn to a flame, unable to resist the magnetic pull that Keanu exuded. Each time our paths crossed, our eyes would lock for a brief moment, a silent conversation that spoke volumes. It was as if we were the only two people in the room, our hearts beating in sync to a rhythm that only we could hear. I wondered if our conection was meaning something...

God! he is so sexy, i felt butterflies in my stomach just to look at him.

The gala continued, with a series of speakers sharing stories of the lives touched by the Harmony Hearts charity. Each tale was a poignant reminder of why we were all gathered here, but my mind kept wandering back to the mysterious man whose gaze had captured me. When the event's organizers called for a brief intermission, I took the opportunity to escape the suffocating atmosphere of forced smiles and air kisses. I slipped into a quiet corner, needing a moment to breathe. I need to find him, i need to talk to him, i tried to find him in between the crowd but he was nowhere to be seen.

As I leaned against the velvet curtains, a gentle touch on my arm startled me.

I turned to find Keanu standing there, a glass of champagne in his hand. "You looked like you needed this," he said, offering me the flute with a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts. His voice was like smooth jazz, low and resonant, and it sent a shiver down my spine. I took the champagne, our fingers brushing for a brief second, and sipped it gratefully. "Thank you," I murmured, feeling the bubbles tickle my nose.

"Your performance was... hauntingly beautiful," he said, his eyes searching mine. "It was like you were singing directly to me."

I felt the heat of his gaze and took a sip of the bubbly liquid to calm my nerves. "Thank you, Keanu. It's not every day I get to perform for such an attentive audience."

He chuckled, a sound that was surprisingly warm and comforting amidst the cold, calculated conversations of the gala. "I'm surprised you noticed me. I thought I was pretty good at blending in."

I couldn't help but laugh at his self-deprecation. "You? Blend in? Impossible."

He raised an eyebrow, and the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. "I've had some practice."

"Well, you're not exactly inconspicuous," I replied with a playful smile.

Keanu leaned in closer, his presence both calming and electrifying. "Maybe it's because I was looking for something real tonight."

I set the champagne flute on a nearby table, my hand trembling slightly. "And did you find it?"

He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving mine. "I think I did," he murmured, his voice a gentle caress. The air between us grew thick with unspoken words, and I could feel the intensity of his gaze as if it were a tangible force.

"Rihanna," he said, my name rolling off his tongue like a sweet melody. "Would you do me the honor of finishing this dance with me?"

I smirk, raising my eyebrow.

' Are you sure you want to dance with me? with everybody looking at us?'' I joked, trying to ease the tension.

Keanu's smile grew wider. "I wouldn't ask if I wasn't," he replied with a confidence that was as charming as it was surprising. He extended his hand, and I found myself placing mine in his, feeling a jolt of excitement as our fingers intertwined. He led me to the dance floor, where the orchestra had begun to play a soft, sultry tune. His hand was firm yet gentle on my back, guiding me through the steps with an ease that suggested he was no stranger to the art of dance.

Our bodies moved in perfect harmony, the music weaving around us like a warm embrace. His eyes never left mine, and in that moment, I felt like I could see straight into his soul. The whispers and glances from the other guests grew into a cacophony of gossip, but we remained lost in our own little world. His touch was a silent promise, a secret shared between us that no one else could understand. I study his face, his beard, his lips, his nose, his eyes, all of him, everything about him was fascinating.

As the song reached its crescendo, Keanu leaned in, and for a second, I thought he might kiss me. But instead, he whispered, "Thank you for the serenade. It was more than I could have ever imagined." His breath was warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. 

'' You are welcome'' I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

The dance floor grew crowded as more guests joined us, but Keanu and I remained in our own bubble, our eyes locked. The music switched to an upbeat number, but we continued to sway to the rhythm of our shared connection. His hand slid down to my waist, and I felt a warmth spread through me, a sensation I hadn't felt in a long time. Our bodies moved together effortlessly, as if we had been partners for years, not minutes. I turn around and put my back in his chest, laying my head in his shoulder while i was swaying my butt on him. I smirk trying to look inocent, but he knew what I was doing.

 He chuckled lowly and wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me closer, and I felt a sudden urge to melt into his embrace.

''What are you trying to do?'' he whispered playfully into my ear, his breath tickling my skin.

I laugh lightly, ''Just enjoying the music.'' I say with a cheeky smile. His arms tighten around me for a brief moment before he put one hand on my neck and bend down to kiss the place, pressing pressure.

Keanu's touch was a revelation, a symphony of sensations that played across my skin. His hand felt like a brand, searing through the fabric of my gown, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. The chemistry between us was palpable, and I knew that one dance wouldn't be enough to satisfy the hunger that had been ignited.

As the music switched to a faster tempo, Keanu leaned closer, his breath a tantalizing whisper in my ear. "Would you like to get out of here?" he asked, his voice a seductive invitation that sent a thrill down my spine. "Somewhere quieter, where we can talk?"

My heart skipped a beat. I knew that leaving the gala with him would be the talk of the town, but the allure of privacy and the chance to explore this connection was too tempting to resist. "Yes," I murmured, my voice barely audible over the crescendo of the music. "Let's go."

Keanu guided me through the throng of guests, his hand firm and reassuring in mine. We slipped out through a side door that he was sure that the paparazzi wouldnt be there, and the cool night air hit me like a refreshing gust of wind. A sleek black car was parked. He opened the door for me, and I slid into the luxurious leather seat, feeling both nervous and exhilarated.

He turn on the car and start to drive smoothly away from the bustling gala. The city lights blurred outside the tinted windows, creating a serene backdrop for our impromptu escape.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice filled with excitement and a touch of trepidation.

"Somewhere private," Keanu replied, his eyes never leaving the road as he navigated the quiet streets. The silence between us was charged with anticipation, the air thick with unspoken questions and the promise of something more.

I studied his profile, the strong lines of his jaw and the way the streetlights cast shadows across his features. His concentration was palpable, yet there was a gentle ease to his movements that suggested he was comfortable in his own skin. His hands gripped the steering wheel with confidence, and I found myself drawn to the simplicity of his black tie and crisp white shirt, a stark contrast to the glitz and glamour of the gala we'd just left behind.

"So, what is it that you do when you're not saving the world on screen?" I asked, trying to break the silence without shattering the spell that had been cast over us.

He considered my question for a moment before responding. "I guess you could say I'm a bit of a wanderer," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "I enjoy the quiet moments, exploring the world and finding beauty in the unexpected places."

I nodded, feeling a kinship with his words. "That's something I can relate to," I said, thinking of my own escapades from the spotlight. "Sometimes, it's the moments when no one's watching that are the most magical."

Keanu shot me a sideways glance, his eyes filled with understanding. "Exactly," he said. "The world is so noisy, and it's easy to get lost in the cacophony. But it's in the quiet moments that we truly find ourselves."

We drove through the deserted streets, the city's vibrant energy giving way to the tranquility of the night. The car's smooth purr was the only sound that filled the space between us, yet it felt as if we were sharing a conversation without words. His hand found its way to mine, and our fingers intertwined, the warmth of his touch sending a thrill through me. I wondered if he felt the same electrifying current that I did, or if it was just the excitement of the evening playing tricks on my senses.

Finally, we arrived at a beautiful apartment complex, the soft glow of the moon reflecting off the calm waters of the beach that lay just beyond. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, casting dancing shadows on the sand. The sound of the waves was a soothing lullaby, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the gala we had just left behind. Keanu parked the car and turned to me, his eyes searching my face as if trying to read the secrets hidden within.

"Thank you for this," I said, my voice a little shaky. "I needed a break from all the noise."

Keanu nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Me too." He led me to a private terrace that overlooked the ocean, the waves whispering a gentle serenade as they kissed the shore. The moon cast a silver path across the water, and the salty breeze played with my hair. He pulled out a chair for me, and we sat down, the distance between us seemingly smaller than ever.

"You know," he began, "I've been to countless events like this, but I've never felt...this." He paused, searching for the right words. "This connection. It's like we're two notes that were always meant to be played together."

I couldn't help but smile at his analogy. "And what happens when those notes finally find each other?"

Keanu leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on the horizon. "They create a melody that resonates through time." He turned to face me, his eyes serious.

"You see, Rihanna, I've been married before. For six years, I gave my all to someone who couldn't reciprocate. The last three of those years were...empty. A performance without an audience, a dance without a partner." He took a deep breath, his expression a mix of pain and resolution. "After the divorce, I swore off relationships. I focused on my work, my friends, and finding peace within myself. I've had flings, but nothing that's ever felt...right."

My heart ached for him, understanding the weight of his words all too well. "I know the feeling," I said softly. "The industry can be a lonely place, even when you're surrounded by people."

''Do you mind if i ask why..?'' i slowly asked, curious about how could a woman do not love a man like him, but i knew that sometimes love is not enough.

Keanu took a moment before responding, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "She didn't share my passion for the quiet moments, the simplicity of life. She was drawn to the spotlight, the glamour. In the end, it was all just a show for her." He turned to me, his eyes searching mine.

I reached out and placed my hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Sometimes, we think we've found our rhythm with someone, only to realize it's just a mirage," I said, my voice filled with empathy. "But that doesn't mean the music has to stop playing for us."

He looked down at our joined hands, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "And what's your story, Rihanna? What brought you to this gala, to me?"

I took a deep breath, the night air tasting of salt and the faint scent of jasmine. "I've been on a journey, trying to find meaning beyond the music," I confessed. "I've seen the world, felt the love of millions, but sometimes it's the quiet moments that feel the most empty."

SUMMARY^1: Rihanna and Keanu bond over their shared feelings of loneliness in the spotlight. Keanu opens up about his past marriage and the lack of authenticity he felt with his ex-wife. Rihanna empathizes and shares her own quest for meaning beyond her music career, revealing that she too experiences emptiness amidst the grandeur of fame.

Keanu nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. "You're not alone in that," he said, his voice a comforting bass line to the symphony of the waves. "Fame has a way of isolating you, even when you're surrounded by fans and friends."

The wind picked up, playing with the fabric of my dress and bringing with it the scent of the ocean. I felt a sense of peace wash over me, as if the very essence of the night was calming my soul. "I've been trying to find myself again," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. "To remember who I was before the lights and the cameras."

Keanu reached over and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his touch feather-light yet charged with a current that made my skin tingle. '' i understand you'' he whispered.

We sat there in silence for a few moments, the symphony of the waves below providing the perfect backdrop for our shared solitude. It was as if we had known each other for years, the ease of our conversation a testament to the depth of our connection.

"You know," I began, my voice a soft melody against the night, "I've always admired your work. There's something about your presence on screen that feels so... authentic."

Keanu chuckled, the sound as warm as the whiskey he'd been sipping. "Authenticity is a luxury in this business. But it's the quiet moments, the ones without the cameras, that truly define us." He took a sip, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "What do you do when you're not lighting up the stage?"

I leaned back in my chair, considering his question.

"When I'm not performing, I'm usually creating," I said, my eyes drifting to the stars that twinkled above us. "Songwriting, reading, cooking... I try to keep my soul fed with the beauty of the world."

Keanu nodded, his gaze lingering on my face. "It's important to have those personal passions," he agreed. "They keep us grounded."

The breeze picked up, carrying with it the sound of distant laughter and the distant throb of the city's heartbeat. I shivered, and without a word, Keanu removed his tuxedo jacket and draped it around my shoulders. The warmth of his embrace lingered in the fabric, and I felt a sudden sense of belonging, as if I had found a piece of myself that I hadn't even known was missing.

"Thank you," I murmured, feeling the weight of his jacket like a shield against the cool night air.

I found myself leaning closer to him, drawn by his warmth and the gentle timbre of his voice. His eyes searched mine, and I could see the curiosity, the yearning for something real in their depths. I knew the risks of getting involved with someone in the public eye, but in that moment, all I could think about was the possibility of finding someone to fell loved and desired again.

With a sudden boldness, I leaned in and pressed my lips to his, the taste of whiskey and the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the salt of the ocean breeze. The kiss was tender and sweet, a promise of what could be between us. Keanu's hand moved to the back of my neck, his touch firm yet gentle, as he deepened the kiss, his passion unfurling like a flower in the sun.

he pulled me onto his lap and our bodies melted into one, my heart pounding in sync with the waves.

his tongue was amazing, it was like he knew all the right spots to touch and all the right ways to move it. I felt like i was melting into him, like we were two pieces of chocolate in the sun. His hands roamed my body, leaving a trail of fire wherever they went. I moaned into his mouth, unable to control the passion that was building inside of me. The kiss grew more intense, and i felt my desire for him reaching a crescendo. I rub my hands in his chest, lowering it to his abs, feeling the firmness and the heat that came from his body.

Keanu's hand slid down to the small of my back, pulling me closer, as if trying to erase any space that remained between us. His other hand found its way to my face, cupping my cheek as he angled my head to deepen the kiss even further. I could feel the beat of his heart, fast and strong, echoing the rhythm of my own. His touch was intoxicating, a symphony of sensation that I never wanted to end. I could feel him hard below me, and the realization sent a thrill through my body.

Breaking the kiss, I leaned my forehead against his, panting softly. "Keanu," I whispered, his name a question and a declaration all at once.

He brushed his thumb across my cheek, the pad of his finger lingering on the corner of my mouth. "What is it?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

I took a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. "I'm just... I'm surprised," I confessed. "This isn't what I expected from tonight."

Keanu chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Neither did I," he admitted. "But I can't say I'm disappointed."

"I need you right now" i say out of breath, my eyes searching his.

Keanu's smile grew, and he brushed his nose against mine, his breath warm against my skin. "I'm right here," he assured me. His hand slid down my back, sending shivers down my spine, and he stood up, lifting me with him. The strength in his arms was surprising, yet comforting. He walked us back into the apartment, closing the terrace door gently behind us.

The living room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candles casting a warm, intimate light across the space. He set me down on the plush sofa, and for a moment, we just stared at each other, the electricity between us growing stronger by the second. Then, as if we had rehearsed it a thousand times, we fell into a kiss that was as natural as breathing. His hands explored my body with a tender urgency, as if he were trying to memorize every curve and plane. I moaned into his mouth, my hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

The fabric of his shirt gave way, revealing a chest that was just as I had imagined—strong and broad, with a smattering of hair that tickled my fingertips as I traced the contours of his muscles. I could feel the heat of his skin through the material of my dress, and I wanted nothing more than to feel him against me, skin to skin.

Keanu pulled away for a moment, his eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he slid the straps of my gown off my shoulders, the silk pooling at my waist. His gaze was hungry, yet respectful, as if he knew that this moment was more than just physical attraction—it was the culmination of a connection that had been building since we first locked eyes across the crowded room.

He leaned in, his lips tracing a path down my neck, sending waves of pleasure through my body. My heart raced, the anticipation of what was to come making my knees weak. His hands cupped my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples, and I arched into his touch, a gasp escaping my lips.

The zipper of my dress whispered as it slid down, and the fabric slipped away, revealing my black lace lingerie. Keanu's eyes darkened, his pupils dilating with desire. He kissed me again, his tongue demanding entry, and I eagerly granted it, our tongues dancing together in a passionate tango.

He gently pushed me back onto the sofa, his hands never leaving my body. His mouth traveled down my neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses in its wake. His thumbs hooked into the lace of my lingerie, and with a deft motion, he peeled it away, revealing my naked breasts to the warm air. He took one in his mouth, suckling gently at first, then with increasing pressure, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to my core. I moaned his name, my fingers tangling in his hair as I held him to me. i smirk to him seen that he couldnt take his eyes of me.

His hands slid down my body, tracing the curves of my waist before coming to rest on the top of my thighs. He pushed my legs apart, and with a gentle yet firm touch, he slid my panties down, exposing me completely to him. His eyes darkened with desire as he took in the sight of my bare, wet pussy. He kissed me deeply, his tongue mimicking the movements I knew he was about to make with his mouth. The anticipation was almost unbearable, my body quivering with need.

Keanu knelt before me, his eyes never leaving mine as he positioned himself between my legs. He placed a soft kiss on my inner thigh, his breath hot against my skin. I shivered in anticipation, my body already begging for more. He kissed his way up to my center, and I felt his warm breath against my sensitive folds. His tongue darted out, licking me tentatively, testing my reaction. My hips bucked upwards, and a moan of pure pleasure escaped my lips.

He took that as an invitation, and his mouth closed over me, his tongue exploring every inch of my pussy with a hunger that made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered in the world. He licked and sucked my clit, his beard scraping against my thighs in a deliciously rough way that only added to the sensation. His hands held my hips down, keeping me in place as he feasted on me.

I could feel an orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that was more intense than anything I had ever experienced. My moans grew louder, echoing through the quiet apartment. Keanu's movements grew more urgent, his tongue flicking faster, pressing harder. And then, just as I was about to fall over the edge, he stopped, his breath hot against my skin.

He looked up at me, a wicked smile playing on his lips. He reached for his belt, but before he could even unbuckle it, I placed my hand over his, stopping him. He raised an eyebrow in question, and I simply smiled, taking over.

With trembling hands, I undid the buckle, the clink of the metal echoing in the quiet room. His eyes never left mine as I carefully unbuttoned his pants, the anticipation building with each inch of skin revealed. The zipper slid down with a hiss, and I took a moment to appreciate the power of the man before me. His erection was straining against the fabric of his boxers, and I felt a thrill of desire run through me. he was big and thick, and i couldnt wait to have him inside me.

With a gentle tug, I freed him from his confines, and he sprang forth, proud and demanding. I wrapped my hand around him, feeling the heat and weight of his cock, marveling at the velvety softness of his skin. He groaned, his eyes closing for a brief moment, before he looked at me again, his pupils wide with desire. I leaned in, my mouth watering at the thought of tasting him, and took him in my mouth, eager to return the pleasure he had given me.

His taste was intoxicating, a mix of his cologne and his own natural scent, and I licked and sucked him with an enthusiasm that was only fueled by his soft curses and the way his hips rocked into my face. His hands found their way into my hair, guiding me as I took him deeper, the tip of his cock brushing the back of my throat. The sound of his pleasure was like music to my ears, and I felt my own arousal spike even higher.

But Keanu was not a man to be fully satisfied with just receiving, and before long, he was gently pulling me up, kissing me deeply as he positioned himself between my legs. He pushed into me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine as he filled me completely. The sensation was overwhelming, and I threw my head back, my eyes closing involuntarily as I moaned with pleasure and pain.

''tell me if i hurt you, baby'' he said looking to my eyes.

I nodded, my breath coming in short gasps. "You don't," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please, Keanu, don't stop."

He didn't need any further encouragement. With a low groan, he began to move, his hips setting a rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart. He was gentle at first, his strokes long and slow, allowing me to adjust to his size. But as our bodies found their rhythm, the tempo grew faster, more intense. The sound of our skin slapping together filled the room, punctuated by our moans and gasps.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, my nails digging into his back as the waves of pleasure grew stronger. His hands were everywhere, caressing my breasts, my hips, my ass, his fingers sliding in and out of me alongside his cock, adding to the symphony of sensations that had taken over my body.

"ride me'' he stopped and pushed me on his lap.

I straddled him, eager to take control, my knees pressing into the soft cushions of the sofa. Keanu's hands gripped my hips as I began to move, my pussy sliding up and down his length. His eyes were locked on mine while he sucked my left breast, the intensity of his gaze making me feel like I was the only woman in the world. The sensation of being so utterly desired was intoxicating, and I moved faster, chasing the orgasm that was just out of reach.

Our bodies became one, moving in a dance that was both fierce and tender. His cock filled me completely, stretching me in the most delicious way, and each time I took him in, I felt like I was coming home. His thumb found my clit, and he began to rub it in time with his thrusts, the pressure building until I was teetering on the edge of ecstasy.

"Fuck, Rihanna, you're so wet," he murmured, his voice a low growl in my ear. "So tight, so perfect." His words were like a match to my desire, igniting a fire that had been smoldering all night. "You're fucking amazing."

The sensation was overwhelming, my body tightening around him as I took him in deeper with each stroke. I leaned back, arching my spine, my hands gripping his shoulders for balance. The feeling of him filling me, his thumb circling my clit, was almost too much to bear. "Keanu," I moaned, my voice trembling. "I'm gonna come."

He groaned in response, his own pleasure clear in the tension of his body. "Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice thick with desire. "Let me feel you come apart."

I did as he asked, my body obeying the command as if it were a sweet melody. I threw my head back and let out a scream of pure pleasure as my orgasm washed over me, my pussy clenching around his cock as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed through me. Keanu's grip tightened on my hips, his own release following closely behind, his cock pulsing deep inside me as he filled me with his warmth.

For a moment, we stayed like that, our breaths mingling in the space between us, our bodies still connected in the most intimate of ways. Then, slowly, gently, he leaned back, taking me with him so that we were lying on the sofa, our limbs tangled together. He kissed me softly, his tongue sliding against mine, and I felt a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the aftermath of our passion.

We lay there, the candles flickering in the background, casting shadows across his face. His eyes searched mine, and I knew he was looking for something, trying to understand what this meant for us. I didn't have the answers, but I knew that I didn't want this to be a fleeting moment, a one-night stand that we'd both forget by morning. I wanted more.

I slid off his lap, my legs feeling like jelly as I stood before him. He watched me, his gaze never leaving my body, his cock still semi-erect and glistening with our combined arousal. I stepped away from the sofa, my dress pooled at my feet, leaving me naked and exposed. I didn't feel self-conscious; with Keanu, I felt seen in a way that I hadn't with anyone else.

He stood, his eyes never leaving mine, and led me to the bedroom. The soft carpet felt like a luxurious cloud beneath my bare feet, and the low light from the candles cast a warm glow over the room. The bed was massive, the covers thrown back to reveal crisp white sheets that beckoned to us.

Keanu reached for me, pulling me into his arms once more. Our kisses grew deeper, more urgent, as we slowly made our way to the bed. He laid me down, his body hovering over mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress. His mouth traveled down my body, kissing and licking every inch of my skin, as if he couldn't get enough of me.

I felt alive, more alive than I had in years. Each kiss, each touch, was like a note in a song that was being written just for us. The way his teeth grazed my nipples, the way his tongue traced the curves of my belly, it was all part of a melody that I never wanted to end.

[thelastofustvficrecs]

WEEKLY FIC REC ROUND-UP 5/12/23

Summary: In Jackson, he starts to put it all together. Curtains on her windows. A lock on her door. Sugar on berries with milk, all stirred together like cereal-dessert. She keeps asking why, why shoes come off in the house and why dinner is an all-together event and why she has to learn how to swim or grill or play the guitar. He wants to ask her why she spends so much time out in the field, back flat against the earth and looking upward. Wants to ask her what she sees, or thinks, or is.

- 

Joel tries to fix all the years he missed.

—TW: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm

Favorite line(s): She falls asleep with the book still on her bedside table. He brushes a hand to her hairline once she is fully gone and wishes her dreams of unique and simple adventures, of boxcar houses, of swimming under a hot sun and not being afraid.

Why I love it: A wonderful, bright look at how Joel helps Ellie take some pieces of her childhood back. Joel and Ellie are particularly greatly drawn, with some interspersed serious moments that really ground this story. Truly a great read if you’re looking for a quicker fic that nonetheless packs a punch. 

Summary: Sure, maybe Joel was hyperaware, maybe he catastrophized too much, but he wasn’t one for introspection. He saw a problem, he fixed a problem, he kept Sarah happy. That’s all he had to do. Therapy was for rich people with too much time on their hands or people in touch with their feelings like Sarah if she ever wanted to go. Then his birthday happened and Joel didn’t care about brain chemistry or therapy or self care. All Joel wanted was to die.

OR: Joel's journey with his anxiety. It serves him well when out on the road, but boils over when he and Ellie are safe in Jackson.

—TW: PTSD, anxiety, unhealthy coping mechanisms, harm to others

Favorite line(s): Things he could brush off in his thirties he now has to hack his way through in his fifties, mind turning everything into poison, a trap, a gun pointed at him and all he holds dear. It’s an exaggeration. But hasn’t his anxiety been helpful? It’s kept him alive all these years. Why should he stop listening to it now? He gets tired and that just makes it harder to push the bad thoughts away - if they’re even bad thoughts at all.

Why I love it: A fantastic, introspective look at Joel’s anxiety and how it plays a role in his life, both before and after the Outbreak. Not only does it deal with how Joel views and uses his anxiety to survive, but also how it informs his relationships. Truly a great read if you’re looking for a character study that’s Joel-centric. 

Summary: Tommy didn't mean to intrude, but, in the end, he is glad he did. He respects both his brother and Ellie enough to let them have their privacy despite the urge to catch up on the years apart, keeping their secrets from the world or even each other when they ask him to, and it is not like he doesn't have enough work on his hands to keep him busy. Still, he has a habit of unintentionally watching people more than he should, and it doesn't take him long to realize that as much as Joel is back to his old, pre-outbreak self, his dynamic with Ellie is completely different compared to the relationship he had with Sarah. 

(or: Tommy watches Joel and Ellie and experiences a whole bunch of family-related emotions)

—TW: PTSD, grief/mourning

Favorite line(s): Sarah had taken care of him in small ways without straying from being his daughter first and foremost, forcing him to tend to himself and reminding him of important dates, bills he forgot, and her soccer tournaments, but Ellie gives as much as she gets, seeing Joel in a way even he doesn't.

Why I love it: An emotional, sweet, and overall heartrending look at Joel and Ellie’s relationship from Tommy’s POV. Joel and Ellie’s relationship is beautifully rendered. Truly a great read if you’re looking for something soft and warm that centers Tommy. 

AU Supernatural, werewolves 

Summary: On their way to the university, Joel gets bitten. And infected. But not by Cordyceps.

Or, a Werewolf AU that explores what that means for Joel and Ellie as they move forward together, forgive themselves, and learn how to love again.

---

“You’re actually a werewolf?”

Ellie doesn’t look afraid. She’s looking at Joel like he’s a miracle, a wonder, the coolest fucking thing she’s ever seen. Jesus, this kid. His heart feels full. Not weighed down with grief but something alive, something that makes him want to fight a million and one things to see her grin at him and look at him just like she’s doing right now.

—TW: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, PTSD, Implied/Referenced medical experimentation

Favorite line(s): Being numb had kept him alive, not just through all the terrible things he did to survive but in the quiet moments too, when the pull of ending it all came whispering again, like wind through a broken window. And then Ellie had come along and she’d yanked him from his early grave, shoved him to his feet, and forced his heart to beat again. Was it any wonder then, that all these miles they’d traveled and everything they’d gone through, he’d started to recalibrate his sense of being, turned his center of gravity to orbit her?

Why I love it: Beautifully written and unexpectedly complex, this fic does a fantastic job of balancing an exciting plot, world-building, and novel lore, all while staying grounded in the real heart of the story: Joel and Ellie coming to terms with what they mean to each other as father and daughter. Truly a great read if you’re looking for a longer piece with engaging characters, plot twists and turns, and one of the few multi-chapter fics in the current TLOU TV fic space.

AU Modern setting, no Infected

Summary: “Are you in trouble? Back home?”

The ends of her sweatshirt are grasped in her fists, wrapped around her hands. He half expects her to pull the hood up, tie the strings over her face, and completely tuck herself away. It makes him think of the other night with that nasty motel bedspread pulled right up beneath her chin, asking about locks on the door. It makes him think of a scared kid.

“What difference does it make?” Ellie mumbles out while avoiding his gaze. “I’m out of there now.” She turns a steely gaze towards him. “And I’m not going back.���

“Wasn’t planning on makin’ ya,” Joel whispers in the late night air. The stars are coming out. If it’s a clear enough night, maybe he can point out Mars to her.

Or: Ellie's a foster kid who helps herself to the bed of Joel's truck to get where she needs to go. Joel is a sucker who just can't turn her away.

—TW: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault

Favorite line(s): She looks at what he offers, doesn’t move to grab it. “You don’t have to take care of me,” she mutters, and all he hears is her pleading with Marlene that she wouldn’t be a lot of work and that she would get her own job and wouldn’t eat any goddamn food even if the cabinets weren’t goddamn locked. For fuck’s sake. “That’s gonna hurt if you don’t get the swellin’ under control,” he says instead of “It’d be one of the greatest privileges of my sorry life to take care of you.”

Why I love it: Wonderfully written, this fic really brings the essence of Joel and Ellie to a modern setting in a way that feels heartbreaking, realistic, and above all, painfully hopeful. Truly a great read if you’re looking for a longer piece with engaging characters, engaging plot, and one of the few multi-chapter fics in the current TLOU TV fic space.

[dribs-and-drabbles]

Chains of Heart ep 7

So yesterday really was a bad day to publish my eps 4, 5, and 6 posts 😄 I guess something else seemed to make tumblr collectively lose their sh*t...can't think what now 🤔 Anyway, the links are at the bottom of this post in case you're interested and missed them.

But on to ep 7!

Of course the dodgy doctor, who knows Lue is Din, is wearing green to come and rescue him. I'm curious to know whether his tattoos are important since the camera fixed on them for a moment or if they just add to his 'look'.

OMG I just noticed in the ep 6 recap that the grey sleeveless top Ken was wearing when he rejected Lue in ep 6 has a small figure in black (possibly a fighting figure?) over his heart - maybe indicating that he will eventually open up to the MiB (i.e. Lue). Incidentally, this is also the shirt Ken puts on when his friends show up after he's woken up in bed next to a naked Lue in ep 7.

Anyway... It's also interesting that Hin is looking up information about Lue on a green tablet, whilst Payu wears a green tie. I wonder if all the beige comes from the original Lue's wardrobe. The beige sofas are a nice complement here then. BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, WHY DOES NO ONE ELSE TALK ABOUT LUE'S CHILD?!

Ken is emphatic that the MiB is Din and he's still alive...and his passion seems to be supported by the burgundy in his clothes, the red vase he's stood behind, and the red light in the bedroom. But it could also indicate that he'll eventually come around to Din being Lue once the truth comes out. The friend group is once again colour co-ordinating with the blues/greens/reds and again I wonder if these colours will correlate to who knows that Din = Lue in the end...

...these three especially below - three doctors, I think. We now know the one on the left (in the left photo) is potentially a psychiatrist, the one on the right has visions of the future (!), but the one in the middle stumps me still. He returns with Hin, Payu, and Boon later and it's incheresting that Hin/Sai/Ken's extended friend group seems to be losing the green and gaining the burgundy (whilst keeping a stable base of blue) 🤔

Ken rushes off to meet Deedee (still suspicious if you ask me, even in his blue t-shirt) and I love that Lue is wearing Ken's blue whilst Ken is for the first time in Lue's burgundy. Also note the blue curtains on the red wall - it's not going to take much for Lue to be shut out of Ken's world...and we see that very shortly after as Ken is shut away inside the blue cab.

Ingpha again wears the blue waistcoat and green shirt combo...this time he's livid about the MiB trying to kill him and wants him dead. (He also wore it when paying his respects to Din's family when the body was found and when he met Lue for the first time. I currently can't see a red thread connecting these (pardon the pun) since when he goes to tell Din's parents that Din is most likely alive he's in the red waistcoat again. Maybe he only has 4 different outfits that he rotates through 😄).

Ah the fabulous green and red dramatic lighting for the street fight.

I loved that, underneath his blue suit, Lue had a green scarf that gradually got revealed over the course of his scenes and finally got removed in Ken's living room - his hidden old-self cannot stay hidden once he loses control. Also that he was put down onto a green seat...and the leather sofas in Ken's apartment are green.

And more dramatic use of the red and green lighting...this time the red on Lue as he sleeps, reminding Ken of memories of Din, then the green in the hallway as Ken passes the huge photo of Din, then the red in the bedroom as Ken collapses under the weight of his grief.

But then this...the red light connecting Ken and Lue in the morning when they almost kiss. Delightful!

Din's mum wears more green as she comes to the realisation that Din may not be dead...although I don't think the visitor to Din's room this time round was Lue. I think it was probably Nok trying to find the video camera. But it made Din's mum question and that's all that matters.

Then Lue is back to his beige for his meeting with Ae - hiding all his colours - and Ae is once again in blue. Maybe this is her mask...or maybe she only has a certain number of outfits like her brother (despite their wealth!).

But this shot in particular is delicious. I love the line separating them, how it's not fully there (indicating how they're coming to some agreement about the illegal trade but for Lue it's only to uncover their shady business), and how they eventually drive away in different directions and in opposite coloured cars. Magnifique!

[ep 1] [ep 2] [ep 3] [ep 4] [ep 5] [ep 6] [ep 7] [ep 8] [ep 9] [ep 10]

[outcastpack]

1. 5. 9. 14. 19. 21. 24. 26 :)

OK let's do this 🫂

1. "I wanna drown in an Ocean of you" this one's pretty self explanatory and also one of my fav songs rn

5. Fic idea I've had but will never write.

I'm not sure really I think the fic idea I had that was for the name of my profile. Theo and his outcast pack because the base idea kept changing and ended up with completely different ideas.

9. Do you write everyday. And share a sentence if you have.

I do. I try to do atleast 500 to 1k if im in work next day at 5am but my 2/3 days off i try to hammer out as much as I can as a goal coz really wanna get the fic done and get it out for everyone to see. Plus people's encouragement to parts have helped push me to try.

Here a snippet sentance from today.

A pair of familiar arms wrap around his back pulling Liam away from his jealous thoughts. “Hi pretty boy.” He feels Theo’s lips mumbling against his ear, his breath tickling Liam’s ear.

14. Which of your fics would you like to see get a visual adapdation like into a comic or film.

Hmmm this is a hard one I'd have to say either Pokewolf AU, Mafia/Assassin Theo with Thief Liam or Thiam as Jasher.

19. Small teaser from a WIP.

Well since I'm only actively working on one fic once again here's Thiam as jasher. And plz don't kill me this is kinda a pivotal part of the boys plot (Some of you already know)

Liam wakes up. His head pounding and the sickly feeling in his stomach. “What the fuck did I drink?” He wonders in his head. The light peaking through the curtain blinds makes his head ache and the pain in his head increases. Movement to his left makes the boy freeze as he only then realises the line of heat at his side, seeing the outline of a figure. Slowly becoming more aware of his surroundings makes him realise something else.

He’s naked. The person next to him is also naked.

Moving closer he realised just who the person is. It’s Olivia, his ex, his best friends twin sister. The pain in his head intensifies and he feels the bile forming in his throat making him run for the bathroom, uncaring if he wakes the girl in the process. Reaching the bathroom he immediately throws up, emptying his stomach. After he has finished and is sure nothing else is going to come up it hits him all at once in flashes. Him and Liv getting drunk together. Her spilling the vodka over him and slurring causing him to lose his shirt. Olivia whispering in his ear to have some fun. Him slamming the girl against the wall and dragging her to the bedroom. Clothes being ripped off. The moans in his ear.

He only then realises the nail marks on his back and line of hickeys on his neck. He feels ill, how could he do such a thing. He had wanted to get home and talk to Theo instead he apparently got drunk and had sex with his ex. Thinking about Theo triggers another memory of the night. Darting for his phone which had been tossed on the floor with his jeans. Clicking the screen on and praying, hoping he didn’t do what he thinks he did. Right there is a voice mail to Theo from him.

Oh god what the hell did he say, what has he done.

A moan of pain from the bed pulls his attention reminding him of his next problem. What the hell should he say to Olivia? What the hell is Mason going to say?

(DISCLAIMER TOO. THEO AND LIAM ARE NOT OFFICIALLY TOGETHER HERE YET)

24. Share a moodboard for a WIP

This ones a idea I had for later parts of S4s plot and the end of the base S4 era Thiam as Jasher plot. Theo will be fixing up Jenna's old 1970s Ford Mustang at his dad garage as a surprise for Liam after he finds the vehicle just sat there covered up and Jenna tells him about the car.

26. A piece of writing/Fic you would never want your family to see.

Yes. Probably the spicey/smuttyish parts of any of my fics.

TY for the questions 🫂💙

[vischys]

"Great! Then for this plan, we will call it..Go-Go Pow-Pow-Power Rangers Battle Plan!"

Ink's endearing silly remark 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 from Dante who was propping his Devil Sword against his shoulder.

“These kiddos, I like. From what playground did you find them?” 

“ The Devil's, ”  Vergil supplied sardonically.

“Heh, just my kind.”

Vergil's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Navarro donning upon his respiratory mask once more.

Not another explosive with deafening ringing, Vergil thought warily at the memory of what Navarro's flash bomb did was still fresh in his mind and ears, more of the latter. His stance bent slightly in instinctive wariness, ready to trick away the moment the irascible youth would cast his explosives.

"Hey guys! Heads up! Smoke!" 

His relief was imperceptible as instead of ear-piercing ringing, only carbon was emitted in the wake of the mild explosion dealt by the bomber, something that he simply kept at bay by a wavelet of demonic energy.

Dante let out an appreciative whistle at Navarro's arsenal whilst Vergil's gaze was trained at the smoked-veiled scene ahead of them. Even if Ink and Rust were concealed, the cambion could still pinpoint their respective positions from their voices and demonic presence. He could register the sound of metal hitting flesh followed closely by it being sundered along with Ramon's telltale roar and stomping. They weren't able to witness Ramon's own brand of self-healing due to the smoke screen, however.

"Hey, you two!"

A pair of twin gazes fixed upon the small stature of Ink's second making a beeline toward them, similar in curiosity yet different in impression. Dante's was tinged with amusement whilst Vergil's was cool impatience.

"We're going to help you out. What I can tell you the HYDE pills help out by healing wounds quick, it makes them very strong. But whatever this asshole did, he probably mess with the pills in his own way. His own damn version."

“Why am I not surprised,” the secondborn muttered wearily, his handsome features scrunched up in calculation whereas Vergil's jaw tensed.

“ Hmph. We'll see if his so-called own version can grow him a new head upon decapitation. ”

A catcall from Dante. “Talk about bloodbath.”

"So Ink says that we're going to help you guys by breaking this guy down for you nicely and see if we can find an opening for you."

Dante's light blue eyes and Vergil's gray eyes stared down at Navarro synchronously, pining the masked youth with contrasting verdicts.

The elder of the two, attesting to his lone nature, naturally regarded the bomber's tiding with something akin to personal offense before it subsided to an understanding compromise. As much as he disliked of letting another cleared his path in his stead and would rather close the curtain to this chaotic act with his own means and terms, Ink and her comrades had their own claim in their settlement by dint of their associate, Ethan, as well as being the collateral target of the Horrors in their attempts to apprehend Ramon. Whereas the younger, laden with both curiosity for what Demon Blood Youths were capable of and the desire to simply wrap up the party, did not share his brother's initial reluctance and sensitivity toward the details how it's done.

“Sounds solid enough to me! Show me what you got, kiddo!”

Vergil exhaled discreetly and gave a terse dip of chin to convey his unspoken consent. We will find it, regardless.

As much as he respected Ink's and the youths' wish, by no means he shall allow his demoiselle to travail for an opening at the risk of her own safety. No, he too shall look for an opening upon his own as the trio fought on as they saw fit. That line of notion reminded him of a certain part that obnoxiously protruding from the wretch's transmuted form.

Practically pleading to be targeted, so to speak. The large, bulging eye embedded upon the man's now massively deformed arm. Could it be that simple and obvious?

“Wait.”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 a hiss of displeasure at his demoiselle’s sudden intervention. Were it anyone else, the Yamato’s deadly descent would continue and reap the craven perjurer’s life, but as it stood her unyielding stilled just against the fabric of the craven’s business suit, right where his heart was. And at Vergil’s abrupt pause, so did Dante, blinking in surprise at his elder brother’s uncharacteristic acquiescence when it was known that the Darkslayer spared none those who made attempts at his life and those he held dear.

Keep reading

[supernatural-bias]

NOTHINGS EVER NORMAL HERE

—word count: 6k+

—playlist: link

—tag list: n/a

—notes: welcome to the ahs: murder house experience. so get your truama under control and strap in. there's not enough trigger warnings in the world for this show. read at your own risk

If they all knew the different fates awaiting them in the self dubbed murder house, maybe they wouldn't have moved in.

A rustic house stood tall in the face of the gloomy streat, it's old foundations staring down at four very tiny looking people in comparison, movers scuttling around them boxes in hand.

Four very tiny people with very tiny time left to live.

Occasionally a worker would bump into one of them from behind, prompting a grunt from the receiving party or a step to the side, an exasperated expression being tossed out more often than not. But other than that no words were spoken. Not out loud.

A girl not much younger than what could have been 16 stood next to another slightly taller figure just a little older in age. Her eyelids were cast in a downward motion underneath a curtain of light blonde hair, giving the impression that she was half asleep when in fact it was more of an unimpressed look.

Another beat of uncomfortable silence.

"A cool looking house where people died and somehow you two still manage to ruin in." Violet finally spoke, eyeing a couch dotted with cheap modern designs as it passed her on a trolly. Most likely being the thing that prompted the sudden commentary.

A momentary giggle made its out of her mouth as she proceeded watched the person next to her get elbowed in the ribs for laughing at her comment, the victim being (Y/n), who shot a venomous look towards their parents at the action.

"Vi's not wrong you know." They stuffed one of their hands in their pants pocket, the other going out to wrap around their younger sisters shoulders with a shrug. "Dad cheats on you mom, and you move us all out here as if that'll fix the fact he fucked someone who was probably being babysat by the time you were graduating highschool. In your own bed nonetheless. Kind of a lame way to ruin this sweet house you know."

Any outsider in the family would recognize the look of hurt and grossly underestimated anger radiating from the people they spoke to—that being a lady with soft red hair and a tall man with a handsomely chiseled face. With the way that they stood stiffly next to each other it wouldn't take a genius to see that once they may have been close, lovers even, before a rift.

"Call me a brat or rude or whatever you want." They said with yet another shrug, pulling Violet closer to them. "But that won't change the fact you screwed up big time dad. And now your probably gonna screw up in this house too."

"I thought we agreed to at least try and be civil with each other during the move. Me and your mother are trying to work things out and the one thing we do not need right now are you two running your mouths any more than usual." A deep authoritative looked crossed over the face of the man (Y/n) and Violet had the honor of calling father, his eyes shooting stern looks between the both of them.

It hadn't always been like this. Each of them could tell you of a night not so long ago where family dinners were the highlight of their day, week even. But now those memories had been replaced a scar on an arm, a permanent reminder that mistakes had been made.

"And I thought you agreed to not stick your dick in anyone else when you got on one knee."

"Ben, just stop." The red headed lady sighed, stilling him with a tight grip on his shoulder. Therefore preventing him from taking a step towards his children. Her voice was close to emotionless as she briefly regarded the man next to her. A small call of 'Vivian please—' was tossed her way, being waved off with a sharp exhale of air.

"Why don't you two grab some of your boxes and start unpacking. That way you'll have time to set up each of your seperate rooms the way you want." She spoke to them with a lowered tone. The intent of getting them to leave went unsaid.

The teenagers exchanged looks between each other before collectively setting off to the moving van behind them, leaving behind their parents to argue for the tenth time that week in voices they thought were quiet enough so they wouldn't hear. It was only once they had both picked up their seperate things to waddle into the house and up many sleek wooden staircases with various size cardboard boxes in hand did anyone say anything.

"God I hate them so much."

(Y/n) walked into Violets room with her, still balancing a mountain of heavy containers on their hip as their upset sister threw her things on the floor, a bare bed and some empty shelves being the only thing in what was to become Violets den. But they slid their own boxes down onto the hardwood floor, later choosing to resort in kicking them across the hallway towards the direction of their new room, and chose to entertain her whining with a question of why.

"I don't want to change schools. I dont want to be the weird new kid. And I don't want to be in a different room than you! The only thing good thats come out of this is the stupid house, and they've already started to ruin that too." The younger girl grumbled. She kicked her bed limply frame before flopping back onto the mattress.

"Hold on let's go back to the part where you don't want to have your own room. Some part of me recalls all the times you begged mom to have your own place at the old house." (Y/n) said with a toothy grin, laughing as Violet stretched out on the bed to playfully hit them.

"Yeah but at this point I'd put up with your horrible music taste and chip crumbs over anything that had to do with them." She made sure to anunciate her point as she jabbed a hard thumb at the window leading to an outside veiw of the front yard. Probably where Ben and Vivian were still arguing.

(Y/n) squinted their eyes in a fake offended manor, beginning the process of exiting Violets room at the excuse of being wounded by her harsh words.

"Smashing Pumpkins and barbecue chips happen to be my spirit animal thank you very much."

"Chips aren't even an animal asshole!"

Violet just received a cheerful middle finger, the two smiling as their veiw of each other faded from sight.

It was hours later when they had finally decided to start unpacking.

The sky was noticeably darker outside of the one window in their room, noting the passing of time. (Y/n)'s parents had only stopped by their room once since the little incident on the lawn, each alone, to check in that they were at least still in the house. The conversations didn't last very long to say the least. And from the very short bouts of audible mumbling coming from the wall in which Violets room connected to theirs, she had the same experience.

The first couple of boxes had only begun to unpack once the sound of a record needle dropped onto a shiny black disc.

The gray record player had been a gift from a couple Christmas' ago, the item quickly climbing its way to the top of (Y/n)'s most prized possessions. While Violet had later received an iPod and matching speaker set to go with it, they had always preferred the faint scratching of a needle as the music began to play. Records of both older and more modern bands were attached to the hip of the machine, the collection one worthy of gawking at. They would have to remind themself look for a record shop in town later.

Not everyone always liked their music taste though.

"Got any Cobain?"

(Y/n) momentarily fumbled the lampshade they were holding, heart feeling like someone had just slammed it inbetween a car door. They only regained their grip on the cloth covered item as they whirled around with their arm extended as if ready to throw a pitch.

And we're faced with a total stranger.

He had a mop of the dirtiest blond hair they had ever seen on someone, somehow curly and straight at the same time. Steely gray eyes fixed their gaze dead center on them, the swirling color reminding (Y/n) briefly of the way a storm at sea could rip a five ton ship in half before someone could even finish brushing their teeth.

He wore jeans and a green and black striped sweater, the horizontical pattern and his broad grin bringing the name Cheshire Cat to mind.

"Who the hell are you and how did you get in my house. Answer or I'll yell."

He seemed very unthreated by the threat of a lampshade being pointed at him.

"Got any Cobain?" He repeated with a calm tone, smile unwavering and eyes calm.

(Y/n) spared a quick look at their still playing record. The song was something cheery. Light. It contrasted with the strange atmosphere currently bottling up in the room.

"I do." They curtly responded. Nothing more.

"You can relax. Don't worry, I live next door." He chuckled. It was as every bit amused as the rest of him. It made (Y/n)'s brows furrow in annoyance.

"Being my supposed neighbor doesn't explain why you're inside my house. And my room. I could charge you for breaking and entering." It was meant to sound grown up; promising. They had the feeling however that he wouldn't really care.

"You could." He shrugged, lips turning downward to show he entertained the thought.

(Y/n) wanted to throw something at him, preferably heavy and metal, and lock the door on him. They weren't buying this whole next door neighbor shit. That's how people got killed. Dumb people.

But then again say he really was their neighbor. They'd probably feel terrible later. Not too terrible, concidering the way he was acting and exactly how he had managed to get inside their house unnoticed, but still pretty bad.

And Violet was just next door. They didn't want to lock him out there with her. They didn't even like entertaining that idea.

"Look, is there a point to you being here besides trying to scare the shit out of some people you don't even know. Because if not, I'd rather you and the sweater your granny knit for you hightail it out of here."

They turned to continue unpacking things after what they hoped was knocking the boys ego down a few pegs. (Y/n) avoided pulling out any what could be embarassing items from the boxes in the process, for they would be damned before they let this weirdo see the stuffed animal they've had since they were five.

"I just wanted to see new doctor next door and his family before any other of the neighborhood weirdos snatched you up." He shrugged—seemingly a repetitive motion of his as much as it was (Y/n)'s—eyes free to roam over then in an observatory manor while their back was turned. "You just happened to be the first person I ran into."

"How sweet." They snorted, rolling their eyes. Preoccupied by showing off a bitchy front, the mention of their dad's profession went straight over their head.

Something the blond boy behind them smiled at.

"What? Would you have rather I ran into someone else first?" The smile in the nameless boys tone was prominent. (Y/n)'s face felt the strange urge to light up, embarrassed that they didn't understand the joke he was making at their expense.

Instead they took a breath, eyes begining to set in a blank and hopefully unbothered stare. They slammed the lid shut on one of the boxes they had been unpacking, only to start speaking without even turning to look at the person behind them. Being a passive agressive bitch could be their favorite past time after all.

"Now let me take a guess here. You're a pretentious bastard who's father probably left them becuase they listened to their rock music too loud one night. And ever since then you've, what, been trying to over compensate for something with that smart ass mouth while breaking into people houses?"

"And let me guess. You're a nobody who's favorite color has been something dark since they learned what sounding edgy got them, pretending to like being mellow and laid back when in reality all you are is an attention whore." A voice ran back like a vocal mirror, tone entertained.

"Tacky, low, and sort of accurate. Touche, creep. Now get out of my room."

He just laughed from behind. A sort of layered laugh, buried with so many emotions and unspoken words that it was hard to get a read on it.

The laugh went on for a bit longer than it should have.

Creepy.

"You're fun." He grinned, playing with one of the random trinkets (Y/n) had set on a table. A fixed gaze was pinpointed on the back of their head, unmoving. "Not like the others."

"Oh wow. Would you look at that. My self esteem just rocketed through the roof at your very sincere words. Many thanks to you, stranger that broke into my house to promptly insult me."

"To be fair the back door was unlocked, and you started it first."

What was this. A kindergarten fight?

They closed their eyes for a moment, turning to face him with a conveintly located heavy book from a moving box in hand.

"Listen pal—"

"Oh so we're pals now? Kind of forward for someone you just met I think."

"—I'd love nothing more than to wipe that sick smile off your face, preferably with the hardcover of this novel, but I don't think I'd exactly be able to read it again knowing it touched your face. So get out asshole."

His smile strained against the fabric of sincerity, placing down the item in his hands back on the shelf it originated from. It was if he hadnt liked something they said, and it didnt seem to be the overall threat of a dictionary slap. But the change in expression went as fast as it had come, the boy now holding his hands up in mock surrender.

"You're the boss, grouchy. I have to go anyways. Stuff to do and all that. See you soon, neighbor."

They didn't grace him with an answer, grunting lowly and lowering the thick dictionary. Their eyes didn't once leave him as he walked slowly out of the room.

He paused by their door momentarily.

"Your sisters pretty cute by the way."

And then he was gone. The only memorabilia from the visit being the shine of his dark eyes.

Like a ghost.

They frowned.

Nothing interesting happened for the next few days.

Life went on as normal as it could for a family such as theirs; dealing with adultery, two teenage kids, and a new house that is. But things had settled pretty quickly despite everything, a hushed routine falling over each of the individual house members. Even Doctor Harmon had continued his profession of counseling people from home after his office had been arranged to his liking. Of course, he had made sure to make it clear that no one was to interrupted his sessions. He made that very, very clear.

Perhaps the most important—or most interesting—thing to note was (Y/n) hadn't seen that strange guy since their last encounter with him. They still werent sure whether to feel happy or worried about that.

A conversation with Violet later in the day had revealed that she hadn't in fact had the same experience. If it werent for the knowladge that (Y/n) wouldn't just stright up lie to them about this, she would have waved it off and claimed they were pranking her.

The lack of interacrion between her and the boy prompted the question in (Y/n)s mind of how he knew what Violet looked like then, and how she was co called "cute".

But they didn't mention that.

One good thing that come out of all of it was that it didnt feel strange or unusual that (Y/n) had been thinking about him more than the average person. He had been a home invader after all. That would hang in someone's thoughts for a good while.

What was strange however was the feeling of being watched. The hairs standing up on their neck at the most random of times, chills running across their body in a tirade of tiny ice cubes. Any concerns they ever thought of making to their parents about this continuing occurance always ended in the same. Chalked up to paranoia or a new house. So nothing was said.

Maybe that's why they had been so keen to get out of their house, despite it being for the first day at a new school.

"Why can't you ever drive us anywhere? Maybe then I wouldnt have to listen to dad lecture me about how late I am getting up in the mornings." Violet asked, shoes scuffing against the concrete of courtyard grounds. Smoke spilled from her nose as it would from a dragon. (Y/n) had to resist the urge to ask for a drag.

"Me? Drive dad's precious car anywhere than out the driveway? I think not." They scoffed playfully despite the words being more than true. Violet lightly smiled at that, one hand going up to hold her black hat onto the top of her head as a gust of wind nearly blew it off.

Student after student shouldered their way through the siblings, the two having to swim upstream just to get to the wing of the school that held their first periods.

This was the first place (Y/n) had felt alone. Despite being surrounded by kids with horrible B.O and being flanked by their sister, that faint itchy feeling of being watched was nowhere to be seen. No pun intended. It was very relieving. They hadn't realized how much it had been bothering them these past couple of weeks.

"I'm just saying, it'd be nice to hear something other than how I woke up late once be—"

"Hey!"

Both (Y/n) and Violet stopped at the loud elimination. The shout had obviously been directed in their direction. Evident of the three angry looking girls stomping their way.

"Oh god." Was all (Y/n) heard from Violet mutter before a group of upper class privileged kids were staring down at them from their noses, acting as if someone pissed in their lucky charms this morning. Or whatever wealthy people eat for breakfast. Steak? That seemed accurate enough.

"There's no smoking in school!" The same high voice as before cracked. "Second hand smoke kills you know!" The ringleader of the trio snapped. She had brown hair as straight as a board, and two other friends that looked like carbon copies of herself—save for the different skin colors.

(Y/n) had to resist the urge to cringe and laugh at the same time. It was almost embarrassing how stereotypical these mean girls were. With their designer clothing and posh adittudes it was almost like they had walked straight out of High School Musical and into real life. More embarassing for them than anything. And definitely not worth the time.

"Sorry man. We're both new here, didn't know." The cigarette Violet had snagged from her mom's purse this morning fell to the ground wastefuly as (Y/n) flicked it out of their sisters hand, going to stomp out the dying light. At least before the same skinny brunette slammed her foot down on their own to get to it first.

"Bitch!" They yelped painfully whilst jumping back. Even Violets eyes widened in slight suprise. By now a few people had turned their way, the beginnings of a circle big enough to stay away from the confrontation but small enough to see what was going on forming. (Y/n) had seen enough movies and been in school long enough to know they were all hoping for a fight. They got the feeling this must happen often.

"People sit here! You can't just do that." She snarled with the now slightly crumpled ciggarette in hand, a few strands of brown hair getting coated in spit with the ferocity she used.

"Jeez! What crawled up your ass this morning?" (Y/n) marveled with all their weight temporarily on one foot. Someone whispered back that the confrontational girls grandma had died from cigarettes, to which they were met with a gaze that said 'fuck her grandma and the rude ass bitch she spawned'.

"I'll go throw it away. Could have just asked me, asshole."

"No. I want to see you both eat it."

Silence even from the crowd.

What in the absolute hell—

One of the girls friends tugged on the brunnettes sickeningly tasteful pullover, timidly calling out that they should all just leave now. But their hand was shoved away in favor of repeating what had just been said.

"No. They need to eat it. I'll make them."

(Y/n) pinched tbe bridge of their nose before looking in disbelief at Violet.

From there they didn't really remember what happened—at least that's what they told the principal and their parents. Later in class Violet would think about the way they had practically managed to fend the girl off all on their own, despite being completely taken by suprise. Not everyday someone trys to make you eat a cigarette of the ground after all. She regretted not doing more than spitting on one of the three girls faces though. Maybe then she could have been sent home with (Y/n) instead.

"Lucky." She frowned before picking up a pencil and copying down more algriba notes, can't helping but feel at that moment that math was a torture device straight from hell.

(Y/n) hadn't known much peace since the first day at school.

Neither at home or the educational building. The only benefits of the latter was that the prickling sensation never occurred once; durring class or inbetween. Or really anywhere outside of the house in fact. But at least at home they didn't have to worry about being slapped in the face while eating a pb and j for lunch.

Even Violet had started jumping into fights more often, painting a target on both of their backs. Not like the both of them really cared beyond some bloody cuts. At least when they went home now they would be sporting matching bruises.

Ben and Vivian were less than happy with this new revelation. The two were still in this awkward entanglement of the process of forgiveness and anger, so coming home to both of their kids looking like they had been pelted with rocks was something no one needed. Often they threatened, or in Vivians cade offered, to have them moved to a different school. But that was quickly shot down, Violet claiming she wasn't going to run anymore. (Y/n) had simply shrugged when asked why they wanted to stay, saying if Violet wasn't moving, then she wasn't either.

I suppose the failing parents could have found some sort of comfort in knowing their problems were outshines by the companionship of their own children, but the pair of cloudy minded adults continued to crash and burn all the same. (Y/n) wouldn't be surprised if she came down the stairs one night to get some water only to find Ben sleeping on the couch. He did deserve it after all. From the snippets of arguments they had heard right after the cheating scandle had come out, he had pulled some dick moves. Litteraly.

Maybe that's why they didn't feel any guilt when their feet carried them into his unlocked office one day.

It was a rather unfortunate event to leave your works glass double doors unlocked while out getting groceries, especially when you have a child such as (Y/n) who often found themself in places as if by some force of will. Like their feet had just been on autopilot. People called it snooping. They called it subconscious curiosity. Often it ended up in Vivian or someone else vigorously apologizing for them walking into the back of a store or something.

Perhaps it was this subconscious curiosity that led them to looking through random bookshelves, skimming over pages about psychology and counseling before eventually placing them back. It wasn't untill their fingers had closed around a new type of textured paper did that autopilot mode switch off.

A manilla folder was found weighing heavily in their hands, having been wedged between more college textbooks on the wonders of the human mind. It had probably been placed there on accident more than likely, but that was the last thing on their mind as they flipped the thing open.

Skipping past pages of notes in their dad's handwriting, they stopped on the last page. A personal profile and picture of the person this folder was all about. Contact info, a genericnphone number, and random adress were written. All things they skimmed past. Then they had no desire to delve into a strangers adress or problems. It felt immoral to do that.

Later they wished they would have.

Wind lapped at their legs as the folder suddenly landed on the carpet below with a dulled thump. Their fingers had slackened on the thick office object just enough for it to flutter to the grounds.

(Y/n)'s eyes had grown to the size of a silver dollar at the sight of a picture frowing up at them. The slight of the person's haunting eyes all too familiar.

A pair of dangerous gray pupils had gazed back at them, saying more than anyone ever could with their voice.

"Dad treats the Tate Langdon?"

Vivian meerly let out a curious hum in response, eyes never leaving the dragon fruit she was preparing as a snack (probably against Moria's wishes, a house maid that had just randomly popped up one day. Just like everything else in this place, she was weird. (Y/n) often had a hard time telling if she was a sweet elderly woman, or a young adult hellbent on wearing the most lowcut uniform.)

"Tate Langdon. That's his name." (Y/n) walked deeper into the room, hands stuffed deep in their pockets. They had promptly walked out of Doctor Harmons office upon seeing that file, accompanied with the name Tate Langdon in big, black letters. Their feet had taken up that strange habit of wandering places where they were most or least needed; probably due to a combination of shock and thirst for answers. Answers it was best to not go asking Ben about.

"He's supposed to be our next door neighbor. Weird as shit. Just showed up in my room uninvited a few days ago." They elaborated, trying to stay as casual as possible. Reaching out to grab at the fruit being prepared, all they got was a slap on the wrist and stern look for cussing via mother.

"Sounds peculiar. Apparently our neighbors have a habit of being like that." Vivian continued. (Y/n) made the brief connection between the mention of an offputting lady and her daughter showing up the other day as renovations were being done. Must have been more neighbors. "I'm sure he just wanted to say hi."

Another downwards slice of the kitchen knife.

"And you know I don't ask about your dad's patients (Y/n). It's none of my business who he helps." She said. The comment was so matter of fact it was almost annoying.

"Right. Because you and dad still talk to each other." The youngest one in the room deadpanned.

"You know what I mean." Vivian sighed. The light had hit her face in such a way just then, making her seem ten years older than she was. It had been like this ever since the scandle. (Y/n) had been noticing more of that a lot lately.

"I'm just saying. You know that dad only sees the people that no one else wants to deal with. And not for a good reason. Now this Tate guy knows where we live. You dont think that's spooky?"

"A lot of things can be spooky." Came the short response.

"But come on you have to admit—"

"(Y/n) I don't even know why I'm discussing this with you." Vivian threw the knife down, frustrated. "Either you can come help me make some food for tonight, or go back to whatever you were doing before. Preferably out of the confines of that office. I don't have time to entertain every single worry you have!"

They blinked.

"Look hun. Me and your dad are going through a tough time with this move and councling. Would it kill you to show some sympathy for us instead of causing another scene like you did on the lawn the other day?"

(Y/n) wanted to respond with sarcasm. Maybe even a smart ass quip. You don't think I know? They wanted to hiss. That you and dad can't stand to keep doing this? You think I don't know how upset everyone is? None of that gives you an excuse to keep treating me and Violet like temporary distractions.

But nothing came out. Nothing other than the sound of steady breathing.

So thank god for Moira, no matter how creepy she was.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting something."

(Y/n) just shook her head with a small no to answer the maid that had appeared from think air, eyes peeling off Vivian as they headed for the one spot they and Violet had been frequenting the most lately. The confused expression of Moira when they passed was noticed and filed away to be ignored as a beeline was made for the basement.

A corner with some glossy magazines (Vivians doing) and candy bar wrappers ( (Y/n)s doing, but a team effort in the consumption) were the only real signs of life down in the basement. Aside from the one or two spiders and centipede that would have to be squished under a shoe to cease Violets occasional shreik, nothing moved down here.

It was a perfect place to be alone.

Clearing off a spot of dust on the floor, (Y/n) sat down criss cross to sink their head in the confines of their hands.

They never cried. But sometimes they got pretty close to it.

This house could be too much sometimes. Was too much. Everything had been to much ever since packing up all their belongings plus the kitchen sink and moving, but especially this godamn house and that goddamn feeling of being watched.

In an almost laughably ironic way, that feeling quadrupled anytime they sat in the basement. It was crushing. But it was crushing the way a weighted blanket might be. If they were going to feel paranoid all the time they might as well try to get a little comfortable with some exposure.

"Your sister has some blades stashed away if you want to cut yourself."

And there he was. Back in the house as if he owned the place, staring into (Y/n)'s mind with a concealed smile.

"It's rude to stare you know." They mumbled up at Tate from the dust covered floor. Encaptivated almost as they watched his feet swing back and forth idily off the stairs beneath him.

"Doesn't stop you."

It took (Y/n) a moment to prosess much else. Their brain already felt like mush, and the added presence of him felt like a short circut waiting to happen.

"Wait did you say cut myself?" They bewildered. "With razors Vi has?:

"Yeah." Tate shrugged. "Might make you feel better. Always does for us."

Us.

Oh Violet..

"Stay the fuck away from my sister Langdon."

"What? Jealous or something?" He said with a smile, not at all thrown by the sudden curveball of his last name.

"No. I'm not."

And it was true. They weren't jealous. They didn't even want to be talking to him themself.

"You know I think we got off on the wrong foot." Tate mused. (Y/n) shot him a look that feigned confusion. "And I'd like to try and get to know you better."

"My dad treats you. I'm not dumb Tate. I know he only helps people who are really fucking messed up."

"Am I?"

"Are you."

Tates eyes flashed.

This is what he liked from them. The silent battle of wits. It was honestly amusing how much they liked to think they knew. That they had him all figured out as this annoying next door physcopath neighbor.

It was almost laughable.

"Look. I'll cut you a deal." (Y/n) exhaled. They had come down here for some space and quiet but ended up in this position. And now they just wanted him gone; more than usual.

"Stop showing up in my room uninvited and I'll concider letting you to get to know me better." They paused midway to mumble something amongst the lines of 'even against my better judgment'. "I have a feeling this deal won't keep yoy away from Violet though. So just watch yourself Tate."

"You've already got me all figured out huh Harmon?" He grinned. "But a deals a deal. Scouts honor." He raised a hand and placed the over other his heart stiffly, doing nothing to convince (Y/n).

"Right. Now get out of our basement. Please." They added onto the end just to try and negotiate a little bit of peace. But it was a more so just a soft-ish demand for him to leave them alone at that point.

"Is every meeting of ours going to end with you banishing me from your house?" Tate asked with a grunt while begening to hoist himself up carefully.

"Depends. Do you want it to?"

He didn't answer.

[loveoaths]

🌹

The Father, The Son, and the Unholy Ghost: Luke likes Din. Din likes Luke. Din is less crazy about Luke's insane, evil father who keeps trying to kill him from beyond the grave.

In Din’s defense, he’s never been much of a drinker.

So when Luke sets a bottle of cheap liquor on the hotel suite counter, looks up at him through this thick blonde lashes, and asks, “Ever done a handle pull?” with that sneaky grin, Din is already half-way to drunk. 

The liquor just hastens the inevitable. 

The last thing he remembers is Luke laughing too hard at something terrifying he’d said — No matter what Din tells him, Luke never seems to get squeamish, and that’s something Din likes about him: he knows there’s more blood on Din’s hands than skin, yet he still lays those long fingers over worn gloves with an ease that reminds Din that, actually, Luke’s body count is much, much higher than his own — and then he remembers Luke floating their glasses in the air with one hand, his other hand running up his arm to the broken seal around his neck, warm knuckles brushing against exposed brown skin. Din had swallowed, torn between acknowledging the touch and ignoring it in case he was misreading the situation. He’d chosen the latter. He nodded his helmed head toward the glasses.

“Cool Jedi trick,” he’d said, like an idiot.

And Luke, bright, terrifying, ridiculous, gorgeous Luke, had fixed him with a look like molten silver and tipped his chin back toward the bedroom door behind them.

“Thanks. Wanna see a cooler one?”

A more suave man would have had a line ready to reel him in, but seeing as hearing those words nearly killed him, Din’s just glad he could fumble out a quiet “Y-yes please,” before Luke changed his mind.

When he wakes up, he feels like he’s run over by a transport, and then seven more after that. In the dark, Din rolls over with a groan and immediately regrets it: his breath is sour and overwhelming inside the helmet, which is backwards. He lifts a hand to right it when something tightens around his naked waist.

He’s desperately trying to remember where his blaster is when the something shifts and strokes hot up his bare stomach, and Din freezes. 

Slowly, carefully, quietly, Din works his helmet right way forward, and looks down.

An arm. An arm is wrapped around him.

Luke Skywalker’s arm.

He is in bed with Luke kriffing Skywalker.

For the first time in his life, Din wants to throw up and grin at the same time.

Din relaxes, slowly, pressing back into unfamiliar pillows and turning to look down at the messy blonde mop poking out of the sea of blankets. As if by instinct, Luke turns sleepily toward him and shoves his face against Din’s chest with a warm, unintelligible murmur.

Din dares to settle beside him and stroke a golden lock. The curtains are drawn shut, but he wishes he could steal over to pull them open a sliver, if only to watch a strip of light set it aglow. He smiles a secret smile down at him, ignoring the way his heart shudders to life in his chest like a vintage cruiser raring for one last race.

What he cannot ignore, however, is the furious blue glare hovering over Luke’s sleeping sun-kissed shoulder.

“YOU.”

To his credit, Din does not jump or curse, despite the disorienting hangover. He instead snatches the small vibrodagger sheathed between the mattress and the headboard and jams it into the figure’s jugular — 

It passes right through, no more than an impotent suggestion.

“If you’d had this sense of self preservation last night, you wouldn’t be here,” the figure snarls and presses forward, pushing through Luke’s sleeping face to fix Din with a bloodcurdling sneer. "At least you've more vim than the last one." The last one? Din ignores the way his heart sinks and slashes at its head this time. The vibrodagger passes through once more. The figure snickers. “Oh, please. It would take more than that to kill me if I weren’t already dead."

Din retracts the blade for Luke’s safety, but keeps it in his hand, braced for attack. Blinking through sleep and confusion, Din tries to understand what he’s seeing. A man. A handsome man with knives for cheeks and sour gold eyes and a strange, breathy voice, not unlike someone speaking through an outdated rebreather. Shiny slivers of fractured durasteel and shattered black armor circle his head like a crown of ruin. Long brown hair waves to tanned shoulders fissured through with cracks of throbbing red and orange and yellow, and where hair and skin meet, the follicles burst into sickly flame. His hands are wicked black metal curdled with smoke, and they grasp desperately for Din’s throat, but they, too, pass through. The man clicks his tongue like he expected this, but is annoyed by it nonetheless.

Din wraps his arm around Luke’s back and pulls him toward him protectively. The man’s eyes immediately drop to the hand on Luke’s back and for a moment Din swears he sees them glow. “What are you?”

“Your worst nightmare,” the apparition sneers. With a crack Din feels in his bones, the shade grows, looming impossibly large in the small room, “I am Luke’s father. You will know me as… DARTH VADER.”

His voice whips through the room, an unholy heat radiating from his furious form.

A pregnant silence settles into the room.

The figure pauses, as if expecting something.

After a moment, Din realizes he’s waiting for a reaction.

Din looks down at Luke — still asleep in his arms, somehow, and something about that makes Din's heart squeeze — and then back up at hell’s most flamboyant reject.

“Sorry,” Din clips, wondering idly if ghosts can burn people to death, and if so, how badly that would hurt, “Darth who?”

[aemonds-sapphire]

Fix You | Dabi x Reader

Summary: Dabi couldn’t afford to care about you. Life had long taught him that he was underserving of such feelings. It was better this way. Right?

A/N: This is just a short drabble that practically wrote itself. It has some sprinkles of angst but very, very light. I just love exploring Dabi’s mind. I can see a bit of myself in him, so this was a bit hard to write because it hits home.

Warnings: Mention of blood and abuse from his father.

Word count: 1k

Dabi knew the pits of rejection far too well. It had become second nature to him. It consumed him as Todoroki Touya, and it had morphed into something way darker as he grew older.

He was certain that if there was driving force behind his thirst for revenge then that the fear of abandonment was the root of it all.

Feelings were doorways into suffering. And Dabi had learned long ago that some doors are better left shut. Allowing himself to care for someone was a weakness he could not afford. The last time he let himself care for what his father thought of him half of his body went up in flames.

Slowly, he lifted one of his hand and carefully examined the crooked barrier between both of his skin types, tightly held together by rounded metal rings.

A painful reminder.

No. Just a reminder.

Pain had forsaken his thoughts. He had made sure of that it stayed that way.

His body was now a reminder of what happens when one allows feelings to overcome the senses.

He was a vessel of hatred. Of revenge. He no longer cared that he was but a shell of his former self. It was necessary.

One of the metallic loops was coming undone, and he would have to fix that. He could always ask you to aid him, but the mere thought of having you so close sickened him.

No matter how strong someone was. How well trained they were. How disciplined their mind was. There came a time when something — or rather someone — slippped through the cracks and managed to become a weakness. Much like the sun that insisted on shining through the curtains of his room. Or much like the tears of blood that would eventually find their way down his face when he allowed himself to feel for the briefest moment.

You were a weakness he couldn’t afford.

Deep down, in the depths of hos heart, Dabi feared that he is not enough. That he was broken beyond repair. And no one wanted to be left with having to fix both his body and his mind. He feared that if you turned him down it would fuel his anger even more. That he would feel small just like little Touya did once he realized he was just an afterthought in his father’s mind.

“Fuck.”

He could feel a single bloody droplet streaming down his face, prickling his skin along the way. His strained skin was coming loose around the loops. An inconvenient issue that he would often have to deal with, especially when his body was tense.

Unconsciously, he brought his thumb to clean it up before examining the red stain tainting the pad of his finger.

It was the closest thing he had to tears.

He no longer cried. Not because he didn’t want to. He was just unable to. The fire that had erupted from him when he was younger caused his tears ducts to get burned.

Truth be told, he didn’t mind that at all.

And he’d rather have it this way.

There was a faint knock on the the door.

It was you.

“Dabi... can I come in?”

He wanted to say no. He needed to say no.

His body had become so numb to physical pain that he only realized he was gripping his knees too tightly when he saw the loops struggling to keep his skin in one piece.

Another knock. “Dabi...”

“Leave.” He firmly said.

“Don’t push me away.”

He had to.

“Let me be here for you,” your voice was but a whisper, but it was enough to cause his heart rate to quicken. “Your... staples need to be fixed... I can help.”

He scoffed. You really had no idea that he needed fixing beyond a couple of metallic rings. That was why he couldn’t stand being near you anymore. You triggered so many feelings within him.

Feelings are a weakness.

You are a weakness.

He can’t afford having one.

He had promised himself that his only motivation would be ending his father’s career. To have him pay for what he had done to him and his family.

Damn you.

Damn you for haunting his thoughts. Damn you for being you and for being so... 

“I don need your help. Leave.”

His words betrayed his heart, but he was used to it by now.

The doorknob rattled briefly. “I’m not scared of you.”

You should be. He could easily burn you to the ground if you kept on pushing him.

With one swift motion, the door swung open. There you were. The newfound source of his turmoil. Standing quietly and determined to defy him.

Dabi considered activating his quirk just to scare you off. He could definitely feel the heat rise within him.

However, surely enough, the moment you started pacing towards him and knelt at his feet with that loving face of yours resting on his thighs, he knew he was done for.

“Hello, ashtray.” You taunted him in a low voice, offering him the sweetest smile.

“Hey yourself, doll.” He mumbled as he let his hand reach your cheek.

You instinctively closed your eyes as the warmth of his touch flooded your senses. His eyes took in all of you and he nearly flinched when you took his hand in yours.

“Let me fix this.”

Fix what? Did you even know what that proposition entailed?

Before he could measure his words, Dabi spoke. “What do you want to fix?”

You opened your eyes and kept them locked with his.

“You.”

[samstree]

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (1/3)

In which Jaskier chooses to lie, until he can no longer tell the truth.

(lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, geralt apologizes, post mountain, miscommunication, rated teen, read on AO3)

A big thanks to @wanderlust-t and @a-kind-of-merry-war for the prompt! <3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4]

“You are gonna run after him again, just like that? Don’t you remember what he did to you? What you went through?”

Essi leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed in front of her chest, watching as Jaskier packs a second bag.

“Come one, poppet. Geralt was having a hard time back then, and now he’s come all the way to Oxenfurt to apologize.

“So what?”

“So I’m forgiving him.”

She grumbles a few rude words regarding the witcher’s lineage.

“Hey! That’s not nice.”

“And this is way too easy! Why can’t you see a disaster waiting to happen until it hits you in the face?” Essi exclaims. “Do you know what I would have done? I would make him grovel! Give him the cold shoulder. Or…or at least play it cool for a while longer so he knows not to take you for granted again! Sorry, but I’m…not like you.”

“Um…excuse you. I am plenty cool!”

“There’s nothing cool about being utterly in love and then getting cast aside over and over again, Jaskier. You know that.”

Jaskier sighs, walks to Essi and pulls her into a tight hug, all his scattered doublets ignored.

“I’m going to be okay,” he tries to tuck her curls away from her eyes but fails.

“Are you?” When she pulls back, there’s something inscrutable in those blue eyes, the curtain of blonde hair obscuring her emotions. “When you came down from the mountain, the way you couldn’t even … I don’t know. I just need to make sure it won’t happen again.”

“It—” Jaskier opens his mouth to make an easy promise, but finds the words choking in his throat. “I, um—”

Essi squeezes him on the shoulder. “He’s apologized, profusely from what you told me, and he’s being nice now. He will certainly be nice for a while, but what happens after he wins you back? What’s preventing him from hurting you again?”

Jaskier has no answers for her, so he resorts to giving her another hug.

“At least, think about my cold shoulder tactic. Sometimes people need the reminder, just so they know what they can easily lose.”

“Essi—”

“Think about it.”

She presses a small kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and leaves him to his packing. Outside the window comes the familiar sound of Roache’s hooves, clicking against the cobblestone.

Jaskier straightens his tunic and lets out a heave. He can see Geralt is being good now, friendly even, after all these years of denying their friendship. Now, the witcher is even waiting downstairs to begin their next journey.

Essi is just being overly protective, Jaskier decides.

He winds down the stairs and finds Geralt cooing at Roach. The urge to melt in those golden amber eyes is overwhelming.

“We good?” Geralt takes Jaskier’s bags and secures them on Roach, side by side with his saddlebags.

“Good,” Jaskier lies.

 ---

The truth is, Jaskier has heard of this so-called “cold shoulder” tactic. He’s even contemplated it for longer than he’s willing to admit. Every time Geralt dismissed him as a friend, brushed him off, Jaskier couldn’t help but want to retaliate with equal measure.

What if he’s the one to give Geralt a time-out? What if when Geralt tells him to fuck off, he just…leaves? The same idea churned in Jaskier’s stomach for two decades, but in the end, he knows the answer—he can never bring himself to go through it. His feet would carry him back to Geralt before even taking a step away.

He was left anyway.

But now…

Jaskier can’t afford to be left again. Essi was right. He isn’t sure if he can pick himself up again. He barely managed it the first time.

Jaskier lets out an audible scoff as he comes to the realization. He’s going to do it. The cold shoulder tactic. It’s so cheesy that it feels like something only school girls would use to get attention from a crush. Keep your distance, string him along a little. That’s how you get him to notice you exist—

“Something funny?” Geralt turns on horseback, sunlight peaking through his silver hair, a curious frown between his brows. He’s towering, beautiful. He has always been the most beautiful person Jaskier knows, even if he doesn’t know it.

Jaskier strums an absent chord on his lute. “Just something Essi said.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nudges Roach forward. “I was thinking… You’ve never seen a basilisk, have you?”

“No?”

“There are rumors about a nest in the next town. Want to see it?”

A hint of smile hints at Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier’s heart almost leaps out of his throat. A basilisk hunt is one he’s been dying to watch for years, if not decades. He’s drooling with excitement just thinking about the ballad that will certainly sweep the continent off its feet.

“Of course I want—" The sentence stops in its tracks. Jaskier bites his tongue to hide the slip. “You know what, I think I’ll stay in town. This new song needs some polishing before its debut. I’m sure a big witcher such as yourself doesn’t need a bard’s moral support for a meager basilisk, right?”

Jaskier adds a wink for good measure, but Geralt is not amused. He’s staring from his vantage point, his expression inexplicable. Is it really so shocking that Jaskier will turn Geralt down this once, after all this time?

“I understand.” Geralt pauses before continuing, almost too carefully. “Perhaps I can help? Sing it for me tonight?”

“Sing it…for you?” Jaskier asks, dumbfounded. The lute in his hands suddenly feels a lot weightier than it is.

“You wanted my review for so long, Jaskier. I’m giving it to you now. I’m sure your playing will be…nice.”

Geralt looks at him with hope in his eyes, and Jaskier can’t help but let his ego grow a little. It’s unbelievable that a simple refusal is what got Geralt to finally say anything positive about his music. The tiny triumph fills his chest with unexpected giddiness.

“Maybe I will. We shall see,” he replies. His fingers strike another chord.

Jaskier feels a spring in his steps, urging him forward to the mare’s steady gait. Golden amber eyes are burning a hole into his back, but he doesn’t dare to look back lest the tiny bubble of this perfect moment break.

 ---

Night falls, and Jaskier scribbles down another line. The door opens and Geralt drags his feet into their shared room.

Jaskier makes no effort to get up.

Once upon a time, he would have raced across the room to greet Geralt, checked for injuries and fussed over any scrapes and cuts, all the while getting dismissed with the witcher’s grumbled words. He’d help remove those heavy armors when Geralt’s muscles ache from exhaustion and get ichor all over himself.

He will not do that tonight.

Play it cool, Essi’s words echo in his memory. Right, he’s doing things differently now.

Jaskier fixes his gaze on the notebook in his lap and listens as Geralt shuffles around the room, putting everything back in place. One by one, his armor pieces drop in the corner of the room.

“How was it?” he asks with the most nonchalant tone as if he’s just noticed the other man’s existence.

“Fine. The basilisk’s dead.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier chooses the single hum uncharacteristically as Geralt puts his swords against the doorframe and sits down on the single chair.

He’s so still, hovering even.

“What?” Jaskier finally looks at him. Geralt, as he claimed, looks fine, with only a smudge of a black ichor sticking to his hair. A frown appears between his brows.

Adorable.

Jaskier shakes the thought quickly.

“Your new song?” Geralt prompts.

“Oh yeah. Never mind. I don’t feel like singing.”

It’s another lie. A necessary one, Jaskier tells himself.

“You,” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow, “don’t feel like singing?”

Jaskier clutches the notebook to his chest almost defensively, not sure what to do with the accusation. Is it a tragedy that Geralt knows him like the back of his hand? Or is it a shame that Jaskier is indeed buzzing with excitement to test out this song, with the most important person in his life?

“Well, I don’t.”

Jaskier keeps his chin up and scrambles off the bed to put away his books and pens. Geralt’s intent gaze is on his back again.

“Twenty years, and I’ve never known you to turn down an opportunity to sing.”

“I guess you don’t know me that well,” Jaskier bites back with a force that seems to come out of nowhere. “The bard may not want to entertain all the time, darling.”

The endearment sounds false, more like a jab. He lets out a dry chuckle and hopes to ease the tension but to no avail. Geralt’s eyes are wide with surprise. So Jaskier reaches for his bedroll as a distraction, but only serves to make the confusion deepen on Geralt’s face.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier lays it by the fire, on the soft rug that magically seems clean enough. It should be self-explanatory, but apparently not because Geralt is still staring quizzically.

“Sleeping.”

Geralt looks at the double bed and then back at Jaskier. “On the floor?”

“Thought I’d give you the space. I know how keyed up you are after the potions.”

Jaskier can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing as more words he doesn’t mean comes out of his mouth. He crosses his legs on the bedroll and pulls the blanket onto his lap to hide from Geralt’s scrutiny. But then, something dawns on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier…” Geralt rubs his forehead, his face pinched. “What I said in Oxenfurt, I meant it.”

“You do?”

“You can count on me now. It won’t be like…before.”

Their gazes meet, and Jaskier bears the intensity of it with everything he has. He feels bare, seen through by the amber gold he’s missed and cursed and loved so much.

“I’m here, and I’m all here, Jaskier. Please believe in me.”

“I do.”

It’s not the truth despite how much he wants to believe it. Jaskier wonders if lying to Geralt ever becomes easier.

He doesn’t know what is not convincing him. Geralt looks so genuine, and Jaskier wants more than anything to trust him again, but the smile on his face feels too stiff.

The plan is going as Jaskier wanted. He’s showing Geralt that his friendship doesn’t come freely anymore, and the witcher needs to make more effort, meet him halfway, somehow. Then how come as the quiet night creeps in, Jaskier only finds a hollow space in his chest?

The roaring fire in the hearth warms his back, but Jaskier clutches his blanket tighter. It can’t stave off the coldness left by the lack of a witcher’s body by his side.

 ---

Jaskier continues with the same scheme the next day.

Ignoring Geralt is not a difficult task in the beginning. The barmaid is a beautiful thing, doe-eyed and curious, has too many questions for her own good. She keeps asking about Jaskier’s ballads, and wouldn’t quite believe any crazy stories in them.

“Is it true that the White Wolf fought a sea serpent on the Skellige Isles? Surely, those creatures only exist in legends!”

She’s getting familiar, pressed up against Jaskier on the bench, almost pushing him back into Geralt’s side—the real subject of the topic, but it’s obvious her fascination lies only in Jaskier. Her brown eyes stay on the bard alone.

“Why don’t we find somewhere more private and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Is it a good one? It must be a heroic tale, isn’t it?”

“Heroic, of course. There’s also a twist. I won’t spoil it for you, but—” Jaskier winks, his fingers brushing past her wrist. “—it’s a love story that holds more heartbreak than you can bear.”

Her giggles are like soft wind chimes, and Jaskier guides her away from their table. He takes two steps and turns back, smacking himself on the head as if he’s only just thought of it.

“Oh, shoot! I know I promised to go the market with you, Geralt, but you see…” He gestures to the girl waiting expectantly in the near distance. There’s nothing I can do about it, he says with a shrug. “Have a good time, will you?”

Geralt is holding his tankard, his knuckles white and his face ice-cold. It’s like Jaskier is looking at one of those ice sculptures made by Oxenfurt’s art students every winter.

“You said you’d come.”

Geralt’s voice is so gentle, so full of dejection that Jaskier’s resolve almost breaks. He clears his throat and darts his eyes elsewhere. Those acting coaches back in school would have been disappointed in him for letting his emotions peak through, but Geralt doesn’t seem to notice what’s underneath this front.

“Surely you can find a new bridle for Roach by yourself,” Jaskier waves his hand in dismissal. “You are a big witcher.”

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it, before speaking again. “And the pastry shop you wanted to visit?”

Jaskier thinks of the lemon cakes he’s been itching to try and swallows the yearning in his throat. Gods, being with Geralt all day with not a care in the world, and with the best sweets on the continent. What is he doing turning all this down?

“Well,” he insists, “Better company comes before cake, my dear.”

With that, Geralt lets go of the topic. His amber eyes drop back to the half-finished ale. “Better company. I see…”

“Surely you understand, Geralt.”

“Just—” Geralt purses his lips in an attempt at a smile. “Don’t exaggerate too much.”

Jaskier should feel bad as he walks out the tavern door with a beauty on his arm, he should, but instead, a pang of anger rises in his throat. How many times did Geralt abandon him at the sight of Yennefer in the past few years? How long did he brood on top of that mountain, recounting every bad choice he’d made in his life and decided that it was all Jaskier’s doing?

For once, Jaskier doesn’t want to put Geralt first in everything, waiting for a bone thrown in his direction, and the witcher—this infuriating man—is going to act like a kicked puppy.

Horrified at this burning rage, Jaskier turns only to watch helplessly as Geralt walks down the street in the opposite direction. He’s planted to the spot, unable to chase Geralt down, and clueless as to whether this plan is doing him any favors other than the fleeting satisfaction of getting back at his friend who was at fault.

Was.

Geralt was at fault. Jaskier has forgiven him, or at least, that’s what he said at first sight of his witcher’s travel-weary face back in Oxenfurt.

And yet, he’s punishing him still.

The barmaid is still waiting for Jaskier’s stories, her cheeks still round with a timid blush and her eyes gleaming with expectations.

The colorful adventures taste stale on his tongue and she loses interest too quickly before returning to her post. His mood sours further as the day stretches on.

Jaskier ends up wandering around town without an aim in mind. The only place he’s carefully avoiding is the market, and the stable, and the smith’s shop. Anywhere he might bump into Geralt. When night draws in, a sudden downpour catches him off guard and drenches him from inside out.

Great. Just the perfect ending to the worst—well, the second worst day of Jaskier’s life.

Candles are still lit as Jaskier enters the room. He finds Geralt fast asleep already, and on the table, right next to his writing supplies, is a lemon cake.

It’s drizzled in honey and looks just as enticing as he imagined.

Jaskier picks it up and finds a lump forming in his throat, choking him with guilt. He wants to scream, to let out the frustration at all the mistakes made in the past and haunting him still. He wants to cry. It’s just…

Now, he doesn’t know if he still deserves to.

---

Okay, I know I'm being mean to Geralt here, but don't worry, I’ gonna be mean to Jaskier in the next one ;) 

Also, whatever Jaskier is doing here is very unhealthy. Don't try this at home.

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[aminiatureworld]

Leaden Dreams

Characters: Albedo, Kazuha, Scaramouche, Xiao, gn!reader

Word Count: 1,908

Warnings: Vague depictions of sleep paralysis

Premise: In which the reader experiences sleep paralysis

Author’s Note: First time writing Kazuha! I just finished his story quest today, so I hope that I have an okay grasp on him. Still working on his talking style a bit but I adore his personality.

Also though I experience the part of sleep paralysis where you’re awake but can’t move (can’t recommend the experience) it’s usually during the day so I don’t really experience dreams. As of such if this is inaccurate in any ways I’m very sorry.

Albedo

Albedo knew about sleep paralysis on a theoretically level, knew that it was a phenomenon that caused one’s brain to awaken when the body was still fast asleep. He’d never given the concept much thought, not any more than he might any other bit of science that remained shelved in his mind.

Now that was certainly not the case.

Albedo knew the telltale signs, the small spasms that revealed the battle between your mind and your body. Knowing that you were fighting to move your limbs, open your eyes, relax your jaw, he would always speak first, knowing that you might not immediately respond.

“It’s alright my dear, I’m here. I know it’s frightening, but I promise you’ll be able to move soon. Just focus on one thing, alright? Maybe your eyes this time, since last time you tried moving your tongue. That’s it, just one thing first. It’s always better to start small.”

He wouldn’t move from his sleeping position until you regained control of your body, afraid that a sudden touch might cause you even more distress. Keeping himself carefully pressed into the mattress he didn’t fare lift his head, for fear his face might melt into something frightening. Since he knew he was helpless, his goal became to stop things from getting worse.

The moment you began to move however the alchemist would jump into action. Turning lights on he would pick up the glass of water from his nightstand before gathering you up into his arms, positioning himself so you could listen to his heartbeat as you drank. The first time it had happened he had left the room to get the glass to soon, and the memory of you curled up desperately into the covers still tugged at him.

Albedo would then go through what you had half-dreamed with you, thoroughly debunking all the distortions of your normal life. That shadowed human outside the window was a combination of the balcony and the half opened curtains. The voices were partially his own, partially your brain trying to process your own breathing. The figure hiding behind the door of the hallway was because of the boxed piled along the other side of the wall. The people dancing on the ceiling could be fixed with a repaint. Over and over he would remind you of the fact that you were safe, that your amygdala was simply going into overdrive. Over and over he would thoroughly debunk your nightmares until once more things settled into place, piles of clothing becoming one more fabric, dressers no longer dancing as if possessed.

He would tell you to wake him up if he began falling back to sleep, determined that he should be watching over you to make sure an episode didn’t happen as you were falling back asleep.

In reality though you didn’t mind if he drifted off a little before you. His breathing was a soothing melody, his slow, steady heartbeat a rhythm with which you could anchor yourself. He was staid and sure, and that was something you grasped onto desperately, something you would never stop appreciating.

Soon enough his reasons would soothe your mind, and you’d fall once more asleep.

 Kazuha

The first thing Kazuha always did was pull the blankets over you. If the outside world was threatening you, then he’d simply block it out.

Making a cocoon around the two of you he would begin to tell stories. Fairy tales, things that had happened to him during his travels, anything that you brain might latch onto. The stories were always very short and self-contained, easy to understand, and through your panic addled brain you always seemed to find them.

Sometimes when things were particularly bad he’d softly cradled your hands, careful not to move to quickly or too suddenly in case the sensation caused you to panic even more.

“Our hands fit together so well, don’t you think? I could write a poem about them, or maybe about yours. Maybe you’ll help me with it after this is over? It will be soon dearest, I know it will.”

Sometimes he would sing little songs that he’d picked up. Usually sea shanties, their rhythm helped you, less complex than poetry, more lyrical than the jagged fear that screamed at you.

Kazuha wouldn’t ask you to share immediately. When you finally moved he would first squeeze your hands gently, kissing them before your forehead, asking if it was too hot beneath the blankets, then making sure a light was on if you needed a little fresh air.

He never acknowledged what had happened before you did, but he wouldn’t pretend like it didn’t happen either. Instead he would ask if you wanted to listen to a story or tell one. Whichever you chose he would keep holding your hands, making sure that even when he gave you space there was still something that grounded you.

Sometimes when you cried he would tell a very specific story.

“There once was a warrior, brave of heart. So brave were they that shadows tried to chase them. Someone this noble cannot exist! They cried out. The warrior must be false. We will find their weakness. However no matter how hard they tried this weakness was never found. For the warrior was truly brave in heart and soul.”

Normally you might consider such a story overdone, but in those liminal moments between fear and sleep the story format helped. This was simply a harrowing part of a story, but there would surely be a better end.

 Scaramouche

Scaramouche never thought that he’d ever sleep next to you.

Humans were loud and irritating, and that only became more true when the Harbinger was trying to get a few precious hours of sleep.

However after a particularly bad week he decided that the only solution to your terrible lack of attention was to deal with the matter himself.

He wasn’t necessarily nice about it, grumbling about your poor sleeping habits, saying that this was an awful waste of time. However the moment that panic consumed you, the moment that things started to twist around you, you felt a sudden hand on your arm.

“These idiotic phantoms are nothing. Come on, I know you’re strong enough. How could you ever let something so puny win against you.”

Though you certainly didn’t agree with him about that you had to admit it helped somewhat. Though your initial panic never disappeared, it became easier to climb out of your dreams, to see a light at the end of the endless tunnel of fear.

Every time you jerked once more awake Scaramouche let himself admit some sort of relieved satisfaction.

“You’ve done it again. As you always have. I don’t know why I bother sleeping here when you’re competent enough on your own.”

Nevertheless Scaramouche would always let you embrace him, not commenting on the tears that often accompanied you. Loosely resting his arms on your back he let out exaggerated breaths.

“Will you sleep now?”

It didn’t matter if you said no. Scaramouche would simply mutter something about bad sleep habits, but he would nevertheless stay awake.

He would always fall asleep last, even when his eyes burned slightly and his body called out for rest.

If he was going through all this trouble after all, he might as well see it through to the end.

 Xiao

Xiao saw dreams as extensions of human karma, of human wants and needs and wishes.

If a human dreamt a good wish, it was a revelation of their hearts desire. If they tossed and turned with nightmares it was their fears and shames manifesting. A dream was never just a dream, a shuffle of random events and names and faces. Dreams were alive; dreams had their own wills, all connected to the will of the human they were attached too.

Xiao loathed to see you haunted by your dreams. How could someone so wonderful as your be chased by something so awful? The little that you told your partner caused a distant sort of dread. He could never understand your fear of falling asleep, but he surely felt the dread of whether or not you might be allowed peace.

The threads that surrounded you, that surrounded all humans, always tensed when you were entering an episode. Careful not to leave your side too much Xiao would light a few candles, not too much to be jarring to your eyes, not too little to add to your nightmares. If you could only open your eyes then Xiao would pay even more attention, making sure that the dim lighting didn’t add to your distress, shifting the candles or blowing them out if need be.

Xiao didn’t talk much normally, but he would keep up a steady stream of questions in these moments, even if you couldn’t answer them. Whether you were aware of his presence, whether the window being open was a problem or not, whether you needed more light or less. He would keep these questions in the back of his mind for you to answer once you could again, not only so he could do better next time, but in case the nightmares we too close to be spoken about.

Usually Xiao would ask about them again in the morning, and sometimes you would discuss it then. Though the yaksha knew that nightmares were often the fears that humans accumulated, the curses that attached themselves to unsuspecting victims, he never talked about that aspect with you, indeed when he talked about it at all. Most of the time he would just listen, tracing soft circles along your back and down your arms.

Right after an episode Xiao would make his way over to you. Most of the time he would stay in one place while the episode was happening, near the candles or by the window, making sure he didn’t startle you anymore. Now though he might move every once in a while, or turn your head softly towards him if your eyes became fixated on one spot in the room. Always he’d go to open the window, and the familiarity of the routine became something that lulled you back into a sense of piece.

Not sleeping himself Xiao never told you that you need more rest, that you should go back to sleep. If you needed to stay up the rest of the night so be it, he would be there with you. If you were too tired and found yourself drifting off to sleep he would promise to protect you, to fight off any demons that might be lurking.

Sometimes Xiao feared that his burden of curses exacerbated your sleep paralysis. Those evenings he would wait for you to sleep before slipping away. Always he would leave his sleeve and his mask, making sure that if you woke up you would still have something of his presence to comfort or protect yourself with. Those nights he would stare out into Liyue and think about all the things that he carried with him, all the things that you did too.

Regardless of those nights he would be there in the morning.

“Did you sleep well afterwards?” He would always ask. Regardless of your answer, which he would surely pay attention to after his second question, he would stare into your eyes.

“Do you think things would be easier without my presence?”

Always you said no.

[givemethatgold]

Fix’er Upper Pt. 3

Pairing: Eventual Frankie Morales x F!Reader Warnings: Clumsy injury, more stupid fighting Length: 2.5k Notes: If these two dummies could have one (1) adult conversation they’d be in bed together by now. Instead, we get this! *waves around vaguely*

PART ONE, TWO

Money was tight. You had been trying to ignore the dwindling stack of cash, telling yourself that you didn’t actually need to fix the cracked drywall, replace the old oven, or fill in the missing patches of shingles. 

That ignorance had finally come to bite you in the butt. You were rudely woken at three a.m. to the clap of thunder and the pat-pat-pat of rain hitting the house. You loved storms, the excitement of the lighting, and how fresh the air smelled once the rain had passed. 

You rolled over onto your back so you could watch the lightning flashing between the cracks of your curtains. A tap on your forehead quickly destroyed the excitement you were feeling. The wet ‘splat’ was quickly followed by another, and another, and before you were able to scramble up and search for the closest thing resembling a bucket, it had turned into a steady stream.

“Fuuuuuuuck!”

The next morning, the sun rose and shed its light upon a beautiful scene. The leaves, now free from dust, were beginning to turn, the grass glimmered with raindrops, and the sky was clear. You, on the other hand, were a verifiable disaster. 

Hair unkempt, heavy bags under your eyes, and wearing the first items of clothing you could find in your scramble last night. Your exhaustion was so complete, it hadn’t even dawned on you to change or freshen up a bit before going out into the public eye. All you could focus on was getting to Hank’s Hardware and buying all the shingles you could get your hands on.

Once again, however, you were harshly reminded of your dwindling savings and just how expensive fixing up a house could be. The owner, Allan if you remembered correctly, had shown you the right size and style for your home’s roof and you nearly choked at the price.

“You know,” he had said gently, “we do have the option of a payment plan. I don’t let just anyone use it either. It’s for trusted customers. I have a good gut on who I can trust.”

“Really?” You asked, feeling a little pathetic while also knowing now was not the time to let pride ruin such a good thing. “And, um, what does your gut tell you about me?”

“Welllll,” he smiled, hooking his thumbs into his suspenders and leaning back a little to size you up. “You’re hard-working, feel like you have something to prove, won’t back down from a challenge, and are in way over your head with that damn old house.”

“Oh.”

“No offense, ma’am! Sometimes I forget myself and talk to strangers the same way I’d talk to my friends.” He patted your forearm gently then hooked it back into his suspenders, pretending he didn’t notice you jumping at the physical contact. “But it’s true. No denying you won’t be able to shingle all by yourself. I’d offer, but I’m in no shape to be climbing up roofs.”

“That’s very sweet of you, truly. But I’ll manage! I doubt I could afford a handyman, so it’ll be me and my stubborn self scrambling around up there.” You joked, but it fell a little flat since the both of you knew it was the truth.

“I’ve got an idea...” Hank trailed off, his gaze searching around by the till. “Maybe you two can help each other out?” He fiddled at the computer for a minute, then grabbed a flyer from the corkboard mounted behind the counter before handing you two pieces of paper. One was a receipt of what you owed him after this latest excursion and a detailed timeline of when small payments could be made. 

Glancing up at him, you gave him a watery smile and thanked him for being so kind. Allan waved you off and pointed to the second paper.

‘Help Wanted’ it read, ‘Morales Acres. Light physical labour, quiet environment, rate of pay dependent on quality of work.’

“So friendly and welcoming,” you murmured, sarcastically, under your breath. Not quietly enough though because Allan snorted out a laugh and agreed that the ad was worded very abruptly. However, he vetted for the owner of the farm and suggested you head over to see if he would be willing to trade labour for labour.

Or at the very least, you thought, pay you so you can afford a roofer.

Following the directions Allan had provided for you, you quickly found Morales Acres. Surprisingly, it was a very short distance from your own home, making you wonder if the owner had been one of the people to drop by during your first weeks here.

The driveway was a beautiful, winding drive. The view of the farm was obscured by thickets of trees on either side of the road but you managed to catch glimpses of a pond and a few bales of hay before rounding a bend and driving into the yard.

A small gasp left your lips at the sight. It was picturesque! Something out of a travel magazine, or on every city girl’s Pinterest board. The driveway came to an end in front of a statuesque barn painted in the classic red and white, stone walls cordoned off certain areas that, from where you sat, looked like they could be used to house sheep or hens. A few small sheds were lined up along the other edge of the yard but the main attraction was the neatly lined rows of apple trees all heavy with fruit.

Climbing out of the cab, you slowly made your way into the yard with your mouth hanging open dumbly. It was just so peaceful here and it was obvious that the owner cared deeply for the property. You were enchanted and fell immediately in love.

“You must be the help Allan called to say he was sending over,” a warm voice rang out.

Looking around for the source your gaze widened, then immediately hardened, when you caught sight of who was talking to you.

“You!”

“You?!”

To say it had been a smooth business agreement would be a total lie. You and Market Asshole, Frankie you reminded yourself to call him, had bickered back and forth for the better part of an hour before shaking hands. Surprisingly, you had both argued more for the other person’s benefit, something you had been mulling over since.

If this guy was such an ass, why was he also acting like his help with your renovations wouldn’t be worth as much as you picking apples? You knew your presence disturbed his peace, and that you weren’t as strong as he might have hoped his helper would be, and he still hadn’t trusted you with all the workings of his orchard. 

So, while you weren’t going to argue anymore, you knew you were getting the better end of the deal: you help him gather his harvest and get it safely stored in the barn, then he spends the same amount of hours helping you. While the weather during September was prone to drizzle, you had convinced him that a tarp thrown over the baldest patches of roof would be fine and that the apples couldn’t wait. 

He had grumpily conceded your point but had sworn that as soon as the last of the fruit was picked he’d be over to do a proper job of it. So continued the uneasy truce between the two of you for the past four weeks. The first week was the hardest as your hands, unaccustomed to work, blistered, and your muscles ached from sudden use. You had initially tried to pass the time by making conversation but you got the hint and stayed quiet once Frankie started choosing trees farther and farther from yours.

Slowly, however, the blisters healed and gave way to callouses. Your muscles became accustomed to the work and you were able to carry twice the amount as you had started off with. Your home could now boast electricity and running water everywhere it should be, and the pile of discarded furniture had been reduced to ash by a spectacular bonfire which Jacquie and her family had joined you in admiring.

Today started off as a normal day. You showed up for harvesting at the break of dawn, having discovered you much preferred the cool morning air over being up on a ladder with the midday sun beating down on you. The trees were obscured by a low fog that had yet to burn up, but you knew what section you needed to start on. 

Enjoying the way the fog enveloped you, making you feel like you were in a magical world, you began to hum and your steps took on a dreamy dance-like quality. You had never taken lessons or had even been allowed to make such a spectacle of yourself while living with Brad but now you felt free enough to spin, twirl, and glide. Overcome with the joy your freedom gave you, you began to belt out “These Are a Few of my Favourite Things”, The Sound of Music having been played on repeat when you were a child. 

Once you reached the ladder, you hoisted the basket onto your back and continued to sing whatever songs you could remember while you worked. A particularly boisterous rendition of “Do Re Mi” had you flinging your arm out wide and leaning back on the ladder for a dramatic finish.

The apples threw you off balance. 

With a screech, you fell backward, managing to twist yourself around to land awkwardly on your hands and knees instead of on the basket of apples strapped to your back. You seemed to have come away unscathed, with just scratched knees and a throbbing in one wrist. Thankfully it wasn’t your dominant hand.

“Whoa!” Frankie called out, catching sight of you on the ground with the ladder tipped on its side, “Everything okay? Are you okay?”

Coming to a skidding stop next to you, he grasped the basket and slipped it off your back with ease. 

You took a few deep breaths and nodded. “Fine! Fine, just bruised knees and ego...” you assured him.

“What were you thinking?!” He tore into you, “You could have broken your neck! Or ruined a whole barrel of apples! Then what would I do?! This job doesn’t come with health insurance for Christ's sakes!” Running his hands through his curly, brown hair he let out a huff of air and walked over to where your ladder lay on the ground.

“Un-be-fucking-lievable!” You called out, incredulously. While trying to get to your feet, to march over and wag your finger in his face, you put too much pressure on your injured wrist that caused pain to scream down your arm.

You managed to mask the cry of pain as a cry of frustration and got to your feet. Surreptitiously cradling your hand against your chest, you grabbed another basket and walked past Frankie to start climbing the ladder again. Looking at the ground so he wouldn’t see the tears of pain in your eyes, you mumbled, “I’ll be more careful, alright? I’m sorry.”

Stopping your ascent with a hand on your arm he stuttered out what might have been the beginning of an apology but he couldn’t quite seem to put the right words together so he just cleared his throat.

“Just...” he said in a much softer tone, “just be more careful. Okay? I can’t lose my best worker.” 

The lame joke made you smile despite yourself. 

“Employee of the month,” you replied in a dry tone, “hurrah.” 

You shared wry smiles while a silent apology passed between the two of you. His dark brown eyes held a warmth to them you had never noticed before. Their hue reminding you of every tree in the orchard from the early light to the sunset, golden flecks reminiscent of the sun. His face, weathered from so much time spent outdoors, was marked with laugh lines, worry lines, and a small scar gracing his left cheek. 

Your eyes wandered past the scar to note how long his scruffy facial hair had grown and how it had started to obscure those pleasantly pouty lips. 

Then, with a start, you realized you were staring at this infuriating man’s lips like a hormonal teenager. With an embarrassed squeak, you quickly scurried up the ladder, hooking your elbow around each rung to avoid any more pressure on your wrist.

To say Frankie was coping well with having someone around would be a gross overstatement. 

It’s not that he didn’t like the company or wanted to be alone. The problem was that he was starting to like her company too much, to care too much. And caring too much had been the root cause of all Frankie’s sorrows.

First, there had been his Dad, trying to impress the man who never even wanted kids. Then the force, always feeling like he needed to prove himself and desperate for praise. After that was his wife, ex-wife, and trying to be someone he wasn’t so she would stay interested and in love. The pressure created by caring about these people and the expectations they had for him drove him to abuse drugs. Then his friends came calling and Frankie went against his gut because they had cared so deeply about something and he had cared deeply for them.

His wife, his kid, his family, his job, his friends. He had cared more than they did and he had come away worse off. At least now he was clean and sober, and was very aware of the irony of him now making and selling an alcoholic drink.

No, it was best to stay alone. He loved too freely and put too much stock in being loved back and every. single. time. it hurt him.

So, he closed himself off from you. Initially, he didn’t think it was going to be an issue, especially considering how you two had met. But then he found himself smiling at your stories, idly leaning against a branch so he could watch your graceful moments. He hated watching you leave, knowing you were going home to that piece of shit house that he should really be fixing up for you.

He recognized the signs and nipped them in the bud; working farther away, replying to questions with the fewest possible words, focusing purely on work, and maintaining a professional relationship. It pained him to push you away but deep down he knew it was best for the both of you.

Which brings him back to this moment.

Frankie was too stunned to notice your awkward climb up the ladder. Standing there, dumbly, for another few seconds. Wondering, all the way back to the idling tractor, what the hell had just happened.

One minute he was just driving the tractor minding his own business and the next he was having a mild heart attack after seeing his only worker laying limp on the ground. Then, after arguing like usual, you had shared a...a moment and stared at his mouth almost long enough to tempt him to use it.

Part Four

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@rebelliouscat @pedro4ever @speakerforthedead0 @yespolkadotkitty @ilikechocolatemilkh @weirdowithnobeardo @pedro-pastel @disgruntledspacedad @a-skov @trash-dino-5000 @reader-s-cantina

[snackhobi]

pairing: jungkook x (gender neutral) reader / word count: 20k / genre: fluff (author!reader, florist!jungkook)

summary: “You’re in love and you didn’t tell me?” Jimin sounds affronted. “Who is it? Are they cute? Where are you hiding them? I knew you were lying about those flowers, you lying liar.” or: the story of how you meet a pretty florist with soft hands and warm eyes, how he mends your broken heart, and how he helps you realise some other things along the way.

warnings: use of a few curse words, reader is self-deprecating and suffering from heartache towards the beginning (v mildly angsty ig? but dw it passes), but otherwise this is a Very Soft fic!

--

“It’s time to get up.”

“It absolutely is not.” Your voice is muffled under a layer of pillows and blankets, material pressing down on your body and head, covering you. A protective cocoon. “I’ve become one with my duvet and we shall never be parted.”

You yelp when the blanket is ruthlessly ripped from you. Your curtains have been thrown open and you can feel how the sun is streaming in through your windows, warming your skin, even if you can’t see it; there’s a particularly fluffy pillow smothering your face right now to keep the world outside at bay.

“This has to be against the Geneva convention,” you whine as your collection of pillows is similarly stripped from the bed, leaving you entirely bereft from their comfort and protection. You curl into a tight ball around your Pusheen cushion and try to protect her from Jimin’s grasping fingers— your final bastion of defence against him. “No! Not Pusheen! Please! Take me instead!”

Jimin rolls his eyes before stealing Pusheen right from your arms, ignoring your dramatic sob as she’s pulled from your desperate hands. He tucks the plush grey cat under his arm before fixing you with a stern gaze. “I said it’s time to get up,” he repeats, ignoring the chaos of pillows and blankets and toys now littered around him. “You know the drill, Y/n.”

You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs with air before letting out a long, weary sigh. All your theatrics disappear with your escaping breath, strength seeping out of you. “A week of wallowing,” you say in a small voice, eyes squeezing shut. “I know.”

You don’t have to look up at Jimin to know what expression is on his face right now. You feel the mattress dip and then soft fingers are gently stroking the hair out of your face. “A week and then we get up.” His voice is soft as he repeats the mantra.

Your cheek drags across the cotton of your sheets as you open your eyes and turn your head into the hand that Jimin’s still drawing down your face. “You’ve always been better at getting back on your feet than me,” you say, and Jimin affectionately pats your cheek.

“You’re being melodramatic,” he says kindly. “You’ve seen me at my worst and you know that’s not true. I’m only good at getting back on my feet because I have you to lift me up, and I’m here for you too.”

“Can I have Pusheen back?” You sound hopeful as you pout at him, pushing your bottom lip out.

“You can have her back once you’ve showered and had breakfast,” Jimin says. 

Your limbs are leaden weights as you drag yourself out of bed. The cold water of your shower shocks some life back into them, and you’re almost back to your regular self once you pull yourself from the bathroom, thoroughly scrubbed and refreshed. Jimin greets you with a fruit smoothie bowl, the most wholesome meal you’ve had in the past week; it’s infinitely healthier than the ice cream and snacks and junk food you’ve been shovelling into your mouth.

“I didn’t realise I had half this stuff in the fridge.” You use your spoon to swirl the oats and fruit into the yoghurt, muddying the pretty rippled effect Jimin had created with it. “I’m guessing you brought it with you?”

Jimin is eating eagerly from his own bowl and swallows down a spoonful of banana and berries before he responds. “No, it was already in there, actually,” he says. 

“Oh, yeah.” Your free hand goes down to Pusheen, who’s safely in your lap, and you dig your fingers into her soft velvet skin. “Of course.”

Your face is twisted into a wince as you look down and continue to knead the cushion on your knees. Seokjin loves fresh produce, taking you to the farmer’s market for organic strawberries and blueberries and raspberries, lifting them up for you to breathe in their bright scent before laughing at how you go cross eyed at how close he brings them to your face. Your fridge must still be full of these reminders of him, food you’d bought for him, things he’d made for you.

“Well!” Jimin’s voice is loud and bright, cutting through your thoughts with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. “You better finish up— we’re going out soon and you’ll need all the energy for today!”

You’re immediately on guard, eyes narrowing at him. “Going out where?”

“Shopping, duh,” he says, raising his eyebrows at you. “You said you’d come with me and Namjoon to pick out stuff for our new apartment, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” It’s only been a week and it’s like you’ve forgotten that the world is still moving on around you, taking no notice of how your own world has been upheaved and irreparably fragmented. You know Jimin is being cheery and upbeat in an attempt to distract you from this, and it’s working, but it’s also highlighting exactly how much you’ve been wallowing. You normally never would have forgotten. “Alright, let me finish up and get my shit together and then we can go.”

Getting your shit together takes longer than it should. You have to wade through the piles of blankets on the floor to get to your wardrobe, and the desk in your office is in similar disarray, notes and stationery strewn across its surface from your week long stint of wallowing and writing about said wallowing. 

You’d never planned on the romance in a novel about magic in the modern world to be so depressing, but hey. They always say write what you know and all you know right now is heartbreak.

(“I’m sorry. I just… don’t feel the same.” Jaerim’s voice is soft and gentle, even now, even as he’s breaking Lily’s heart, so tender as it falls apart in his hands. “You’ll always be my best friend, Lily, but nothing more.”

Lily’s smile is pained. “I know,” she says, her own voice small and weak. “I know. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. I— I had to tell you or I felt like it was going to burst out of me. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll always love you, Lily.” Jaerim sounds sorrowful. “But not the way you want.”

Why had she ever expected anything different?)

You’ve been feeding all of your sadness and heartbreak into your most recent heroine, using your latest novel as a way of catharsis, but the problem is that your stories always have happy endings. Right now Lily may be heartbroken after a failed confession, but at the end of the story she’s going to be happy. You, however, will still be sad and lonely once the book is finished and for all that you project your hopes and wishes onto your main characters, you know your own story will never go so smoothly— real life is never as neat as that.

You pause when you catch sight of one of the Polaroids scattered on your keyboard. Seokjin’s beautiful skin is washed out and there's a glint of red in his eyes from the bright flash of your camera; it's a terrible photo and the focus is all wrong, but he still looks radiant as he smiles at you, ever beautiful. 

The heroes you write are soft and kind and lovely; fierce and strong and admirable; talented and smart and impressive. You, however, are clownish and sarcastic and nonsensical. Just an absolute mess of rough edges and endlessly tangled thoughts. Unwanted. Undesirable. Unlovable.

(No wonder Jin— bright, brilliant, beautiful Jin— doesn’t love you back.)

You swallow and steel yourself before opening the top drawer of your desk to sweep all the littered bits and pieces of your life into it before slamming it shut, trying to ignore how metaphorically fitting it is, and then grab what you came here for in the first place: your camera. You loop the strap of the Polaroid around your neck so that you’re ready for the day ahead. 

You know that Jimin thinks you should just stick to using your phone, considering the piles of film you get through, but there’s something about the whole instant photo process that just works for you. Maybe it’s just a writer/artist thing. Maybe it’s just a you thing. Either way, you like to take your camera everywhere so that you can take photos of things that inspire you and incorporate them into scenes of your stories.

(You have so many photos of Seokjin, and he’s reflected in so many parts of your books— from the jokes that characters tell, to things they eat, to hobbies they have. You may not have ever been so transparent as to project him directly onto the love interests of your main characters before now, but he’s ever present in other ways. There's a part of him in every thing you’ve ever written, even before you fell for him.)

(Your love for him must have been obvious from the start, and yet he’d never mentioned it at all.)

(What made you think it would be a good idea to confess?)

“Y/n?”

You look up from where you’ve been staring at the same bowl for the past three minutes, the leaf pattern stamped into its edge blurring together into eyes that are staring back at you. “Huh? Yeah? What?”

Over Jimin’s shoulder you can see Namjoon trailing around the small store, staring at some pretty wall-hangings with appreciative eyes. For all that Jimin had claimed to be concerned about his boyfriend’s taste in decor, they’ve asked for very little input from you, so you’ve been left alone to zone out for most of the morning and afternoon. 

“I was saying Joonie has a suit fitting he needs to get to, so we were going to get that done before lunch,” Jimin says. “You’re welcome to come along as well if you want?”

“So I can watch someone ask your boyfriend which side his penis hangs down so they can tailor his slacks accordingly? I think I’m good.”

You sound almost like your usual self which is why you think Jimin lets this pass without comment— you’re very happy being independent but it’s true that you’re somewhat more delicate than usual so you understand Jimin’s worry.

“I’ll drop you a message when we’re done.” Jimin smiles at you. Behind him, Namjoon picks up a large ceramic crab, only to immediately drop it onto an incredibly fluffy shag carpet— which fortunately saves it from breaking. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Eh, take your time.” You keep hold of Jimin’s attention as Namjoon sheepishly attempts to pick up the crab, only to immediately drop it back onto the rug. “I haven’t been out for a while so I could do with a walk in the fresh air and sunshine. I’m sort of like a dog. Or a plant, I guess. Just with slightly more complex emotions.”

Namjoon has just put the crab back into place by the time Jimin turns around, though his hand lingers on it. “Baby, can we—?”

“You’ve already filled the quota when it comes to crab-themed decorations, Joonie,” Jimin interrupts.

When Namjoon looks at you with imploring eyes, you raise both your hands and step backwards. “Don’t involve me, I’m just an innocent bystander,” you say, before escaping so that Namjoon can (unsuccessfully) try to persuade Jimin to up the amount of sea-life themed decor allowed in their new home.

This part of the city isn’t one you get to often, but it’s really beautiful. You know Namjoon likes it around here, near the river, because there are a lot more offbeat and avant-garde shops than you’d find more centrally, a warren of curiosities and pretty places around each corner. You pass by shops selling antiques, fabric, jewellery; you pause to take photos of the eye-catching doorways into each of the shops, the mismatched bunting fluttering overhead, the utterly eclectic nature of it all. 

You pass by a tiny baking shop and pause in your tracks, peering into the window at a collection of rolling pins— the wood is embossed with different designs that get pressed into the pastry when it’s rolled out, all sorts of pretty patterns on display.

Jin would love these, you think, and then you tear your eyes away.

Stupid. 

You continue to wander through the maze of shops but now you’ve sunk into your own thoughts. Kim Seokjin. A close friend whom you’d been harbouring feelings for, for so long now; it had been getting so hard to try and keep that love at bay, to try and shove it down inside you, keep it hidden and safe. But it had been bleeding out of you at every turn, in the way you moved and spoke and wrote, every sharp edge of you softened by your tenderness for him, impossible to ignore.

And so you’d finally let go. You’d let it out into the world, spoken the words you’d been holding onto for so long— and for a moment, just a moment, you’d had hope. Jin is bright and kind and lovely to everyone, but surely what the two of you had was a little more, a little different; all those hours spent together, the friendship you’d built, the language you’d created with each other of jokes and references that other people didn't understand. You’d thought it was something more.

You’d thought that maybe you could get your storybook ending. That maybe, for once, rather than having to imagine a mutual love and pouring that quiet desire into your books, it could be real— that the cheesy, embarrassing daydreams you’d always kept to yourself and only expressed through your writing could finally come true. 

But no. Jin only loves you as a friend. You know he still considers you a friend, even now, for all that you’ve ruined things by opening your big dumb stupid idiot mouth; you’ve spent a week wallowing after his gentle rejection but you know he’ll still be waiting for you once you come back to yourself. 

You’re just not sure how long that’ll take.

You’re finally pulled out of your reverie when a burst of colour catches your eye. There’s a soft blue bicycle which has been adorned with flowers and trailing leaves, part of a display in the front of a store that’s brimming with blooms, buckets set up in a cascading rainbow of colours. The windows are similarly full of plants, all enjoying the sunshine of the afternoon. Your eyes trail across the flourishing bouquets and then up to the sign, lovely and pretty, in what seems to be a hand-painted cursive: Spring Day.

You have a single, tiny cactus in your office— the only thing you trust yourself to keep alive— but screw it. You’re itching to buy something for yourself and everything seems so pretty in here. You might just buy yourself a fuck-off huge arrangement of flowers, as a sort of metaphor for the death of the hope you’d held in your chest, that your love for Seokjin might be returned. 

That ship has sailed. You’ve cast it off from the shore and set it ablaze. You’re not sure they had bouquets at Viking burials, but it’s the 21st century now. You think you’re allowed to mix it up a bit.

A bell lets out a tiny, crystalline tinkle as you swing the door open, announcing your presence to anyone inside. The front counter is covered in plants, some larger, some smaller, with a few pots of flowers that you would be hard-pressed to name; there’s a glass bowl of water, too, that has unlit rose shaped candles floating in it. Cute.

You peer behind the large leaves of a ficus plant to see if there’s anyone behind the counter but it looks deserted. The only evidence that someone has been here is the book that’s open and resting face down on the wicker chair there— The Language of Flowers, okay, that makes sense, you guess. You take a sneaky photo of the set-up, something about it resonating in your chest; although there’s no one here right now their presence is still undeniable. It’s poetic, in a way. You love visual poetry.

You wave the photo about in the air to help it develop as you make your way towards the back of the shop. Spring Day seems surprisingly big, extending back farther than you had initially thought. It’s hard to gauge the actual size, with displays of flowers and plants everywhere and even hanging from the ceiling above. You meander through the store and pause to touch a hanging glass planter, which slowly spins and scatters light across you. It’s like every spare inch inside is covered, but somehow it doesn’t feel chaotic. It’s so pretty and peaceful here.

There’s clearly some sort of order to things even if you can’t tell what it is. Each display is labelled with the names of the plants and how to look after them, but just as you’re leaning forwards to read one, a noise catches your attention. You pause and tilt your head. Drifting closer to the source of the sound, you realise that it’s someone singing, a soft melody that you don’t recognise. You find that you step lightly, almost enraptured, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment with heavy footfall as you step into a greenhouse; you round the corner to find who’s singing and stop in your tracks. 

There’s a pretty doe-eyed boy bent over a selection of blooms that he’s watering, white and yellow and purple and pink flowers softly trembling at the touch of the drizzle that runs over them, and it almost seems like they’ve turned towards the lilting tones that slip from his lips. You watch as he draws the watering can in a sweeping arc, the motion causing his earrings to move, catching your attention when the sunlight cascading in through the glass of the greenhouse shines off the glinting silver; his hair hangs a little in his eyes, eyelashes fanned across his cheek as he keeps his attention cast downwards, smiling at the flowers on display near his feet.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and you can see the definition of his arms, the flex of his muscles under a tattoo as he moves the heavy watering can without effort— and yet he looks like he belongs here, surrounded by flowers and plants and sunlight, soft and neat in his loose shirt, narrow waist cinched in by the ties of his apron. He turns the watering can a little further and you can see that the tattoo looks like a lily, petals unfurled over the soft skin of his inner arm.

You love visual poetry. And this man is poetry in motion.

It seems like he’s finished watering the flowers because he straightens up with a smile, song finally coming to an end. “All done,” he says to them in a quiet voice, and then he finally looks up.

He immediately startles when he sees you, water sloshing audibly in the watering can in his hands. You jump too, surprised at his surprise, the two of you like startled rabbits when you spot each other. Skittering around and trying to recatch your balance.

“Sorry, sorry!” You lift your hands in apology, holding them in front of your face as you wince. “I didn’t want to interrupt, you seemed really focused!”

The florist is blushing. He looks absolutely mortified, a pink flush stealing across his cheeks and the tips of his ears, betraying his embarrassment. “I, uh. It’s fine!” He stammers. “I wasn’t busy. Um. Can I help you?”

Your hands fall back to your sides, your heart immediately going out to this poor boy, who looks like he wants the ground to swallow him up. “I was just looking around, actually, when I heard you singing,” you say. “I didn’t mean to be like— a sort of weird voyeur, I guess? Sorry. Your voice is lovely, by the way.”

The flush has crawled down his neck. “Um, thank you?” You get the feeling he’s only saying this because you’re a customer, and if this were any other circumstance, he would have turned tail and bolted by now. Unfortunately he’s trapped by the fact he works in a retail job and he can’t escape. He shuffles a little from foot to foot as he resolutely avoids your gaze.

You take pity on him. What can you ask to change the topic? Hm. “Can you give me some advice about plants, actually?”

This seems to be the right thing to say. He carefully sets the watering can down, fingers plucking at the ties of his apron as he readjusts them, but he seems a bit more comfortable now that you’ve moved away from complimenting him and onto work related talk. “Sure,” he says. “What would you like to know?”

“I was wondering what sort of plant would be good for someone who’s only good with cactuses. I mean cacti,” you correct yourself. “I’d like something different, but I’m worried about killing it if I forget to water it. You know, the bane of every novice gardener’s existence— their own forgetfulness and ignorance. Of which I have a lot. I am spectacularly ignorant.”

The florist blinks but then he gives you a little smile, finally glancing at you. His eyes are so lovely and deep, sunshine refracting from the greenhouse reflected in his eyes, points of brightness against that endless, warm brown. “I think everyone is guilty of under-watering plants,” he says, apparently unperturbed by how unsuitable you are to be a plant parent. “I think a peace lily might suit you. Would you like to come have a look and see if you’d like one?”

A peace lily. Lily. The name of your most recent novel’s heroine. How weirdly apt. “Sure, I’d love to see the lilies.”

As you follow him you notice that there’s still a little tinge of pink on the back of his neck, evidence of how he must feel embarrassed at being caught singing and talking to plants. You find it endearing, actually, but you’re not about to say this to a stranger, especially as he clearly wants this entire interaction over and done with as quickly as possible.

The peace lily turns out to be a pretty white flower, emerald green foliage curling out from the simple unglazed pot the florist hands over to you with an infinite amount of care. He holds it delicately— it looks so small in his careful hands— and makes sure you’re fully supporting its weight before he finally lets it go. Your fingers brush his as he does and you notice how he draws back immediately, shy.

“You don’t have to water her regularly, you can just touch the soil to see if it’s moist and give it a little top up if it’s not. Even if you forget, as long as you water her when she starts to droop a little she’ll be fine. Just make sure she gets a little sunlight and you wipe down her leaves once or twice a year so dust doesn’t stop her from getting enough light, and you’re good to go.” He’s smiling, but you notice he’s still looking away from you, resolutely staring at the plant in your hands instead. “Peace lilies are incredibly forgiving.”

“Oh, that’s good, I’ll probably be asking for a lot of forgiveness,” you say. “I can guarantee I’ll forget to water her so it’s good to know she can take it.”

When you refer to the plant as ‘her’ and ‘she’— just like the florist has been— it seems like he only just notices that he’s been doing that. He looks a little embarrassed, yet again. “She’ll be— I mean, it’ll be fine, I’m sure,” he says.

“I promise I’ll do my best to look after her.” You tighten your grip protectively around your newly adopted plant. “I’d take a bullet for her.”

The florist lets out a little laugh, revealing a slip of his white teeth before his mouth clicks shut. He looks almost surprised at the fact he’d let out a chuckle and tries to cover it up with a cough. “Hopefully you won’t have to.”

You watch as he draws a ribbon around the pot, looping it against the patterned, unglazed ceramic before tying it into a neat bow. His hands are sure and his motions are practiced, fingers deft as he finishes the knot and tucks a business card into the bag alongside your plant. You can’t help but watch him, magnetised— he’s absolutely fascinating. Cute and soft, but with an undeniable strength to him, underlying each of his movements, almost hidden under the clothes that envelop him.

“Is there anything else I could help you with today?”

He’s blinking at you with those large, pretty eyes. His mouth is still a little open and you can’t help but reminded of—

“What song were you singing earlier? It was so lovely, but I didn’t recognise it.” You want to find that song immediately and keep it close forever, listen to it on a loop, even if it won’t be the same if it’s not being sung in the dulcet tones of this pretty florist. It’s such a beautiful song, whatever it is.

His mouth snaps shut again and the blush returns full force. “Nothing,” he squeaks. “It’s nothing.”

You squint at him. “Is ‘Nothing’ the name of the song?”

“No! It’s. Um. I mean, it doesn’t have a name yet.” His voice is so high right now. You pause before you light up, eyes widening.

“Wait, are you saying it’s your own song? You wrote it? Oh, wow! That’s so cool,” you say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I didn’t know. My bad. Totally understand wanting to keep your work private.” You quirk a smile at him. He doesn't know that you're a writer, one who publishes under a pseudonym for privacy; only your close friends know the truth. You totally get it. “Guess you probably want me to pay so I can get out of your hair now, huh?”

“N-no, it’s fine,” the florist stammers. He’s still so polite, even when he’s obviously flustered.

“Ah, you don’t have to be polite just because I’m a paying customer.” You wave your hand dismissively. Before taking off as an author you’d worked back-to-back retail jobs and it had sucked. “I’m being a pain, I know. How much do I owe you?”

He stays silent as you give him money and he hands over the change, dropping the coins into your outstretched hand. You give him one last smile before lifting your bag from the counter and turning to go, finally leaving this poor man in peace. He must be glad to see the back of you.

But then.

“Magic Shop.” His voice is quiet from behind you.

“Hm?” You pause and glance over your shoulder, confused. “Pardon?”

The handsome florist is looking down at the counter, wrapping an offcut of ribbon around one of his fingers, staring down at it as he does. “Magic Shop,” he repeats, a little louder. He tightens the loop of ribbon around his finger. “The song. I was thinking of calling it that.”

“Oh.” You continue to look at him for a few moments longer before a wide smile crosses over your face. “That’s a really beautiful name for a really beautiful song.”

He glances up from where he’s been staring at the end of his finger flush deep red, almost purple; the ribbon goes lax in his loosening hold and blood rushes back into his fingertip. “Thank you,” he says, bashful as he smiles back at you. “I’m glad you liked it.” 

--

The peace lily takes pride of place on your desk once you’ve cleared it of the crap you’ve let pile up over the past week. She watches as you bend over your keyboard and mutter to yourself, pruning back a lot of the raw hopelessness of your most recently written passages before starting a new chapter.

Lily’s escaped to the neighbouring city to get away from Jaerim and her broken heart. She gets lost as she’s wandering through this new, mysterious place, trapped in a maze of alleyways before she stumbles across a mysterious building with roses climbing up the trellis by the door. The front garden is full of flowers and tended by the prettiest woman she’s ever seen, eyes wide and dark as she startles at Lily’s sudden appearance over the small stone wall. Lily might not know it now but she’s just met someone important and special, a future friend: Yunhee, a witch who can speak to plants and sells dried bundles of herbs and flowers and spells to anyone who finds her.

It’s cheesy and cliché and you know it.

“It’s cheesy and cliché but it’s cute!” Your agent, Hoseok, is as upbeat as always, and he seems genuinely onboard with the snippet you’ve just sent him. “Especially after how sad the chapters were before this one. I think it’s a nice change of pace, considering how heavy your last novel was too.”

“Haha, yeah,” you say. 

Hoseok has no idea about your botched confession to Seokjin and how it had fuelled the subsequent heartbreak you’d put Lily through; you’d put your heroine through the wringer to let all your feelings out, because if you have to suffer, she does too. Especially if she’s going to get a happy ending after all of it. Lucky her. 

“Your fans will love it.” Hoseok continues, oblivious. “Where did the inspiration suddenly come from, though? I thought you said you were struggling with where to go with this one.”

“I don’t know really.” You sound absent as you stare at the neatly tied ribbon that’s still affixed around your lily’s pot, Spring Day’s business card still nestled into it. “It just came to me, I guess.”

You have to resist the instinct to take a photo of the peace lily to ask Seokjin what he’d name her. (He’s always so good with names.)

You know you’ll have to see him eventually. That’s the problem when all your friends are friends with each other; it might still be a while off but once Jimin and Namjoon have moved into their apartment and decorated it, they’ll hold a housewarming party and everyone will be invited. You can’t avoid Jin forever. You don’t want to, either, but right now you still feel like your heart is an open wound, and you need to give it time. Seeing him right now will just peel back the bandage you’ve tried to lay across your weeping heart to try and hold it together until it heals.

And you still feel awkward as fuck, too. Rejection hurts but it’s also embarrassing. Struggling through ten layers of repression to be sincere with someone and open yourself to pain, only to be let down? Ugh. Awful. Terrible. Never again. You’re gonna stick with repression from now on and just live vicariously through the stories you write. It might be lonely but at least you can keep your heart safe. (Not that anyone wants your heart, anyway.)

You start to play music to your plants. You can’t sing as well as the florist, but at least your lily and cactus can benefit from the sound of music, even if you’re probably off-key when you sing along to the soft songs you choose for them. 

(“Plants grow better when they’re spoken to.”

“What? Really?”

“Really,” Yunhee says with a small smile, fingers curling tenderly around the petals of the deep red tulip. “They respond to love and affection just like we do.”

Lily stares at the bloom and watches how the witch touches it so gently— with so much love and affection— and for a second she wishes was a flower, too.)

You have very little faith in your abilities to keep a plant alive, but your peace lily seems to flourish under your care. It’s only one plant but alongside your cactus it seems to bring light and life to your office, and there’s a bubbling sense of satisfaction in your chest each time you see them, still alive despite your ineptitude. It’s a brief distraction from the lingering sadness that still dogs your heels, opening up each time you find yourself thinking of Seokjin before having to quiet those thoughts.

The lily and cactus are fine but it doesn’t take long before you find yourself wanting to add more members to your green coterie. Plus, you never did buy that fuck-off huge bouquet, so maybe you’ll treat yourself to one this time around.

When you step into Spring Day you’re greeted by the sight of someone actually behind the counter today, barely visible behind the large leaves of the ficus plant; when the bell rings they pop up and it’s the same florist as before, eyes wide as he peeps over the counter and only growing wider when he spots who it is.

“Hi,” he says. He’s not as squeaky as he was last time but he still seems a little flustered at your appearance, fumbling with The Language of Flowers as he drops the book onto the chair and stands up straight; his hoop earrings have small chains today and they’re jostled by the motion. He looks away from you to brush his apron down. He’s wearing a loose button-up underneath it, sleeves rolled up like before, revealing the thin bracelets he has on each wrist. “You’re back.”

“I am.” You smile widely, surprised he's remembered you and weirdly happy at the sight of him. You’d half expected to see someone else; there’s no way this guy is the only person who works here, but you’re glad it’s him. “I was worried my lily would get lonely so I thought I’d get her a friend. Can I pick your brain for another recommendation?”

He takes you to the succulents. There’s a menagerie of terrariums to choose from, bursting with different shapes and sizes of plants, bright greens and soft teals and muted browns. 

“I think you’ll like this one,” he says, lifting up a dodecahedron of glass, each geometric plane trimmed with metal. He holds it up for you as you peer inside, small succulents nestled in a scattering of pebbles and soil. “They like bright light, but keep them out of direct sunlight because the glass can magnify it and burn them. And water them really sparingly, because there’s no drainage.” He taps the base of the terrarium. “It’s really easy to over-water succulents.”

He’s always so careful when he handles things, even if he lifts them like they’re weightless. No wonder the plants and flowers bloom so prettily here. They know they’re loved and looked after.

“They’re so cute.” You smile at the collection of contrasting plants that somehow live harmoniously together in such a small space. “And there’s more than one! So my lily will have plenty of friends.”

You’re too busy looking down to painstakingly accept the terrarium to notice the small, shy smile that flits across the man’s face as he watches you, your hands so cautious and protective as you accept more members into your growing family. “You’re right,” he says. “She won’t be lonely.”

You have the glass ball hugged against your chest as you trail behind the man, but then you come to a stand still by a selection of floral arrangements and realise that there’s no way you’ll be able to carry both the terrarium and a bouquet; at least, not one the size you’d been planning for. The florist notices the sound of your footsteps disappearing and stops to look over his shoulder. He seems concerned.

“Sorry,” you apologise, staring at one particularly large collection of flowers and foliage all gathered together in brown paper, soft pastel colours surrounded by greenery and smaller pale blooms. “I was just thinking about how nice your bouquets are. They’re so pretty.”

“Would you like one?”

“Of course, but I only have so many hands.” You laugh as you glance down at the terrarium you’re clutching onto. “I wouldn’t trust myself to hold a bunch of flowers at the same time as this. That would be a disaster waiting to happen, honestly.”

The florist pauses. “How about if I make you a boutonniere to pin on your shirt?”

You look up from the terrarium, blinking. There’s that tinge of pink stealing over his cheeks again and you find the sight surprisingly endearing. “You can do that?”

“If you’d like.” He’s looking away from you again, staring intently at a bucket of sunflowers. “So at least you have some flowers to take home.”

Something twinges, deep down in your chest, right at the bottom of your ribcage. Something you can’t put a name to. “That sounds nice. Yes, please? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

You carefully put your succulents down on the counter and lean against it as you watch him select flowers for the corsage, pausing before he chooses each one; he keeps his gaze averted from you the whole time but you think it’s because he feels awkward about the attention you’re giving him. You’re not pretending like you’re not watching him intently, wanting to take everything in, intrigued. He keeps his eyes cast down as he starts to bring everything together but there’s still a flush on his cheeks. It’s… adorable. He’s adorable. 

“Feel free to say no, but can I take a photo?” You point at the camera you have looped around your neck. “Not of you! Well. Not all of you. Just… your hands as you make the corsage? I swear I don’t have a hand fetish, I just like to take photos of things I think are cool. Totally get if you don’t want me to, I—”

“Sure.”

He’s staring down at the tiny floral arrangement in his hands as he interrupts you, but he seems resolute despite the blush on his face. You pause for a second and then smile. You lift the Polaroid camera up to peer through the viewfinder and take the shot, but before you have the chance to take a proper look it seems like the florist is finished.

He only looks up at you now that he’s done and holds his work shyly up for you to inspect, as if it’s not the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. He’s framed a soft purple rose with small blooms of lilac and white baby’s breath, offset by a burst of greenery, delicate and perfectly balanced. 

“Oh, that’s so beautiful,” you breathe. You reach out to touch it with reverent fingers, lavender petals of the rose so soft against your skin. “You did that so quickly, too! How did you choose everything? Did you just go for things you thought would match?”

“Um.” The florist has turned red. “Yes?”

You decide not to press further, even if you wonder what it is that has him so embarrassed right now. Probably because you complimented him on his floristry skills. “You have a really good eye,” you say, smiling. “It’s so lovely.”

He somehow flushes an even brighter shade of scarlet when you struggle to pin the boutonniere on and ask for his help; he’s so careful as he secures it in place, staring at his hands as he settles the flowers gently against your chest.

“Perfect.” You beam at him and feel triumphant when he gives you a small smile in return despite how shy he seems, but then he seems to realise that he’s still got his hands resting against the fabric of your clothing and rips them away like they’re on fire.

“Um.” He has his head turned away from you but there’s a wide smile on his face, teeth on show as he looks down at the ground. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

You’ve just finished paying when you realise— “I don’t think you’ve charged me for the boutonniere ?”

The florist seems like a rabbit caught in headlights. “It’s a, uh, promotional thing. An incentive to come back and buy a full bouquet or arrangement. You… uh, you actually get a discount on your first bouquet if you get a boutonniere or corsage first. I just— I need your name to make sure you get the discount. Next time you come. If you come back,” the man says in a rush, before sucking his lips in and looking away from you. “If that’s okay?”

Of course you’re going to come back. “Oh! Sure! It’s Y/n,” you say. 

“Y/n,” he repeats. He’s staring at you, lips parted, soft around the shape of your name. You wait for a beat, looking back at him, before one of eyebrows rises.

“Um… do you have a book to write it down in? Or do you just memorise all of your customer’s names straight off the bat?”

The florist blinks and then his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush again. “A book! Of course, um.” He scrabbles around behind the counter, flustered, but seems to come up empty-handed. You watch as he grabs the only book he can find— The Language of Flowers— and cracks it open to the title page to scribble your name down in pencil before shoving the book under the counter and out of sight.

“I feel bad that you’ve just, uh, defaced a book because of me,” you say. “You didn’t have to write it down, I was just kidding? I know not everyone is as forgetful as me.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he says. “It’s my book. I can write what I want in it. The, um, the logbook seems to have gone missing,” he continues, staring at his hands as he scratches his palm. “Yoongi-hyung must have moved it. I’ll, uh, write your name when he comes back with it. Yeah.”

“Yoongi? Is that your boss?”

“Hyung? Sort of. He owns Spring Day but he basically treats me like a co-owner, I guess.”

“Oh, wow, that sounds so cool, even if it must be a lot of responsibility.” You smile softly at the florist. “He must really trust you.”

He glances up from his hands, eyes warm when he spots the expression on your face. “Yeah,” he says, smiling back. “I owe Yoongi-hyung a lot.”

“Oh!” Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag, terrarium safely encased inside. “You know my name, and now I know Yoongi’s name, but I don’t know your name…?”

He flushes again, imperceptibly, the tiniest spread of pink on the apples of his cheeks. “I’m Jungkook,” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook,” you repeat. His eyes flicker and he looks away from you. You’ll have to work on that shyness— but you’ve always been good at coaxing people out of their shells. You’re unapologetically yourself, and that helps other people feel comfortable being unapologetically themselves, too. “Alright, Jungkook, thank you for the help again today. And the beautiful boutonniere.” You wiggle your shoulder so the flowers affixed to your chest shift a little. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.” He sounds a little breathless. “Yeah, I’ll see you around.”

Once you get home the terrarium is carefully unpacked and placed on your desk with your other plants; you’ve had to relocate some of your general filing clutter to another table to make space (the plants make you feel better than staring at a rose-gold in tray with letters that you need to get to, so whatever). You finally have a chance to look at that photo you'd taken earlier and fish it out of your pocket.

The background is a little blurry, not the focus of the shot, but you can see the neat pile of offcuts on the table, a small scattering of equipment. Jungkook’s hands, however, are in perfect focus. He has such lovely hands, from the pronounced knuckles to the subtle flex of his tendons to the pale blue veins that are visible as he holds the tiny bunch of flowers together and wraps them in ribbon. You stare at the picture for a little longer than you probably should before resting it against the peace lily’s pot, in eyeline as you begin to write.

(Lily watches, enraptured, as Yunhee prepares the sprigs of herbs and flowers that she hangs from the kitchen’s low ceiling. Her pretty hands are so fast as they bring the dried flora together, encircling each bunch with twine, quick and delicate. Careful. Reverent.

“Would you like a go?” Yunhee has seen her watching and holds up a spray of dried lavender rosemary, colours muted from their usual brightness, but no less pretty. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

Lily smiles. “I would love that.”)

--

“What do I want in my bouquet? Hmm… that’s a tough one. What’s your favourite flower?”

You’re back at Spring Day the day after buying your terrarium, and once again, Jungkook is there. You’d caught a brief glimpse of another man on your way in, his hair a bleached-blond mess, but he seems to have disappeared— although his apron has been cast haphazardly over the back of the wicker chair behind the counter so you don’t think he’ll be gone too long.

Jungkook pauses. “I don’t know if I could choose just one,” he says. “But if I had to, I’d say the tiger lily.”

“Oh!” You point at his arm. His t-shirt today seems to be as baggy as the rest of his clothing choices but it leaves his lower arms visible. “Is that the tattoo you have?”

Jungkook turns his arm towards you so you can see it properly, the delicate lines of the lily blooming across his skin, and you can see the scratched lines of some words silhouetted behind it, ones you hadn’t spotted before. “Yeah.” He’s smiling. “It’s my birth flower.”

“That’s so pretty,” you say, awed. “What do the words say?”

Jungkook’s been less shy today, but when you ask this, he seems bashful. “Please love me.” He traces the words with his finger, the letters hidden behind the large petals of the flower. “It’s what the tiger lily means.”

He keeps his gaze averted from you, staring at the black and grey lines that bloom across his skin. You’ve barely scratched the surface of Jungkook, but there’s something so… so fascinating about him. Undeniably powerful and masculine, yet still so soft and considerate. Romantic.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, truthfully. “Both the tattoo and its meaning.”

Jungkook smiles shyly. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m glad you like it. I, um, drew it, actually.”

You’ve been staring at his arm but when he says this, you reel back. “You designed that tattoo? Jungkook. Are you telling me you can sing and draw?” When he doesn’t respond, still shy, you giggle. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I know the truth.”

“So what would you like in your bouquet?” Jungkook’s clearly trying to change the subject and you laugh.

“I have no idea. I’m a dunce and you’re the expert, so I’ll let you do the heavy lifting,” you say. “How about something with some tiger lilies?”

The tiger lilies are beautiful, vivid oranges flecked with brown; Jungkook lets you select the ones you want, accepting the flowers from you carefully as you pluck them from the buckets and then laughing at yourself when you end up with water spattered over your shoes, dripping down the long stems. After that you let him take over and he chooses the other flowers to bulk out your arrangement, mulling over each decision before he seems content with his choices.

“I can recognise the roses and lilies, but what are the others?” You ask, intrigued.

“Roses, hypericum berries, tiger lilies, orange lilies, goldenrods, and some greening for filler.” He lifts each flower up as he lists them off for you, a cascading gradient of red to cerise to orange to yellow. “Do you want me to change them?”

“No.” Your voice is gentle. “It’s perfect. It’s just like a sunrise. I love them.”

Jungkook’s responding smile is wide enough to show his teeth and squeeze his eyes.

There’s something soothing about watching him work. His eyes are entirely focused as he puts everything in its place, uncompromising when it comes to his perfectionism; things will look fine to you but he’ll seem to think differently and shift things around until it passes his rigorous standards. You want to take a photo. Not just of his hands, but of all of him— the little furrow of his brows, the intense look in his eyes, the tiniest pout on his lips; the softness of his hands, the tenderness of his fingers, the relaxation of his shoulders. Someone who’s intent on perfecting his craft but finds joy in its practiced motions.

You're just considering risking it all to ask him if you can take a photo when you're (thankfully) interrupted.

“That’s a pretty bouquet,” someone drawls. “What’s the occasion?”

The other man has appeared out of the back room. His eyes are fox-like but his mouth is soft and his fluffy white jumper seems even softer, fuzzy against the dark apron that he loops back over his head.

“Hi, Yoongi-hyung. Um.” Jungkook glances up at you. “Is it… for… a partner? Or someone else?”

“Nope, just thought I’d treat myself. Is that weird?”

Yoongi looks at you consideringly, clearly thinking something, before he shrugs. “Nah. You should tell your partner to step up their game, though. You shouldn’t have to buy yourself flowers.”

You laugh, trying to cover up your sudden awkwardness as Seokjin’s face flashes in your mind. Partner? You? Haha. “I’m single, so this is the only way I’ll be getting flowers, I’m afraid.”

Jungkook drops a handful of goldenrods. Yoongi’s eyes flicker over to him, watching as the younger man scrabbles to pick the yellow flowers back up. “Huh,” Yoongi says. “I see. Well, as long as you’re paying, I’m not complaining.”

You already like Yoongi, as forthright and blunt as he is, an utter juxtaposition to Jungkook’s unassuming shyness; he plops himself down and watches Jungkook finish putting the arrangement together, arms crossed as he leans back in the wicker chair. He looks a little lazy and a little sleepy. A cat reclining in the sun.

Jungkook finishes the bouquet by wrapping it in layers of brown and white paper, layering orange and yellow and white ribbons around the stems, pulling the sunrise of plants together with more bursts of bright colour.

“It’s so beautiful,” you say. 

Yoongi makes a small grunting noise of agreement. “Good work, Kookie.”

Jungkook seems almost overwhelmed by the praise and holds a hand over his face, a shy curve of his fingers over his nose and mouth as he coughs and pretends he’s fine. “It’s alright, I guess,” he says. “Do you want anything else?”

“No, that’s everything for today, thanks.” You beam at Jungkook, who smiles back; he’s so cute. “How much is that?”

Yoongi’s mouth opens but Jungkook speaks over him to tell you the price, which is lower than you thought, but— “That must be from the boutonniere discount, right?”

Yoongi squints at you. “Boutonniere discount?”

“You know, hyung, the boutonniere discount.” Jungkook’s voice is a little high. “The promotion.”

Yoongi stares at him. Jungkook stares back. You think Jungkook’s about to break in the face of Yoongi’s blank pokerface, but then he nods. “Oh, yeah, that one,” Yoongi says, slowly. “I forgot. The boutonniere discount. Absolutely.”

Yoongi lapses into silence during the rest of the transaction, and though he looks sleepy, his eyes are sharp as he watches the two of you. Not that you notice, too busy carefully accepting the flowers from Jungkook and hefting the huge bouquet in your arms, mindful not to jostle them too much.

“Thank you so much, Jungkook!” You tilt your head forward to breathe in the soft floral scent, smiling. “It’s so lovely. And it was nice to meet you, Yoongi.”

“Likewise,” Yoongi says. “We’ll see you again?”

“Of course!” On your way out you go to take a hand off the bouquet to give them a jaunty wave, but unlike Jungkook you can’t keep the whole thing steady with just one hand and settle with giving them a nod instead. “I’ll see you again!”

As the door settles shut behind you, bell tinkling as you go, Yoongi raises an eyebrow at Jungkook. “Boutonniere discount?”

“Shut up, hyung,” Jungkook mutters, embarrassed. 

Once you get home you unearth the vase Namjoon made you in his last ceramics class, unwrapping the bouquet and easing it into the water. You watch as the flowers come a little loose from the tight presentation and jostle lightly against each other as they settle into the vase. It’s a bright burst of colour on your breakfast bar, eye-catching and beautiful. 

These flowers should last longer than the corsage from yesterday, which had already started to wilt; you know practically nothing about preserving flowers but you’ve sandwiched the purple rose and lilac and baby’s breath between layers of tissue and squashed them between some books on advice from the internet, wanting to press them and keep them close. (Maybe you’ll frame them or something. That would be cute.)

You pause. You pluck out a tiger lily, disrupting the careful balance Jungkook had strived to create, spinning the flower slowly between your fingers. Your friends send you congratulatory flowers after each new book publication, but this is the first bouquet that’s ever been made specifically for you— not the you that’s hidden behind a pseudonym. You. Even if you’d asked for this yourself, Jungkook had been the one to choose everything for you. He'd been the one to put the thought and time and effort into it.

You stare at the tiger lily for a few moments longer before slipping it back into the arrangement, turning it so it rests just as it had before you’d pulled it out.

(Spring is turning to summer and everything is starting to bloom, the garden alive with a riot of colour, full of the buzzing of bees and other insects— drawn here just as Lily had been. But Yunhee finds Lily in the greenhouse, away from the noise and activity, quiet and contemplative as she stares around her.

“What are they?” Lily points at a plot of flowers that have yet to bloom. The yellow and orange buds are long and heavy, weighted towards the ground. 

“Tiger lilies.” Yunhee squats down and touches one of the furled flowers. “They’re shy to start with, but once they start to blossom, they’ll be some of the prettiest things here. Yes, that means you,” Yunhee laughs as the plant in her fingers seems to twitch. “They’re always so bold once they’re in full bloom. You just have to wait until you can coax them out.”)

--

“You seem to be doing better.” Jimin puts his coffee down. “Have you spoken to Jin yet?”

“Good god, Jimin,” you laugh. “Straight in there, aren’t you?”

Jimin fixes you with a stern gaze and you wince a little.

“Sheesh. No, not yet.” You fiddle with your napkin, curling it around the end of your teaspoon. “I’m starting to feel… like… kind of okay about it, I guess, but I’m worried that it’s going to be weird when I see Jin again.”

It’s been over a month since your confession, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without talking to Jin since you’ve met him. It’s… weird. You miss him so much. But you don’t know if it’s too soon to try and reintroduce him into your life, even if Jimin clearly disagrees.

“It’s only going to get weirder the longer you go without talking to him,” Jimin says, and you hate that you know he’s right. “You keep asking how he is, and he keeps asking how you are, and it’s obvious you both miss each other. I’m not saying you have to jump back to how things were straight away, but you can ease back into it, you know?”

You sigh. “I know,” you say. “It’s just hard, Minnie.”

Jimin, your oldest friend, had been the first person you’d called after your failed confession. You’d been tearful and honest when you’d said that it felt like you were going to hurt forever. But it’s weird how quickly that’s ebbed away, even if you still regret opening your mouth in the first place; most of the hurt you feel right now is from missing Jin, not from lingering pain about unreciprocated feelings. You miss your-friend-Jin, not your-crush-Jin. 

“You seem to be doing okay, though.” Jimin raises his eyebrows at you over his latte. “Anything to do with whoever’s sending you those pretty bouquets that’re all over your apartment, hmm?”

You splutter into your coffee. “What? No, don’t be ridiculous, I’m buying those for myself,” you say once you’ve wiped the coffee off your chin. “Me? Getting sent bouquets? Pfft.”

You never planned on becoming some sort of manic flower hoarder, but Jimin isn’t exaggerating when he says that they’re all over your apartment. You’ve even had to buy extra vases to hold all the bouquets and arrangements you have, every hue and shape and size of flora imaginable on almost every flat surface— only your desk remains untouched, sacred ground for your potted plants. You’d bought a rubber plant a few days ago, but beyond that, nothing new has been set on your desk recently.

It’s just… whenever you’re in Spring Day it’s like there’s no space in your brain or heart to think about Seokjin. It’s a place of respite for you, now. Somewhere you can go that’s untouched by the outside world. Somewhere you can go to be surrounded by beauty and life. Somewhere you can go to talk to Jungkook, the sweet, soft florist who’s slowly opening up to you, a blossoming flower, petals unfurling further with each visit.

He’s not always there. Sometimes it’s just Yoongi, and you like Yoongi and enjoy his company, but… it’s different with Jungkook. He’s growing bolder, less shy, and every conversation with him is so riveting; you eagerly gobble up every tidbit of information he feeds you. He sings. He draws. He paints. He takes photos. He dances. Everything he finds interesting, he tries, and everything he tries, he tries voraciously— he never settles for anything less than 100%. He puts himself entirely into everything he does.

He’s incredible.

Anyway. You can’t come away from Spring Day empty-handed, hence all the flowers that are filling your apartment. Even though Jungkook says it’s okay for you not to buy things, you’d be a supremely awful customer if you just distracted him by talking and then leaving again, so you always make sure to buy something. Even if it’s just a tiny flower themed bookmark that you don't need.

“I’m all for retail therapy, but why not buy stuff for yourself that doesn’t eventually die and wilt?” Jimin seems mystified. “That many flowers can’t be cheap.”

“I’m a relatively successful author, I can afford to blow money on flowers if I want.” You wave your hand dismissively. “Besides, my latest novel involves a lot of flower and plant related stuff, so I’m basically investing in my writing. I’m killing two birds with one stone: research for my novel, as well as filling the gaping hole in my chest by buying flowers for myself because I’m destined to die alone and no one else is ever going to buy them for me.” You finish brightly.

Jimin looks equal parts frustrated and sad. “You know that’s not true, Y/n. Just because Jin—”

“It’s fine, Jimin, I’m kidding! I’m kidding,” you insist. “The reason I’ve been single for the past billion years is because I’m just too much of a catch and people find it intimidating, I know.”

You’ve used fake, inflated narcissism and mocking self-deprecation as ways of protection for years. Most people take your confidence at face value. However, Jimin knows you too well to be fooled by it; not to mention he’s one of the few people who knows about your books and has read every single one so he’s well aware of all the schmoopy daydreams you keep close to your chest.

Ugh. This is why you write under a pseudonym. Autumn Lovett is allowed to enjoy clichés and have unrealistic and dumb romantic fantasies. A lot of their platform is built around it. Meanwhile the real version of you tries to pretend that you’re not obsessed with the idea of true love and yearn for it almost every waking moment despite how utterly impossible it is that you’ll ever find it. Because it’s embarrassing.

“I’m going to kick you,” Jimin says lovingly. “Right in the shins.”

“God, please don’t.” Jimin’s kicks are lethal. “If I say I don’t genuinely think I’m some sort of unlovable cave troll, will you promise not to hurt me?”

Jimin takes longer to think about his answer than you’d like. “Okay,” he says eventually. “You have to really mean it.”

“Alright, I don’t genuinely think I’m some sort of unlovable cave troll. I just haven’t met the right person yet.” Your words seem to pacify Jimin, even if they ring a little hollow in your own ears.

The truth is that, on a deep level, you do feel unlovable. It’s maybe a bit self-pitying, because you have friends who adore you and you know you’re worthy of love, but… it’s kind of hard to really believe that when you have yet to have your feelings genuinely reciprocated. There have been a few moments in the past, a few brief, fleeting connections, but never anything wholesome and real. You feel like you’ve been waiting for something that’s never going to happen. 

Besides, if it does happen, it’s never going to be as soft and loving as the relationships you write into your books, right? You’re a sucker for clichés. You love the idea of someone bringing you flowers, watching the sunset with you, dancing together in your kitchen to a song on the radio— every overdone and overused formula that’s shoved into every romantic film ever. You want all of it. (You’ve never been on a ferris wheel but god do you want to have a date that involves one.)

Maybe you’re still alone because you’ve been asking for too much. Not everyone is as lucky as Jimin and Namjoon; you doubt you’d ever be so fortunate to find someone who loves you as much as they love each other and express that love, too.

You’re still brooding over these feelings when you visit Spring Day later. Jungkook’s singing again, something smooth and lovely and mellow, and when he sees you he brightens— he cuts himself off, but not because he’s embarrassed, but because he’s happy to see you. 

Something inside you goes soft and warm at the sight. He’s so nice.

Still, despite Jungkook’s soothing presence you’re far more distracted than you usually are and he seems to notice this; you end up sitting cross legged on the floor of the greenhouse under the leaves of a monstera while Jungkook keeps flicking you looks between watering plants.

A few weeks ago, he would be too timid to say anything, but by now he’s grown far more bold. You’ve been encouraging him to speak his mind. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” You’ve had your head tilted back to watch the fluttering leaves of the monstera plant but you look down to turn your attention to Jungkook. He’s wearing a dark plaid shirt today, loose sleeves rolled up past his elbow as he hefts his blue watering can; he looks soft and approachable, eyes warm with concern. “Yeah, I just have some stuff on my mind, I guess. Sorry. I’m not exactly a great conversational partner at the best of times, so I’m being even worse right now.”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to apologise.” Jungkook hesitates. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

You let out a light chuckle. “Ah, you don’t want to hear about the nonsense I’ve got in my brain, but thank you. It’s very sweet of you to offer.”

“No.” Jungkook’s voice is surprisingly firm and you internally startle. “If there’s something on your mind, it’s not nonsense. I’m not saying you have to tell me if you don’t want to, but— please don’t think I don’t want to listen to you.”

You blink. He’s not looking away from you like he normally does— there’s a hard set to the line of his mouth, like he really, really means what he says and he wants you to know that.

“Oh.” For once you’re the one who breaks eye contact, glancing down at your lap. You’d found a lone daisy on the floor and you’ve been cradling it in your hands, rolling the stem between your fingers, and you watch as the petals fan out and shiver at the motion. “Okay. Thanks, Jungkook.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. His voice is gentle. You keep your eyes fixed on the daisy, and you can hear the slosh and drizzle of the watering can as he goes back to the plants. You take in a deep breath.

“What’s your opinion on romance, Jungkook?”

There’s a splashing noise as Jungkook fumbles with the can and drops it. Luckily it stays upright and doesn’t spill over the floor. “I, um, what?”

You look away from your daisy and stare at him earnestly, as embarrassingly open and raw as you feel right now. “What’s your opinion on romance? You know, love and all that.”

Jungkook pauses. 

“I know it’s a weird question.” You wince. “You don’t have to answer it. I’ve just been thinking about it.”

Jungkook stares at the watering can by his feet before he stoops over and picks it back up. He’s not looking at you. “How come?” His voice is a little strained, but you don’t notice.

“Ah, I don’t know,” you sigh. “I think about it a lot, honestly. Sometimes I just wonder if it’s realistic? Like, of all the people in the world, what’s the likelihood you’re going to meet someone that you really… really resonate with? And they’re going to feel the same for you? Part of me has always believed in fate, or like… serendipity, I suppose. Bumping into someone that turns out to be so much more important than either of you could imagine. A soulmate? In a way? But as time goes on I… I guess I’m worried I’ll never actually find that and it’s all a ridiculous pipe dream.”

You feel small and defenceless after admitting this. You might be a loudmouthed sarcastic clown, but underneath all your theatrical buffoonery and snark, the truth is that you’re an utterly hopeless romantic. It’s the world’s worst kept secret, sure, but you’ve never laid it out so plainly to anyone before. 

The longer Jungkook stays silent, the more awkward you feel, and you desperately need to break the tension.

“Bweh.” You make a little noise. “I get nauseous whenever I express real emotions. I didn’t mean to word vomit all of that at you, sorry—”

“I believe in soulmates.” Jungkook’s back is to you as he stands in front of a collection of osteospermums, but he’s stopped watering them. “And romance. And true love. I don’t think it’s always going to be easy, and it might hurt along the way, but… I think there’s love and happiness waiting for us at the end of it. Yoongi-hyung always calls me a hopeless romantic.” He laughs a little and glances over his shoulder at you, his expression warm and sincere. “I always cry at sad scenes in romantic films and books and he likes to tease me about it.”

He doesn’t seem ashamed about being open and vulnerable with you. It’s terrifying and yet Jungkook seems unafraid. Honestly, you admire it. “Me too,” you admit, your voice a quiet hush. “Everyone keeps arguing about if Rose could have let Jack onto the door with her but I’m always too busy crying to pay attention to how big the piece of wood is.”

Jungkook lets out a breath of laughter, nose scrunching as he smiles at you. He’s not judging your sappiness at all. “Titanic is such a sad film,” he says. “It makes my heart ache every time I watch it.”

You hit your knee with a fist. “I know! Why couldn’t they just be happy? Ouch,” you say. “Wow. I punched myself harder than I thought. I just get very passionate about happy endings. Sad endings— well, they make me sad, especially if the rest of the story has been sad too. What was it Guy Fieri said? I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.”

Jungkook blinks. “Guy Fieri said that?”

“Now that I think about it, I think it was actually Haruki Murakami.” You rub a soothing hand over your knee. “But yeah. I’m not saying sad endings don’t have a place, and sometimes it’s right for the story that’s being told, but… I’m more of a happy ending person. If I were James Cameron I’d have to let Rose and Jack end up together. I’d be too soft to write the ending he did, even if it was appropriate. You know?”

Jungkook turns away from the osteospermums, his eyes as soft as he looks at you. “Yeah, me too,” he agrees. “I think everyone deserves a happy ending.”

The monstera plant above you patiently listens as you and Jungkook have a long, quiet conversation about love and romance, and it’s… weird. You never thought you could have a conversation like that without wanting to cringe so hard you collapsed in on yourself and imploded into a black hole. Submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known is usually a lot more… well… mortifying, but somehow with Jungkook, it isn’t.

Maybe it’s because he’s so open himself. Maybe it’s because you can tell he’s not judging you at all. He doesn’t think your desperate yearning for love and romance is anything to be embarrassed about— and he clearly feels the same yearning. You find it baffling that someone as lovely as Jungkook doesn’t have someone special in his life, though. Wild.

“Monsteras are actually nicknamed Swiss cheese plants,” Jungkook informs you, running a hand over one of the leaves and trailing a finger over one of the holes in it. You're adding it to your steadily growing plant collection. “Because of these. They look like the holes you find in Swiss cheese.”

You laugh. “Oh, that’s so cute! I love that.”

Jungkook smiles. “I knew you would.”

He’s just finished tying a ribbon around the plant’s pot when he pauses. “Oh,” he says. “If you like happy endings, can I recommend something?”

He stoops down to get something from behind the counter and you can tell when he’s found what he’s looking for by how his face lights up. You’re hyped to see what it is, what’s gotten Jungkook so excited— but then he flips the book over to hand to you and you nearly choke on your own spit. 

Jamais Vu. Your most recent novel.

“I really love this author,” he says as you try to swallow down your coughs, eyes watering with the effort. Luckily he’s looking down at the book and doesn’t seem to notice. “No matter how difficult things get, or how awful things seem, the endings are always happy. Or at worst, bittersweet. They’re never completely sad? Watch out for the plot twist in the middle, though, that’s a rough one.”

“Hahahaha, alright, I will!” It was the first time you’d incorporated a murder mystery in one of your books, but damn, it had gone over really well with the critics. And Jungkook too, apparently, judging from the excited look in his eyes. “This looks, um. Interesting.”

He beams at you. “If you like it, I have the rest of their books at home. You can borrow those as well. I, uh, I've been reading them from the very beginning,” he admits, with a tiny, shy laugh. “The earlier books are skewed mainly towards romance, but the plots are always good too. If, um, you like that sort of thing.”

You feel faint. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Jungkook.”

Once you get home, you very carefully and delicately place the monstera on your desk, turning it a few times until you’re entirely happy with the position of it.

Then you lie face down on your bed.

Your breaths are fuggy against your pillow but you keep your face buried in it, even if it’s getting progressively harder to breathe. Jungkook reads your books. Jungkook reads all of your books. Jungkook is apparently an avid fan of your books— the copy of Jamais Vu he’s lent you is a hardback copy and the design on it is one you recognise as a pre-order exclusive. 

Oh, shit. Is it a signed copy?

You scramble out of bed to grab the book and flip to the title page. There it is, staring up at you: your own signature. Well, Autumn Lovett’s signature, complete with a tiny scribbled leaf. 

To Jungkook, you’d written. Thank you so much for all your support! you’d written. Autumn Lovett, you’d written.

You muffle a scream into your hands.

Even if Jungkook doesn’t know who Autumn really is, there’s no way he’s going to read your next book and not realise the truth. The tiger lilies. Yunhee’s dark eyes and dark hair and swift hands. Her strength and softness. Lily, magnetised by her, drawn in by her gravity.

(You haven't realised until now just how much meeting Jungkook has changed the development of your novel. Why?)

You’re at a loss for words. You honestly don’t know what to feel. Part of you feels flattered that Jungkook loves your writing so much. Another part of you feels like you’ve been lying to him the whole time you’ve been talking— pretending to be someone you’re not. Somehow. Autumn has lied to him by not being real, and you’ve lied to him by not letting him know the truth. Sure, you’ve only found out today, but.

The one person you’d talk to— the one person who’d help you muddle through your emotions on something as complex as this, as flippant and blasé as he might seem to people who don’t know him like you do— is someone you haven’t spoken to in over a month. 

Your eyes slide over to your phone. After your conversation with Jimin earlier you’d genuinely been planning on messaging Seokjin tonight; nothing major or big, just a dipping of your toe back into the waters of your friendship. But you need to hear his voice. You’re not going to offload on him, of course. You’re not going to make the first conversation you have after your confession to be all about you. But you just need that familiarity right now.

He picks up after one ring. 

“Hi, Y/n,” he says, and you feel like you could fold in two.

“Hi, Jin.” The sound of his voice fills you with warmth and tender affection, and you love him so, so much— but you know in an instant that it’s platonic. This cresting wave of tenderness crashing through you and making your knees want to buckle is for one of your best friends, Kim Seokjin. Your friend. “Hey. I hope you’re doing okay. Been up to anything interesting?”

You end up curled in your computer chair as you talk, your hand resting on the book that Jungkook has entrusted you with. It’s funny how talking to Seokjin comes so naturally; a month feels so long, especially after such a huge revelation from you to him, but it’s also like no time has passed at all. You think maybe you could go years without talking but the moment you came back together again, it would feel the same way. 

It’s like you exist on the same level. Like there’s some sort of unbreakable, connective membrane between the two of you. It’s why you’d fallen in love with him. It’s only now that you realise that you’d mistaken that closeness for romantic love, when it isn’t really, at all. It’s just different to your other friendships; deeply and emotionally intimate, but not romantic. 

“It sounds like you’ve been doing well,” Jin says. There’s the sound of sizzling in the background and you glance at the clock; he’ll be cooking dinner. He always cooks around now. “How’s the novel coming along?” Are you still in love with me? Are you writing about me?

You pause. Your flip Jungkook’s book open again, staring at his name written in your handwriting— months before you’d known who he was. Some tenuous, inexplicable connection before you’d even met. 

“It’s good,” you say, truthfully. “It’s not what I’d been planning, but it’s really good.” I love you, but I’m not in love with you. I’m writing, but not about you. Not really.

“I’m glad.” Jin’s voice is so warm. “You’ll have to send me what you've got so far at some point.”

“So you can point out all the inconsistencies whenever characters are cooking or baking anything? No thanks, already fallen into that trap too many times,” you say, and Jin laughs.

“If you’re going to write a character who’s a baker, you need to do your research batter,” he says, and you laugh in return.

“Did you say batter instead of better? That’s terrible. I love it, even if I wasn’t bready for it.”

“Your puns are so crumby,” Jin replies.

“Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”

You both end up dissolving into laughter at your increasingly nonsensical and awful baking puns. The puns are weak and not even good in a bad way (as in, so bad that they’re good), but they don’t need to be. Jin takes longer to finish laughing than you. His squeaky wiper noises are a familiar sound through your phone speaker and you’re still smiling once it eventually trails off.

“I missed you,” you say suddenly. “I’m sorry. Not sorry about the confession, but— sorry it took me so long to come back around afterwards. I was just worried it would be weird.”

“I understand. It’s okay. I missed you too. You know I love you, right?”

“I love you too. Not romantically. Don’t get it twisted. I realise now that I’m way out of your league, anyway, so it’s a good thing you turned me down.”

“It was for your own good,” Jin says. “As the two most beautiful human beings alive we’d been too powerful if we were together, so it’s for the good of humanity.”

“We’re just so altruistic,” you sigh dramatically, and then you both giggle. “Can the world’s two most beautiful human beings get together for lunch? That wouldn’t cause a vortex in the space time continuum, right?”

“I think the fabric of the universe can handle it.” You hear the sound of Jin taking his pan off the stove, the clunk of metal. “Let me check when I’m free, sweetheart.”

(“You seem happy.” Jaerim’s smile is a soft, hesitant thing, but Lily’s responding smile is bright and wide.

“I am,” she says. Pinned to her breast pocket is a corsage of sweet pea, soft purple and pink and white, its gentle fragrance filling her senses. A reminder of Yunhee even when she’s not here. “I’m really, really happy. But I’m always happier when I can share things with you.”

Jaerim reaches out for her hands. His touch is familiar and warm, and Lily feels as loved as she always has— the way she loves him, too. 

As a friend.)

--

“You know, at this point I’m pretty sure you’re bankrolling the entire shop,” Yoongi says, and you laugh.

“I can always go somewhere else if you’d like?”

“Please.” Yoongi snorts. “I’m not complaining. Besides, Jungkook would be heartbroken if his favourite customer stopped coming.”

The way Yoongi assembles bouquets is different to Jungkook. He’s no less skilled and lavishes the same amount of attention on each one, but his arrangements always seem a little wilder, freer— not in a bad way, just different. He’s surrounded by an increasing collection of carnations and dusty miller, the silver leaves curling around the immaculately white blooms; simple and elegant arrangements for a small bridal shower.

“That’s good to know,” you say, ignoring the warm flush that spreads through your chest at the idea of being Jungkook’s favourite customer. Sometimes you worry that you’re overbearing, actually, with how often you visit, even if Jungkook never seems to mind. “I do buy a lot, though, so that’s probably why I’m his favourite.”

Yoongi’s just finished tying a trail of silver and white ribbon around the collection of flowers in his hands, eyes flicking up at you as he eases it into a small vase. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to keep throwing money at this place,” he says. “You’re welcome to come whenever you like. Without needing to buy something.”

You feel weirdly chastened. “Um, okay.” You laugh lightly. “Kind of a weird business you’ve got running if you’re not telling customers to buy things, though?”

Yoongi snorts again. “You’ve spent more money in the past few months than most customers might spend in a year.” He reaches for another bunch of carnations. “I think we’re good.”

The bell tinkles above the door. You glance over your shoulder to see who it is and your face lights up when you see it’s Jungkook, clutching a small cardboard tray of coffees. He looks boyish and cute today, his hair is a little windswept from the breeze outside, and there’s a smile on his face that only grows wider when he spots you. You smile back. You’re always so happy to see him.

“Is that my coffee?” Yoongi says, without looking up from the bundle of flowers he's holding. “Bring it here.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes and you stifle a laugh behind your hand. Any shyness Jungkook might have had originally seems entirely gone now, and he’s unabashed when he pretends to disrespect his hyung, even if you know there’s a lot of love there.

Jungkook puts the cardboard cup out of the way of Yoongi’s work so there’s no chance it might accidentally get knocked over. “Here’s the decaf caramel cappuccino with extra sweetener and whipped cream that you asked for, hyung.” Jungkook gives you a conspiring smile and you stifle another laugh at the expression that flits across Yoongi’s face at the word decaf.

“Die,” Yoongi says mildly, before taking a sip of his bitter and untouched black coffee. “Perfect. Now, shoo, I’m busy. Go check on the herb display, I think they could do with some fertiliser.”

You keep hold of Jungkook’s cup as he mists the herbs, a tiny spritzer in his hands that he carefully aims at the stem of each plant. Unlike Yoongi’s black coffee, Jungkook’s opted for something iced, a creamy yellow blend with shavings of chocolate on top.

“If I’d known you were here, I would have gotten you something as well,” he says. You glance up to see Jungkook’s paused in his motions, hands engulfed in bright green basil leaves. It seems like he’s noticed you peering at the drink.

“Don’t be silly, I don’t expect you to buy me coffee! I’m just trying to work out what this is. It looks really tasty.”

“It’s a banana frappe. You can try some, if you want?”

You beam. “Can I?” You take a sip before Jungkook changes his mind, pursing your lips around the straw as the coldness hits your tongue and nearly gives you brain freeze— but then you register the sweetness on your tongue, the flavour of banana and vanilla and honey, delicious. “Oh, this is so good,” you breathe. “Where did you get this? I need this in my life.” You take another cheeky sip, eyes on Jungkook’s reaction, but he seems unfazed at the fact that you’re greedily slurping up his drink before he’s even had a chance to have any.

“There’s a small café a few streets away from here,” he says. “I, um.” He looks away from you, back towards the basil, before he pulls his hands out of the leaves and starts to mist the soil of the mint plants. “I could take you there, if you’d like.”

You haven’t seen him blush for a while, but that familiar tinge of pink is starting to steal over his cheeks as he looks away from you. Something churns low in your stomach, something almost like butterflies; a shifting of their wings, ready to take flight. “Oh,” you say. “That would, um. That would be nice.”

For the first time since you’ve stepped foot into Spring Day, you leave without buying anything. Instead, you leave with a day and time, hastily typed into your phone so you don’t forget. (Not that you would. How could you forget anything about Jungkook?)

You still haven’t told Jungkook who you are. Well— who Autumn is. He’d been so excited when you’d ‘finished’ Jamais Vu and had accepted another book from him, wanting eagerly to hear your opinion on it; it’s hard to not blurt out the truth to him, but you don’t know how to broach that topic. You’re worried that it’ll change this friendship you’ve built up with him and you don’t want to lose Jungkook. Even if you haven’t known him that long, he’s already so, so important to you, and you don’t want to let go of that.

But if you’re starting to become real friends, the kind of friends who get coffee together, who spend time together outside of Jungkook’s work— he deserves to know, right? You just need to find the right time to tell him.

When the day rolls around, you’re early. You’re always early for things. You skulk around the front of Spring Day, where you’d agreed to meet; you make sure to keep just out of Yoongi's eye line, ducking out of sight when it seems like he might spot you through the front window. You’re staring at a bucket of coral-coloured blooms when you hear Jungkook calling your name and you glance up, lifting your hand in a wave.

You almost choke on a breath. You’ve never seen Jungkook out of uniform, his plethora of loose, oversized shirts under a dark apron, nondescript trousers and plain shoes.

“Hi, Y/n.” The smile on his face is bright and wide, eyes squeezing into crescents. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long?”

He’s in such a simple outfit, but it’s devastating. His hair is arranged neatly under a cap, a leather jacket over the dark, tight shirt tucked into his jeans, blue denim nipped in by a plain black belt; there’s large rips at the knees, flashes of skin visible as he walks forwards, feet steady in black boots. It’s undeniably Jungkook, but it’s so different from the version of him you’ve gotten used to over the past two months, catching you completely off guard.

“Y/n?” He repeats, concerned at your silence, and you snap to attention.

“Oh, sorry! I was just thinking about, uh,” you glance at the flowers you’d been looking at, “peonies. No, I haven’t been waiting long at all, don’t worry. You, um, look really nice today,” you add lamely, unsure what else to say. 

“You do too.” Jungkook sounds like he genuinely means it, even if you’re just wearing a pretty regular outfit, similar to the sort of thing you usually wear when you visit him at work. “Peonies only flower for about a week, actually, if you wanted to get some?”

“No, no, that’s fine! Today’s not about flowers, today is about coffee,” you say. Your heart is hammering in your chest for some reason. A single butterfly lifts off in your stomach, taking flight with a flutter of its wings, flitting to and fro. “Take me to the coffee?”

He takes you to the coffee. He leads you confidently through the maze of alleyways, past more places you haven’t seen; he waits patiently whenever you ask to stop and take photos, watching as you stare in awe at an arch built out of precariously balanced tomes that leads into an old bookshop.

“It’s just so pretty around here,” you say, flapping your hand about to try and speed up the development process of a photo. “I’m sorry I’m taking so long.”

“It’s okay.” Jungkook’s voice is soft. “We’re not in a rush.”

He’s not just saying that to be nice, either. At one point, after you’ve apologised yet again, he steals your Polaroid from you and runs; you laugh at him when he refuses to give it back, taking shots of you while he dances just out of your reach, a cascade of photos that somehow turn out distinct and unblurred. Curse his photography abilities. 

You slap him lightly on the arm when he eventually surrenders the camera back to you and he just chuckles. It’s a long, looping detour on your way to the café, but you’re having so much fun that you don’t mind— in fact you end up having to be the one to get you back on track, tugging Jungkook’s elbow when it seems like he’s about to take you down another alleyway and towards the river, which you know is the wrong direction for the café.

“Coffee, Jungkook.” You try to sound stern but you end up dissolving into giggles when he pouts at you. “Okay, how about a compromise? We can get coffee to go and then come back this way so you can show me that market you were talking about.”

He brightens. “Okay,” he says. “We can do that.”

You almost regret saying this when you eventually turn up at the café; it’s actually a few stories up a building, a narrow set of rickety steps that opens into a light, airy room, naked lightbulbs hanging in constellations overhead, the entire wall behind the counter a massive chalkboard that’s covered in art of different styles and designs. The wall facing out onto the road outside is glass— the perfect place to unwind and people watch.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe. “Jungkook, this is so cool.”

“I know,” he says, smug and cheeky, and he laughs when you huff out a little breath at him. “The drinks are good, too.”

He’s not lying. He opts for another banana frappe, and after much deliberation, you decide to try the iced honeycomb latte. He refuses to let you pay and hands his card over to the barista before you even get a chance to reach for your bag, which has you narrowing your eyes at him.

“I feel like you prepared that in advance,” you say.

“Not telling.” He taps the side of his nose, which is scrunched from his smile. Inside you another handful of butterflies take flight.

More and more take wing as the afternoon goes on, each time Jungkook laughs or smiles or looks at you; he leads you through the market and shows you his favourite stalls, excited each time he gets to show you something he likes and enjoys, stealing sips of your drink when you’re distracted— but you laugh in his face and do the same to him, so it’s okay. 

Time flows by as easy as quicksilver, liquid and bright, and before you know it it’s turned from afternoon to evening, sky softening in deepening shades of blue and purple, the smattering of clouds a pastel palette of pink; you come to a stop by the edge of the river, Jungkook a few steps ahead of you by the time he realises you’re not walking beside him. He smiles at you as you lift your camera and take a shot of him surrounded by the sunset.

“I didn’t realise how late it was getting,” you say, and Jungkook blinks. It’s like he’s coming around to himself, like he didn’t realise either; he glances around and notices the shade of the sky before he pulls his sleeve back to look at the watch on his wrist.

“Wow, me neither.” He sounds surprised, and then he looks guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you busy for so long.”

“Oh my gosh, Jungkook, don’t apologise.” You tuck your latest photo into your pocket to look at later. “I’m having so much fun, I just didn’t notice the time go by. It’s not like you’re forcing me to be here,” you laugh. “I like spending time with you.”

The lampposts have yet to turn on and it’s hard to make out Jungkook’s features when he’s turned away from the soft light of the sunset like this. But you can hear the sincerity in his voice when he speaks. “Me too,” he says. “I’m really glad you found Spring Day.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest. Jungkook looks towards the river just as the first lights switch on, finally dark enough that the streetlights come to life; there're trailing bulbs between each lamppost that flicker on moments after, points of brightness that flood the path below them. Jungkook’s face is shaded by the brim of his cap but he takes it off and shakes his head, running his hand through his hair now that it’s freed. Another breath catches in your throat at how utterly mesmerising he is. 

The sound of his voice breaks you out of your trance. “I was wondering,” he says, staring at the rippling mirror of lights on the water, the fading colours of the sky overhead cast in undulating reflections that shift from moment to moment. “You like photography, right?”

“I do,” you say. “Even if I’m not that great at it myself.” 

“I have a friend who’s a photographer and some of his work’s been accepted in a local gallery.” Jungkook’s running his fingers over the hard brim of his cap, running them along its edge. “The opening night is in a few days, and, um. I was wondering if you’d like to go with me?”

He finally turns away from the river to look at you. Jungkook’s eyes are so big and dark. For once you’re the deer caught in headlights, and you don’t even know why; it’s like this simple, innocuous question has reached inside you and stolen all the air out of your lungs. 

Even so, your answer is immediate. “I’d really, really love that,” you answer honestly, and Jungkook’s responding smile is so, so wide.

You forget about that final photo until you get home. It falls out of your pocket as you shrug your coat off to hang it up, and you stoop down to pick it up, fingers stuttering and going still against its white edges as you take it in.

Jungkook’s silhouetted by the evening sky behind him, in stark contrast to the gentle colours and yet just as soft. The shadows are a little blurred, and the colours are a little muted— but Jungkook’s face is clear, his eyes warm and his smile gentle as he looks at you. 

No one’s ever looked at you like that before.

At last the final butterfly flaps its wings and joins the others, your stomach full of fluttering.

--

Your friendship with Jin has miraculously gone back to normal. If anything, it’s even better than it was before your confession— you don’t feel the need to think twice about your actions, like you’re tiptoeing around him, desperate to keep your love a secret. It’s as easy as it used to be and you’re glad.

But you still remember how much it hurt when he’d looked at you and turned you down. You’ve moved past it, sure, but it had just cemented something you’ve known your whole life: how utterly unlovable you are. How wrong you’d been at reading signs, how you’d been in over your head. How every crush you’ve ever had has come to nothing.

You’ve kept that picture of Jungkook resting against your peace lily. His lovely eyes watch as you struggle at your computer, hours of typing stilted words and phrases that you read back and furiously delete. You bury your head in your hands, frustrated. 

Why can’t you write?

By the time Friday night rolls around, you’ve added a grand total of one (1) sentence to your novel. But right now you have more important things to worry about; it’s almost time for you to meet Jungkook at the gallery downtown and the maps app on your phone has been playing up. It’s not that you’re going to be late— you don’t actually live that far away— but you’re not going to be early, and you hate that.

You can see the small groups of people trickling into the gallery, the lights shining out by the entrance cutting across them as they step inside, but your eyes are immediately drawn to Jungkook. He’s been looking down at his phone but as soon as you start to approach it’s like he can sense that you’re there, eyes rising from his screen and zoning in on you immediately. 

You stop in your tracks. His face lifts and splits into a wide smile and you smile helplessly back. He’d said the dress code for tonight was smart-casual, and he looks so good dressed like this. You love his turtleneck jumper.

“Hi,” he says. “Wow, you look good.”

“Hi,” you respond, breathless. You feel winded from his compliment and from the blush that’s rising on his face, even if he’s keeping his gaze locked on yours. “You do too.”

You stare at each other for what feels like eons when someone brushes past you and it snaps the two of you out of the moment, and Jungkook coughs. “Um. Should we go in?”

It’s busier inside than you thought. The gallery isn’t exactly small but the layout isn’t entirely straightforward and people keep clustering in certain areas and getting in the way, distracted by the photos on display. You have to wade through one particularly large group of people to get back to Jungkook, who’s been waiting for you on the other side; he looks concerned on your behalf, and when someone makes a move to walk between the two of you he reaches out for your hand, cutting off their path. Your hand feels so small in his, so warm in his grasp.

“I didn’t realise there’d be so many people here,” he mutters, looking around. You entwine your fingers with his and he startles, glancing at where your hands are joined, like he hadn’t noticed that he’d reached out for you. 

You abruptly feel embarrassed and you’re about to let go when Jungkook squeezes your hand. You glance up and he’s looking away from you, back of his neck red, but he’s not letting go.

“I think Tae’s stuff is a bit further in,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You trail after Jungkook, who keeps his pace matched to yours. It’s a little quieter back here so it’s easy to find who you’re looking for; when you spot a man with bright blue hair he waves wildly in your direction and Jungkook brightens.

“Kookie! Hi!” 

Jungkook lets go of your hand when he’s swept into a hug, and before you can introduce yourself, you’re swept into a hug, too.

“I’m Vante,” the blue-haired man says once he lets you go. “But you can call me Taehyung. Vante is my photographer name. I think it sounds cooler. Don’t you?”

“I think Taehyung is a lovely name,” you say, unphased by how full on Taehyung seems to be. “But Vante sounds really cool, too.”

Taehyung beams at you. “I like you,” he announces. “Y/n, right? Jungkook mentioned you.”

You cough into your palm, trying to act like you’re not supremely flustered right now; when you’re not looking, Jungkook hits Taehyung on the shoulder. “Yeah, that’s right,” you say, looking up. Both boys have innocent expressions on their faces. “Can I have a look at your photos?”

Taehyung is an incredibly talented photographer. You don’t need to be an expert to know that. He has a series of scenic and nature shots, some in colour, some in black and white; he enthusiastically answers your questions about each one, about the background of them and why he takes photos of what he does. Jungkook walks quietly behind you and is content to watch as the two of you talk, chest warmed by how well you’re getting on with each other.

You round a corner to another wall, and Taehyung gestures dramatically at the collection lined across it. “And these are my portrait photos,” he says. “There’s even one of Kookie up here, even if he gets embarrassed whenever I mention it.”

Sure enough, Jungkook is blushing. 

“Take me to it,” you say firmly, and Taehyung laughs out loud before he does just that. It’s a black and white shot, Jungkook in profile as he looks towards the camera, endless ocean waves and sky behind him. “Jungkook, you’re such a good model,” you say, smiling softly at it. 

Jungkook’s gone bright red, and you’ve honestly missed this sight, even if you’re glad that he’s not shy with you any more. “Taehyung’s just good at taking photos,” he says, voice high with embarrassment.

“I have a lot more photos of Jungkookie that aren’t on display,” Taehyung pipes up, and Jungkook looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him. “You’ll have to visit my studio some time so I can show them to you.”

You have Taehyung’s business card carefully stowed away in your bag as you walk home, arms swinging by your sides; you unintentionally brush your hand against Jungkook’s, but before you can say sorry he’s taken it as an invitation to hold your hand again. The apology dies on your lips as he slots his fingers between yours and you smile at him instead.

“Taehyung is so cool,” you say. “And talented, too. I love his photos.”

“I’m glad you both get on so well,” Jungkook says. “Sometimes people seem to think Taehyung is… I don’t know. He can come on a bit strong, I guess.”

“He’s great.” You frown. “I’m going to fistfight anyone who’s mean to him.”

Jungkook laughs and squeezes your hand.

He insists on walking you up to your door, keeping hold of your hand as he follows you inside your apartment building. You feel somewhat abashed at how wide his eyes go at how nice it is inside here. You’re not on the same level as, say, Stephen King or George R.R. Martin, but you make a pretty decent amount of money from your books and it shows.

Jungkook doesn’t actually know what you do. You’ve vaguely alluded to the fact that you’re a writer, but that could mean any number of things; for all he knows you could pen the agony aunt column in a magazine (you imagine that would be pretty fun, actually). You keep waiting for the right opportunity to come clean about your pseudonym but nothing’s presented itself yet.

“Do you want to come in? My friend Seokjin makes killer brownies and I’ve got a box of them still in the fridge,” you say. “He always makes way more than I can eat myself.”

Jungkook seems torn. He wants to see inside your apartment, you can tell, but he also probably doesn’t want to seem intrusive— even if you’re offering.

“I hate wasting food so you’d be doing me a real favour,” you add, and Jungkook relents.

“Alright,” he says, and you smile to yourself as you unlock your door.

You’ve been giving flowers to other people, too— Seokjin and Jimin and Namjoon and even Hoseok have been receiving the gifts of your bounty— but only the premade bouquets. The ones that Jungkook puts together are ones that you keep for yourself. It’s far less overwhelming now than it had been a while ago, only a few floral arrangements here and there, but it’s obvious from Jungkook’s expression that he recognises each bouquet.

He ends up sitting at your breakfast bar as you dig the brownies out of your fridge, and he smiles in delight as you warm up some milk. It’s getting late, and you know Jungkook doesn’t like coffee, anyway.

(You’ve learned a lot about Jungkook in the past few months.)

“Which one is Seokjin?” He asks around a mouthful of brownie. You’ve retired to your living room and Jungkook is peering at the strings of fairy lights you have on the wall, Polaroids of your friends and family clipped along its wire. “This one?”

“No, that’s Namjoon,” you say. You stand up from the couch and scooch next to Jungkook so you can point. “He’s Jimin’s boyfriend— which is this guy here. That’s Seokjin,” you point. “All my favourite people. Ah, don’t look at this one, it’s me and Jimin when we were back in school. We look like such dorks. Look at our hair.”

“You look cute,” Jungkook says, and you try not to blush. “Wait, is that me?”

Your collection of Jungkook photos has been growing exponentially over time. The one he’s looking at is a picture of himself in Spring Day, bent over a bucket of roses, fingers cupping the pink flowers as he smiles at them; he’s said he’s okay with you taking photos, but maybe he meant when he was actually aware of you taking them.

“Um, yeah,” you say. You feel weirdly embarrassed. “I can take it down if you want? Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” Jungkook’s staring at the glowing light next to the photo, avoiding your eyes. “I just didn’t think I’d be on the wall with the rest of your, uh, favourite people.”

Your mouth falls open. You don’t know what to say. Normally you’d scoff at him and say duh, of course you are, but for some reason you can’t summon the courage right now. The words catch in your throat.

Luckily, Jungkook seems to notice another photo. “Oh, is that from your school prom? Wait. Are you on crutches?”

You laugh, glad for the distraction. “Oh, yeah! Jimin persuaded me to sneak out of my house a few weeks before that because I was under curfew but there was a party we were both desperate to go to. Needless to say, climbing out of my window didn’t go so well. I was on crutches for ages after that. It wasn’t so bad, honestly. People felt sorry that I couldn’t dance so they kept sitting with me and feeding me cupcakes out of pity. They were delicious,” you say with a smile. “Never did get to do that end of school dance I’d planned with Jimin, though. That’s the only thing that was bad about it.”

Jungkook’s face twists. You’re too busy looking at the photo and reminiscing to notice, but you do notice when he steps back. You turn, confused as Jungkook holds his hand out and looks at you expectantly.

“What?”

“I know it’s a bit late, and I’m not Jimin, but you can have that end of school dance.” Jungkook wiggles his eyebrows at you. “I promise I won’t step on your feet.”

You giggle, but you can feel a blush threatening to fight its way onto your cheeks. There’s a storm of butterflies in your stomach. “But there’s no music,” you say. “How can we dance without music?”

Jungkook shrugs. “I’ll sing for us,” he says. He steps forward, hand still proffered, and you slide your hand into his, unable to deny him. 

It’s been years since Jimin’s taught you the basic waltz, and you’re a little stiff because of it, but your body seems to remember the steps as Jungkook slowly leads you. You’re staring at your feet while Jungkook hums, but once you have the rhythm down he opens his mouth and starts to sing; you look up from the floor, your eyes helplessly drawn to his. 

His voice is soft and honeyed, words sweet as they hang in the air. You’re so entranced by the deep, warm brown of his eyes that it takes you longer than it should to recognise the lyrics of the song: 10,000 hours, transformed by Jungkook’s mellifluous voice.

He leads you into a turn, and when you come back together it’s a little clumsy and you giggle. Jungkook smiles at you as he continues to sing. The laughter leaves you feeling light and sparkling, like there’s a fountain bubbling inside you, and all the stiffness finally falls away from your limbs. The waltz becomes more of a swaying dance as you let your arms drop, Jungkook’s arm sliding around your waist as you step closer to him, and you end up turning in small circles in the middle of your living room as Jungkook murmurs a love song into your ear.

You suddenly realise that you’ve never been happier than you are right now: dancing in your living room in the circle of Jungkook’s arms as he sings to you, a romantic cliché that’s somehow become true for you. For you. With someone as incredible as Jungkook.

You’re never happier than when you’re with Jungkook.

Holy shit.

You’re in love with Jungkook.

The final note of the song lingers in the air as he comes to an end, the resonance of a bell that slowly fades. He smiles at you as you slowly come to a stop, still nestled in each other’s embrace as your feet finally become still.

“I’m so glad I broke my leg,” you say suddenly, and Jungkook laughs outright, face squeezing up in the way that you love so much.

You’re in love with him.

You watch as he slips his shoes back on. You feel helpless and untethered in a lot of ways, but at the same time, you’ve never felt more sure about anything. When he flashes you a smile, you can’t help but smile back— but that’s always been the case, hasn’t it?

“Hey,” you say suddenly, just after Jungkook’s finished shrugging his coat on. “I know you’ve just, um, gotten ready to go and everything, but can I quickly show you something?” Your heart is thudding in your chest. 

Jungkook blinks. “Sure.”

You give him a jerky nod before turning on your heel and walking down the corridor to swing the door open to your office. Jungkook follows behind you, waiting in the doorway as you flick the light on; he makes a noise when he notices the frame hanging on your wall, the flowers of the corsage that you’d dried and pressed safe behind the glass.

You don’t respond. You’re too busy taking a moment to suck in a deep breath and steel yourself before you open your filing cabinet to pull out a stack of papers, sheaves of writing that are stapled together— the very first, unedited drafts of each of your novels, kept for posterity.

“I, um, don’t really know how to say this.” You stare at your hands as you shuffle through the booklets. “I haven’t told anyone new in a long time, so I guess I’m out of practice, but, uh.” You’re so nervous that you’re light-headed. “Autumn Lovett is actually my pen name. These are drafts of my novels if you think I’m lying,” you say, shoving the paper at Jungkook’s chest; he grabs them before they fall to the ground. “Um. So. Yeah. Taa-daa?”

You feel like you’ve run a marathon. Your heart is racing and your lungs are struggling to take in air. You can’t look at Jungkook. You’re staring at the ceiling instead, dreading his reaction.

When he makes a noise, however, your head snaps down. He’s crouched in the middle of your office with your drafts held over his face.

“Jungkook?” You say, panicked, and he makes the same noise again.

“Oh my God,” he whines, muffled behind the paper. You squat down to grip his hands and pull them away from his face, worried; when it’s finally revealed he’s bright red and he looks mortified. “I can’t believe I recommended your own books to you,” he all but wails. “And I gushed like a fanboy in front of you about them too. Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t mean to but you laugh. Jungkook tries to hide his face again but you pull the drafts out of his hands and send them scattering to the floor. “Oh, Jungkook,” you say, overflowing with affection. “You don’t have to apologise. I found it flattering, actually.”

He doesn’t seem bothered that you hadn’t told him sooner. He doesn’t care that you’ve been keeping it a secret. He’s just embarrassed. He stays embarrassed as he helps you gather up the papers, and he stays embarrassed as you return your own book that he’d let you borrow, and he stays embarrassed as he heads towards your front door for the second time that night. 

“I do, um, really like your work,” he says, shy as he fiddles with your door handle. “I’m really looking forward to your next novel. I’m not just saying that to be nice because I know who you are now.” His eyes are wide as he looks up at you. “I mean it.”

Your heart feels full to the brim with fondness. “I know,” you say. “I believe you. I— you can have a read through it before it’s published, actually, as long as you promise not to leak it.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen even further before he holds his hand out. “Pinky promise.”

You giggle as you hook your finger with his. “Pinky promise.”

Once Jungkook’s left you immediately sit down at your computer and write and write and write— it’s like the words just won’t stop. They come pouring out of you, and endless torrent that you don’t try to rein in. You write for so long you end up crashing at your desk, face smooshed against your keyboard as you drool in your sleep.

(“I don’t know how to dance,” Yunhee says, and Lily just smiles.

“Me neither,” she says. “We can learn together.”

They keep stepping on each other’s feet. It’s clumsy and messy and they keep dissolving into laughter between apologies to each other, but it’s perfect, because it’s Yunhee. 

It’s perfect, because it’s Yunhee, with Lily: because it’s them, together.)

--

“I’ve finished my novel,” you announce, and all the men at the table sit up.

“Wow.” Namjoon blinks at you. “I thought you weren’t due to publish for, what, another six months?”

“What can I say? I’ve been inspired.” You smile down into your glass before taking a drink of your orange juice.

Seokjin stares at you before he leans back in his chair. He’s always been able to read you through and through, and that perceptiveness doesn’t leave him now. “Ah,” he says. “You’re in love.”

You’re in the middle of swallowing your juice and nearly choke, spluttering. Namjoon pats your back with concern while his boyfriend looks askance.

“You’re in love and you didn’t tell me?” Jimin sounds affronted. “Who is it? Are they cute? Where are you hiding them? I knew you were lying about those flowers, you lying liar.”

“I wasn’t lying,” you wheeze, finally coughing the last remnants of orange juice out of your windpipe. “Well, I guess it was kind of a half lie? I was buying them, but, uh, he made them.” You fiddle with the napkin in your lap as Seokjin coos at you.

“You fell in love with a florist,” he says. “You’re literally living in an AO3 fanfic. That’s adorable.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, and Jin just laughs when you try to kick him under the table and nearly hit Namjoon instead.

“It sounds romantic,” Namjoon agrees, apparently unphased by how close he was to getting nailed in the shins.

Jimin slaps his small hand against the table. “You haven’t answered any of my questions, snake. I know what you’re like, Y/n— get the Polaroid out of your bag. We need to judge your new beau.”

Jimin’s right. He knows exactly what you’re like, the helpless romantic that you are; the three men shuffle their heads together to peer at the photo of Jungkook, the one where he’s surrounded by the sunset.

“He’s fucking cute,” Jimin decides immediately. “I’m almost offended you haven’t introduced him to us yet. You should invite him to our house-warming party. Namjoon agrees.”

You look at Namjoon, who nods despite not being consulted. “You’re so whipped,” you mutter at him. He just shrugs. “Anyway,” you continue, raising your voice over Jimin’s and Jin’s muttered conversation as they continue to stare at your photo of Jungkook. “I’m going to hold fire on the house-warming party invitation for now, because, um, I haven’t actually said anything to him yet.”

Your eyes are cast down as you say this, affixed to the sight of your hands in your lap. You’ve still been visiting Spring Day, of course, and you’ve started to see Jungkook more and more outside of work as well; each time you meet him you fall a little bit more in love. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to fall for him.

“Y/n.” Jimin’s voice is sober and you glance up from your lap to take in the worried look on his face. “I know it must be scary—”

“Oh gosh, Minnie, I love you, but it’s okay, you don’t need to give me a pep-talk on how I’m a 10/10 and anyone would be blessed to have me,” you interrupt. “I haven’t been putting off confessing because I think he’s going to pull a Jin and turn me down—”

“Hey,” Jin says mildly. He knows you’re joking. You got over that ages ago.

“—but I, um, emailed him my book yesterday, actually,” you finish. “What he does once he’s finished reading it is up to him.”

Jimin is right. It is scary. But Jungkook is worth the potential pain and heartache. He is. He’s always so lovely to you, always so considerate; he sings for you and dances with you and he’s even painted for you, a small canvas covered in favourite flowers, ones that won’t die. Last week when he’d dropped you off at your apartment, he’d brushed his lips across your cheek before practically sprinting away, and your heart had exploded in your chest. 

You have no idea how someone as amazing as Jungkook sees something worthwhile in you, so it's hard to come to grips with, but there’s no way you’re reading this wrong. There’s no way.

The table goes quiet and then Jin leans forward and takes your hands in his. “I can’t believe you’re confessing to him with your book,” he says. “This really is an AO3 fanfic. Hashtag slow burn.”

This time, when you kick him, you don’t miss.

You spend the rest of the day with your coterie of doofuses and by the time you get home you’re ready to relax. You’ve just finished getting into your pyjamas, flopping down onto your sofa when there’s suddenly a hammering at your door. You sit up, startled at the noise. The knocking doesn’t let up as you approach the door and you’re wary, but once you look through the peephole you immediately swing it open.

“Jungkook? Are you okay?”

He’s wild-eyed and windswept and his chest is heaving as he sucks in air. You stare at him with concern as he catches his breath.

“Yoongi let me have the day off,” he says. You blink at him.

“Okay? Did you want to go out somewhere? Now? You’ll have to let me change, though, my pyjamas aren’t exactly great evening wear.”

“I’ve spent the whole day reading your book,” Jungkook says, and your heart goes still in your chest before it starts beating at double time.

“Oh,” you say. “Um. What, uh. What did you think?”

Jungkook’s face has taken on an expression that you’ve become intimately familiar with, a similar look to the one he’d been giving you that night by the river, soft and open and warm and— you can see it now, as time has gone by— full of love. He cups your face in his hands and rests his forehead against yours, dark eyes drinking you in, the smile on his lips so lovely and sweet. Just for you.

“I love you,” he says, and then he kisses you.

He keeps cradling your face in his hands, his lips moving against yours in a way that’s so tender that it makes you want to cry; you’ve never felt so wrapped up in someone’s touch like this, like you can feel exactly how precious you are to him just from the touch of his lips against yours. You know it’s a cliché to say that it feels like fireworks going off in your chest, but it does, every single one of the butterflies that have been nestled in your ribcage exploding into flames and brightness, sparkling heat that shines out of you every second Jungkook keeps kissing and kissing and kissing you.

Kissing Jungkook feels like every romantic fantasy you’ve ever written into your books is coming true all at once. You’re not unwanted, undesirable, unlovable: he wants you, he desires you, he loves you. 

(He loves you.)

It feels like every flower he’s ever given you is flushing to full bloom all at once, spilling out of your chest, brightness and colour and life curling around your heart. All those years spent quietly hoping, culminating in this moment: Jeon Jungkook pressing his lips against yours, keeping you steady as you lean into him, and you feel like all that waiting and yearning and wanting was worth it if you got to meet him at the end of it all. You’ve finally got your storybook ending.

No, actually— it’s just the beginning. 

You’re still standing in your doorway when you part, Jungkook’s hands splayed across your jaw as you give him a smile so wide it almost hurts. 

“I love you too,” you say. “If that wasn’t already obvious.”

Jungkook chuckles and you can’t help but lean into the sound, eyes slipping shut as you turn your head and rest your forehead against his jaw. “I had to reread some parts because I didn’t think I was reading it right,” he admits, and you keep smiling. “I thought there was no way it could be real.”

How could Jungkook ever have any doubts? How could Jungkook think that there was no way that you could love him? Does he not realise how amazing he is? How wildly lucky you feel that somehow— with all your flaws and blemishes and imperfections— he loves you back?

“What made you come around?”

“Yoongi-hyung took one look at the last page and threw a roll of ribbon at my head,” Jungkook says, and you laugh, and Jungkook laughs, and the two of you are laughing and laughing and laughing. You feel like you could float away, buoyant with happiness; only Jungkook’s presence is keeping your feet on the ground. “I hope you don’t mind that I let him read it.”

“It’s okay.” You tilt your head back to look at Jungkook. He’s staring at you like you’re the sun and he’s turning towards you, a fierce and beautiful tiger lily blooming in your light. “I wouldn’t mind if you sent free copies of the book to everyone in the world if it meant I’d have you at the end of it.”

Jungkook smiles at you. It’s bright and wide and his eyes are crescents as his nose scrunches and he flashes his teeth, and you love him. “Purple rose, lilac, baby’s breath,” he says, and you recognise the flowers of the corsage he’d given you, all those months ago. “Love at first sight, first love, everlasting love.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Shut up,” you breathe. He'd seen you as worth loving, even then? “Shut up. You did not— you did not confess that you had a crush on me with flowers? After we’d only met twice?” 

“Maybe I did.” Jungkook’s smile turns cheeky and you love him.

“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe me. You were literally reading a book about flower language, how did I not— god. I love you,” you say helplessly, and he laughs before he kisses you again.

(“I love you.”

Yunhee freezes in place and looks up at Lily with wide eyes. Lily is terrified of being hurt again, terrified of Yunhee not returning all this endless love that she has in her heart— but Yunhee is worth that terror. She’s worth that pain. Even if she doesn’t feel the same, she needs to know how loved she is. How brilliant and lovely and wonderful she is, her Yunhee, her love.

Yunhee opens her mouth to reply, and says:

-

How this story ends is up to you, Jungkook. I’ll be waiting. - Y/n)