#i do want to write florist and tattoo artist but that’s like on the bottom | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aquata-the-champ · 3 years ago

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#13 Crack!ship AU: Write a crack!ship au. This should be a one shot of any characters in the roleplay, yours or someone else’s! Definition of a crackship: seriously this shit can’t happen but in an alternate universe. Add 10 applicable aO3 tags (enemies to lovers, modern au, etc.)

Lauren I’m so sorry

Title: You’re On My Heart Just Like a Tattoo Rating: Teen and Up Relationships: Aquata Triton/Gregory Eeyore @notmuchofatail Additional Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Tattoo Parlor/Flower Shop AU, Canon Divergent, No Seriously Nothing About This Is Accurate To Their Personalities, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Gazing Into One Another’s Eyes, Purple Prose, Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Hallmark Movie Vibes, Wattpad Vibes, Inaccurate Portrayal of Tattooing, Inaccurate Portrayal of Eviction, Inaccurate Portrayal of How Twitter Works, Deus Ex Machina, Happy Ending

A/N: Sorry :)

Every day, packages are delivered to the wrong shop at 37 Main Street. What many people don’t realize is that the building has two floors, a florist on the bottom floor and a tattoo parlor on the top floor. Every day, Aquata Triton signs for packages that do not belong to her, and every day she stomps upstairs, her annoyance building as she climbs each stair. “Eeyore! Another one!” she shouts as she rounds on the tattoo parlor. Regulars at Gregory’s shop have come to expect this.

Every day, Gregory Eeyore looks up from the design he is working on and grunts that Aquata can leave it wherever, and Aquata complains that he needs to start specifying to people that Eeyore Tattoos is located on the second floor at 37 Main Street, and Gregory promises he’ll do it, going back to working on his art.

But Gregory never does.

Here is another thing many people don’t realize about the tenants of 37 Main Street. That they don’t even know themselves: the owner of the tattoo parlor and the owner of the florist are desperately, hopelessly in love.

~*~*AQUATA’S POV*~*~

Aquata never wanted to be a florist. She inherited the shop after her mother’s death, after her big city dreams of coaching the England National Swim Team were dashed and she returned to her small hometown to start over. People are often surprised when they hear that this is her profession, because florists are supposed to be gentle and Aquata is anything but.

“Wow. What’d those flowers ever do to you?” Gregory snorts, loitering in the doorway of the florist.

Aquata looks up from the bunch of red roses she is wrestling into a complex arrangement for a summer wedding. It’s a difficult operation, and it takes more strength than people realize. Aquata’s long brown curls have seemed to escape her scrunchie, and small tendrils stick to her sweaty forehead.

And there’s Gregory, standing in her doorway. Cool and composed as ever. Aquata hates that clever little smirk, how his blue eyes seem to see right through her.

“What do you want, Gregory?” Aquata groans, wiping her forehead.

“Do I need a reason to stop by my downstairs neighbor’s shop and see how things are going?”

Aquata looks at Gregory quizzically. There has to be a higher motive. There always is. She’s been feuding with the tattoo artist ever since she moved back to town, and neither can ever seem to resist the opportunity to get the upper hand.

“Yes,” she says, then goes back to fighting with the flowers. She can feel those blue eyes on her, somehow, and a strange feeling comes over Aquata. One she can’t describe. She wants to say something, but she doesn’t even know what. So Aquata puts up her defenses. She looks up again. “Well?” she says impatiently.

Gregory nods, smiling to himself but looking resigned.

“Right, then. I’ll let you get on with it.”

~*~*GREGORY’S POV*~*~

Gregory knows it was stupid. He gets back upstairs and kicks a file cabinet, cursing his own silly notions. There was so much more he wanted to say. That his shop was in trouble, that he was thinking of leaving this town for good after the last disaster to hit, that he wanted to run away to Paris-- but that he wanted her to convince him to stay. For some reason. It was ridiculous. They were enemies!

But something in the way that Aquata smirks at him every time she hands him a wrongly-addressed package, something in the way that Aquata looks both strong and soft at the same time when she holds a delicate rose, something makes Greg wonder what it would be like to hold her hand.

Gregory is no romantic hero. He’s never been able to charm people the way that the protagonists of rom coms can-- all he can do is be himself. His confidence around Aquata has always been a shield, a shield covering his fears and his insecurity deep inside.

Things are quiet for a few days after that. The stairway to the tattoo shop is woefully quiet, and Greg wonders whether he completely misread things. He finds himself idly sketching hands-- always hands, curled around delicate red roses.

And then one day, it happens. An eviction notice. Gregory never had the kind of money Aquata Triton has, and this shop isn’t a fallback career for him, it’s his whole life. The Paris plan was always a fantasy, never a reality. Maybe, he supposes, he can move in with some old friends out in Manchester.

~*~*~*AQUATA’S POV *~*~*~

When Gregory mentions this, in passing, as she drops off yet another package, Aquata’s face falls. Gregory? Leaving? Aquata complains about him, makes a big show of annoyance when his packages mistakenly arrive, but she’s fallen into the easy rhythm of seeing him.

It’s five thousand dollars of rent that Gregory cannot pay. Chump change to Aquata, who’s never had to worry about money in her life. For the first time, she understands the difference in their positions.

Aquata stares at Gregory, as though trying to take in every detail before he disappears. His eyes are as familiar and yet as ever-changing as the sky above, his tattoos peeking out of his shirt collar like a book at the library Aquata wants to read but never has gotten around to. The world seems to go dark around her as Gregory idly supposes he’ll probably end up a few hours away in Manchester. As dark and black as the ink that Greg is now turning around to prepare for his next client.

Gregory can’t leave. He just can’t. Not before Aquata has the opportunity to tell him everything she’s never said. Not before Aquata can finally read the book in Gregory’s blue eyes, in the tattoos that cover his body.

She has an idea. It’s a ridiculous one. But not nearly as ridiculous as the magnetic pull she feels toward Gregory.

“Do you take walk-ins?” Aquata blurts out, before she even has time to think it through.

Gregory looks taken aback. “Er-- yeah. I do. Why?”

“I want one. Before you go.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

For the first time since she’s ever spoken to him, Aquata’s voice quivers shyly. “To remember you by,” she adds.

They lock eyes, and a million years flash by in a brief ten seconds. Everything Aquata wants to say is blooming in front of her eyes like flowers, and everything Gregory wants to say is spilling out like ink. But they can’t say it. They can only stand, eyes locked, hands shaking, the world spinning around them, and suddenly they both understand.

Gregory is first to break the spell. “Right then. What did you have in mind?”

“Whatever you want to do. I have five thousand dollars. I want to spend it all-- I don’t know what that gets me, but do it.”

*~*~*GREGORY’s POV *~*~*

Gregory’s jaw drops. It’s so much money, and to spend all at once... He’s never inked anything close to this price. “Aquata...”

“Do it, Gregory.”

“Don’t you want to see a design?”

Aquata shakes her head. And she hopes her gaze conveys the truth: she wants him to ink from the heart.

The tattoo takes weeks. Every day, after work, Aquata makes her way up the stairs for the next installment in her sleeve. Some days, she’s chatty, prodding Gregory for details about his next move and teasing him about the music he plays while he works. Other days, she’s more subdued. Those are the days when she remembers that the last stroke of ink to go on her arm will also be the last time she sees Gregory.

The design starts to take shape: roses twined around hands, winding all the way up Aquata’s left arm. Aquata wonders whether it’s a stock design, something Gregory would give anyone. And then one day she notices his notebook. “Are those designs for someone?” she asks curiously.

Gregory suddenly looks hesitant. “Erm, don’t worry about it,” he stammers.

“No, I want to see,” she says, grabbing the notebook with her free arm. The first page she opens to almost causes her to drop the book. It’s a drawing of the design Gregory has been inking onto her, dated one year ago. And in the bottom corner, it reads: For Aquata.

Aquata stares at Gregory. “You’ve... been planning this for a while.”

He blushes. “Well, I never thought you’d actually want it.”

“Why’s that?”

“I always thought you hated me.”

“I always thought I did, too.”

They lock eyes, and this time, Gregory doesn’t look away. There’s a silent exchange between them-- a nod of the head, a quirk of the eyebrow, a twist of the lips. And then suddenly, Gregory puts down the tattoo gun and Aquata leans forward and draws Gregory into a long, passionate kiss. He leans down to the tattoo bed to kiss her back.

It’s not the most productive day. But together, Aquata and Gregory create something even more beautiful, two roses twining around one another.

*~*~*~*AQUATA’s POV*~*~*~*

When the tattoo is finished, it’s bittersweet. “I suppose that’s it,” she says, looking down at her arm and then back up at Gregory. “You’re just going to leave.”

Gregory nods. The money was enough to keep the shop open for another month, but after this, he knows he doesn’t have long. The landlord has been banging on his door every day, demanding more money, and one tattoo isn’t enough to change everything.

Aquata is fighting back tears. She never cries in front of anyone. But Gregory isn’t just anyone anymore. “Will you do one thing?” she asks desperately. “Will you take a photo?”

It’s a miracle the photo doesn’t come out blurry, because Gregory’s eyes are filled with tears now, too. But the photo captures every line, every meticulous detail, now covering Aquata’s arm forever.

Later, when Aquata tweets the photo out, she knows that nobody will truly understand it. Nobody will know all of the laughter and the tears and the heart-wrenching emotion that has gone into every line of the sleeve, flowing through the ink. Nobody will know that she fell in love over this tattoo, or that it was a year in the making. But she decides to try to explain it anyway, in a thread that is more emotional and raw than anything she’s ever said to anyone, much less the entire internet.

She just hopes it can be enough. But part of her knows that it won’t be. Gregory and Aquata share one last kiss, and in the fading light streaming through the windows, Aquata wants to remember Gregory like this forever. A tattoo on her heart.

*~*~*~*ONE YEAR LATER*~*~*~*

“Gregory! We need more roses out front!” Aquata calls from the register. Gregory emerges from the back room with a box overflowing with red roses.

“Just tell me where to put them!”

The Grand Re-Opening is tonight. 37 Main Street no longer has two shops: it has one.

The Inked Rose is the newest addition to Main Street, a combination tattoo parlor and florist where fleeting beauty meets permanent art. After Aquata’s tweet went viral, everyone demanded their own floral tattoos-- and the landlord simply couldn’t evict Gregory any longer. Business exploded and Aquata proposed a deal: if they merged their shops, they never had to worry about packages being delivered to the wrong place again.

Some days, they switch off. Aquata is learning the art of tattooing, and Gregory is learning about flower arrangements. Main Street is booming with business, and Aquata has learned that, while she still has no particular passion for flower arranging, there’s something about doing a job with a person you love that makes it so much better.

Because she does love him. And he loves her too.

“Special delivery!” Gregory announces, presenting the box of roses to Aquata.

“What?”

The roses spell out two words: “Marry Me”?

“Eeyore!” Aquata groans, but she can’t keep that stupid grin off her face. She tackles him with a hug, and he stumbles backward into a flower display. Daisies rain down around Gregory.

“Is that a yes?”

Aquata smiles. “Yes.”

#this is stupidly long #the tags rlly say it all #im so sorry again lmfao #bdrpwrimo #bdrpwrimoemma #bdrpwrimo2021

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almondharry · 5 years ago

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the pages of summer

Prompt: Romance 101: Y/N is participating in a study abroad program for school when she meets Harry; who is in the same place writing his new album.

This is prompt 12 of @always-jackedup Sarah’s 25 days of summer challenge. This is my first time writing a y/n blurb! Here is what I came up with! Do give a click to the other prompts done by the talented authors who are apart of this!

word count: 9k

————

Studying abroad for a semester was Alice’s idea. She was the loud-mouthed girl who had taken the empty seat beside you in your freshman Intro to Asian Civilization course. You’ve been super glued at the hip for as long as you can remember; she’s the first number on your speed dial, the only one who can make sense of your nervous ramblings. The building blocks of this friendship stacked up one after the other, from stressing over impending midterms to complaining about shitty boys, and of course, empty tequila bottles.

She was the type of girl who thought going to the movies alone was embarrassing, so it wasn’t a surprise when she claimed she needed someone to go halfway across the world with.

“Think of it as a grad trip!” she exclaims with arms thrown in the air, her eyebrows almost touching her hairline.

The carpet on the floor is itchy against your bare thighs from where you’re sitting on her bedroom floor, legs pretzled. Your finger twirls the loose fray of your denim shorts.

Alice has a huge rectangular cardboard display in front of her, the type students used for science fairs, but without the flaps on the right and left. It’s no longer the plain white that you remember it being when she bought it from the dollar store years ago. Instead, it’s full of cut outs in all different shapes and sizes; you particularly like the tiny airplane stickers dotted at the right corner. Your eyes catch a magazine article clipping—Travel on a budget now!—and a picture of some exotic beach; the highly saturated water meant she pulled it off of google images. This moodboard has been a work in process for as long as can be.

Alice started it as a motivator to get her through the times where she desperately wanted to drop out of university. She’d always said that she would reward herself with a trip at the end of her studies.

“We’re not graduating for another semester, Alice.”

“So what? Let’s call it a pre-grad trip! We owe it to ourselves!” She gathers her pin straight hair an inch below the crown of her head before fastening the shiny black strands with an elastic from around her wrist. “You’ll be off to law school and I’ll be starting a full-time job. We can’t really push it to after graduation now, can we?”

A gust of air leaves your lungs in a sigh. She’s right, there is no denying it. Who knows what flexibility your schedules will allow if you delay this into the future. You recall back to the relentless hours you spent in preparations of your LSAT exams. You had deprived yourself from a social life for months, studying for the most important test in your life did take off some years of your life span. Now that your acceptance letter came in you think you can treat yourself to jetting away for a semester with a great friend. You’ve earned it, you tell yourself.

Alice is looking at you with expecting eyes. The anticipation that gleams in her eyes is childlike, the look is enormously similar to a little kid about to open a christmas present they’ve been yearning for.

As a smile slowly crawls on your lips, her eyes double with realization. You agree. The rate at which she jumps up and throws her lanky arms around your neck suggests someone lit a round of firecrackers under her. Her high pitched squeals leave your left ear ringing.

You roll your eyes and laugh into her bony shoulder. “Alright, alright! Let’s bring the globe.”

***

The reason why Alice and you get along so well is because you agree on the same things. You’ve decided to stray away from common study abroad places such as London, New York, Toronto, for your semester. You want to experience life somewhere completely different. Also the fact that those placements have already been snatched up by other students narrows down your pool of options by quite a bit.

You both settle on the city of Tariz. It is a secluded area with a decent population, not large enough to be a well known staple city, but enough to have a bustling sense of community. Their language is a mix of Turkish and broken English.

The brochure you are given and the exploratory google searches here and there only feed your excitement.

Most of the architecture of the city is ancient. High arches and intricate stones decorate multiple streets. The streets are more like tight valleys, the rusted bricked walls of neighboring houses and stores transport you into another time period completely. There is even a dated sculpture planted in the middle of the town circle, it’s details are so well preserved that it seems life like—you’re dying to feel the smooth stone under your fingertips.

Your laptop displays all the potential flight times and costs. With a tap of your finger, the plane ticket is confirmed.

***

The first words you learn are Kirree and Poffasa.

Kirree is local drink of Tariz. It’s a bitter coffee with a splash of milk and two drops of essence that smells like roses. You prefer to sweeten it with honey, rather than sugar. Poffasa translates to please. The combination of these words are used every time you step into the corner shop located on Cardin Street.

The bell clanks above you and signals the worker behind the counter of your arrival. A welcoming grin pulls at his lips, you’ve come in enough times for him to remember your name. He knows to talk to you with more hand gestures and use short words.

You found this family owned cafe on your second week here. It’s situated beside a book store and a florist. There is an open patio outside which you take advantage of every once in a while when the humidity won’t poof up your hair. When the wind blows your way, it carries a strong scent of light florals—it’s quite poetic. It’s also only a ten minute walk from the university you are taking your courses at and two streets down from the apartment Alice and you rent.

“Kirree?” The man behind the counter—Amjad—inquires with a raised brow.

“Poffasa.” You smile.

He taps your order into the system and you drop some copper coins in the cup of his palm. Amjad moves with ease behind the counter, his fancy coffee machine makes a churning sound as he holds the rim of a cup to its long narrow mouth. He stirs milk and essence in a way you’ve seen him do countless times. Although you miss seeing a Starbucks within every ten steps, you’re grateful that you are able to experience a sip of someone else’s culture.

Amjad passes you the drink, it’s a simple latte cup with a bleach white plate at the bottom. Another smile is exchanged between you two, this is usually where the conversation stops.

“Tib tu,” you say. It’s a casual thanks people say to one another, you had picked it up recently.

Amjad’s eyes brighten up instantly. His smile becomes impossibly wide in a way that tells you he’s proud of your slowly developing ability to communicate. You can’t hold a fluent conversation just yet, but enough to keep a casual one going.

“Tib tu!” He laughs and wipes the counter with the rag previously rested on his shoulder.

You are engrossed into your course review settled at a circular table. Your laptop informs you of the requirements for the essay due next week, you crack open the novel and highlight potential quotes to help support your thesis. It is a simple Wednesday afternoon, business is slow, which is ideal because it doesn’t interrupt your concentration.

Hours pass by and you bob your head every once in a while to the soft radio filling the small shop. Neon yellow ink bleeds over a particular line you find interesting when the bells above the door chime and bring in a gust of humid air. Your upper lip curls in disdain momentarily because of the thick sticky air cuts through the coolness of the AC. You lick the pad of your index finger and flip the page.

The steady thump of boots against the floor gets louder as the person nears the counter to your right. Amjad had ducked in the back a moment ago so the customer waits patiently. This would’ve been fine, but then they begin to whistle a tune under their breath. Your focus on the essay in front of you shatters like delicate china.

You look up to see the artist behind this pesky noise. From your position, you are granted the view of his side profile and your eyes widen gradually. Sharp jaw, wavy hair, high cheekbones. He is cute. Something about him screams so familiar; maybe it’s because he has the same build as your ex or maybe the tattoo on his arm is close to the one Alice has. Your brain tells you you’ve seen him before, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

Amjad comes out from behind swinging doors and your head drops back to your books.

“Zerki! Tim tu ga?”

“I’m sorry—English only.” It’s a British accent, the words are timid and he blends the first two together.

“Ah!” Amjad nods quickly with a wide, understanding smile. You can tell he is excited because this is a new customer. Although this cafe isn’t a tourist location, the university located near it brings in countless study abroad students. You assume he is another student somewhere from Britain.

Amjad swipes a plastic menu from behind him before placing it in front of the customer. You remember him showing you this on your first day here. The descriptions didn’t help much because it wasn’t in English, but the corresponding pictures did clarify some fog.

He puckers his lips and the deep frown between his brows is enough to say he hasn’t been in this city for more than a couple days. His index finger taps a picture and he looks up expectantly to Amjad. You pick up bits and pieces of the conversation. He is trying to ask a question about an ingredient, but Amjad thinks that’s what he wants to order. There is a lot of hand gestures and frowns and crumpled brows as they try to understand each other. This goes on for about five minutes until Amjad looks around the shop with a sigh. His eyes land on you and he instantly brightens up.

He calls your name and your head shoots up. “English? You English speak?”

You remember giving this information when telling Amjad what you’re studying in uni. Your eyes bounce back from the customer to Amjad before slowly nodding. He wants you to briefly translate something for him. The legs of your chair screech against the tiles as you get up and walk towards them.

When you come to stand beside the customer, you can smell the shampoo he uses. The citrus wafts into the air and when mixed with the smell of fresh brew, it is an odd yet pleasant scent. “What are you trying to ask?”

“I just want him to take the sweetener and milk out of this.” He points to the image on the laminated menu.

You raise a brow. “You sure? The Kirree is going to be really bitter, like worse than black coffee.”

“Yeah, that’s what I like.”

You give him an odd look but turn towards Amjad. “Kirree, na sarr, na dou.”

“Ah!” Amjad nods right away, plucking a cup from a tall stack before grabbing a marker. “Nama?”

You meet the green of his eyes. “He’s asking for your name.”

There is a pregnant pause in the air. It lasts long enough for you to second guess if you said your sentence loud enough. Then you see the beginnings of a smile ghosting his lips, the corners are upturned, but barely. Like he knows something you don’t.

He brings his index finger to rub horizontally below his nose. “It’s um, Harry.”

The scratchy sound of Amjad scribbling letters on the cup fills the silence. He turns his back to prepare the drink at the counter.

“Thank you,” Harry says.

“‘Course, it’s no problem.”

You occupy your previous spot and get lost in developing the arguments for your body paragraphs.

***

It’s childish. A part of you prides yourself on the fact that you are a regular at the cafe. You come here so often that you can find your way even if you were left blindfolded on the street. Amjad and you have gotten to know each other so well that he doesn’t have to ask for your order anymore. Hell, the table that you religiously sit at probably has your name neatly engraved on it. It is your quiet cafe.

Then you see Harry. You don’t think much of it when you see him after a week. Then he comes once again, four days later. Then again, two days after that. The days between his visits get shorter and shorter to the point that he is here everyday. You feel the crown that you’ve titled yourself with slowly slipping off your head.

He doesn’t make much noise because he reads—a lot. His designated place is at the table on the other end of the shop, you catch yourself stealing glimpses of him. Sure, it’s attractive that he’s a cute boy who likes to read, but what really gets you are his expressions when he finds a specific line or passage interesting. You’ve seen his brows draw in when he is upset. You know the two deep dimples that poke his cheeks when he finds something witty. You’ve witnessed his lips part slowly when he reads something poetic.

Right now, his chest vibrates and the corner of his eyes crinkle as he shakes his head. He is wearing a plain black sweater. A string of planets coloured in pink, blue and yellow, start from one shoulder and end at the other. You want to drag your finger over the knit material.

It’s slow. The swirls begin in the pit of your stomach and gradually increase in size. The last time you felt something develop this quickly was when you were in grade school, toes hidden in hot playground sand and eyes fixed on to your crush. You could’ve sworn he had an ever present halo hovering above his head. You still have one thing in common with your eight year old self, you both admire from afar and never build up the courage to go after what you really want. One sided pining and yearning is all you know.

Your attention gravitates towards the window when you become numb to the words on your laptop screen. You allow yourself these little breaks to lessen the stabbing strain your eyes develop. You lean back into the chair, from this angle you have a perfect view of the fountain outside. A butterfly flaps its wings insistently to keep its little body afloat, it circles the pointy tip of the structure. The water sparkles under the setting sun, it looks like a picture cut and pasted out of paradise. You wonder what it would be like to thread your fingers in its ripples rather than gripping a pen to your notepad.

You entertain this daydream for a moment longer. Then something pricks your skin, like a million tiny thumbtacks. The feeling of being observed passes over you; it’s silent and formless. You tear your eyes away from the scenery and your line of sight reflexively falls on soft green eyes. They are already focused on you, imploring and bated. A jet of warmth shoots down your spine.

You bite the inside of your cheek and deliberate looking away, but there is something magnetic about holding his stare. It’s playful, yet holds a pulling weight. He isn’t giving up either, hasn’t made one effort to try to blink away. It’s like you both hold one end of a rope, challenging tugs are given from each side to see who will break first.

A smile spreads across his lips, it’s slow like dripping molasses, and suddenly the butterfly isn’t circling the peak of the fountain. It has made a home in the pit of your stomach, thrashing wildly against your ribcage.

The bells clank above the door as a new customer walks in, and like a delicate twig under a heavy stomp, the moment is broken. It’s a middle aged woman with a toddler balanced on her hip. You blink away quickly and pretend to type a sentence on your keyboard. An Indian summer heat bites at your cheeks.

The sigh you release is deep rooted in your belly. The moment you shared was like clutching a fistful of sand. The grains quickly slipped from your hold and before you know it, you’re left with dry, empty hands.

***

A bead of sweat drips down the nape of your neck and trickles down your spine. Your cheeks are splotched red and baby hairs are matted to your forehead. The humidity levels are sky high today. The short walk from your lecture to the cafe is equivalent to a small marathon. You take a right at the intersection and the figure walking in front of you looks disgustingly familiar.

It’s Harry, and he is also walking towards the cafe.

He wears a simple black cotton t-shirt which shouldn’t make your heart skip like a stone over water, but it does. His shoulders slope in humble curves, but hold strength. The material moves with each step he takes and clings to his shoulder blades. Your mouth goes dry from the way his muscles flex under the fabric.

Your gaze flickers down to his left arm, it’s covered in detailed ink whereas his right arm is more sparse. A particular floral tattoo grabs your attention, the petals of the expansive rose begging to be traced. In his palm he clutches a worn leather journal, a long tie of the same material wraps around it multiple times. You’ve seen him spend hours with hunched shoulders and a pen pressed tightly to the papers, you wonder what secrets it wraps. In the same hand, he holds some sort of novel, you see a dog ear folded near the first few pages. You don’t have the opportunity to analyze a title because he is pulling the heavy glass door of the cafe.

The door doesn’t open fully, it stops awkwardly at a forty-five degree angle when he catches your image reflected in the glass. You don’t miss the slight jump of his brows when he first notices that it’s you.

He shuffles to the side with his fingers still wrapped around the handle of the door. With his movements, the door opens wider. The crisp, conditioned air flutters from inside the cafe and goosebumps pimple the skin on your forearms. It takes you a second to realize he is holding the door open expectantly.

“You first.” He cocks his head towards the shop.

You press your lips together to hide a budding smile.

It’s just a door, you tell yourself. People hold open doors for others all the time. It’s a common courtesy. Nothing extravagant. As you step in the space, you can’t help the warmth that slowly spreads in your chest—like a drop of watercolour staining a white sheet.

You don’t have time to overthink this simple act of kindness, you take in the shop you notice it is brimming with people. Kids and teens sip colourful refreshers and lemonades and almost everyone has an iced drink to combat the heatwave passing over today. As you notice most of the tables are being taken up, your eyes immediately pull towards your designated table. A relieved breath escapes your lips as you see that it is the only vacant spot. Your feet rush to it in a hurry and you drop your bag on the chair to stake claim.

You make eye contact with Amjad and gives you a nod, as if saying he’s already in the middle of preparing your drink. Harry is the second person in line and browses the pastry options while scratching the scruff on his face. You take this time to get situated by pulling out your agenda, laptop, and a textbook.

You’ve opened up your last draft and skim over some lines to jog your memory of what you left behind. You had grown accustomed to the quietness of the cafe, but today, the lack of it makes it harder for you to focus on the words in front of you.

The wave of light citrus in the air causes you to halt your typing. Your eyes catch the plaid printed trousers that taper in at the ankles from the corner of your eye. You lift your line of sight to see a simple blank shirt tucked in at the waist. Higher are the ringed fingers which grip two plates that are topped with Kirree cups. Finally, you look up to see it’s Harry, a journal and novel is tucked under his armpit.

His eyes are a muted green, framed with thick lashes. Reading glasses are perched on his head, they keep the few disobedient curls from sweeping over his forehead. You know he gets annoyed by them when he reads or writes, especially when they poke his left eye.

He releases his bottom lip from behind his teeth. “Amjad sent this over.” The Kirree in his right arm raises towards you.

You quickly reach forward to take hold of the plate, making extra sure you don’t let the steaming liquid trickle over the rim, or even worse, accidentally brush your skin against his. You’re positive the latter would leave a deeper burn. “Great, thank you. You didn’t have to bring it over.”

“S’alright. I was headed here anyway.”

You tilt your head to one side, silently urging him to continue.

He scratches the back of his neck, the curls at the nape of his neck shift. Harry’s neck cranes as he looks around the shop. His jawline sharpens when he looks completely to the left. Today everything is bustling. A kid pulls the hem of his mother’s dress with a deep frown to get her attention. Two little girls with matching pigtails fight over a specific coloured crayon two tables down from you. A group of students fill up the remaining tables; from their flashcards, it seems as though they’re conducting a study group. The whole town has chosen this cafe to seek refuge from the brutal heat.

The time he takes to analyze the buzzing environment, you press the rim of your drink to your lips.

“The only other empty chair is this one.” His eyes flicker to the simple white plastic from across you. The tips of his ears are impossibly red. “Mind if I sit?”

You almost choke on your sip, but you contain the liquid from spluttering out by downing the scalding gulp. “‘Course.” The urgency behind your immediate reply makes your face hot.

He lifts the chair slightly before pulling it from the table. The small courteous act of avoiding the ugly screech against the floor sends your heart flooring.

You think your heart would tire eventually, but the annoying thing continues to jackrabbit even after a solid ten minutes of him being seated across from you. Your palms are sweaty and your brain is firing up with a thousand different thoughts every second. How long had you wanted him to sit across from you? How long had you wanted him to exchange more than a smile with you? You’re getting words from him. He’s actually talking to you. It’s all a bit overwhelming.

Hours later, you’re fed up with the mundane reading. You had set a goal to read 800 pages, but you can make it barely through the 200 mark. It stares back at you from your laptop screen, challenging and daunting. A deep defeated sigh leaves your lips and your shoulders sink.

“What are you reading?” He asks, his eyes trained on the novel in front of him.

“It’s a reading for my modernism course. I rather individually pluck my eyelashes out.” He purses his lips to suppress a smile; A candlelight flame dances in your chest. You squint at the cover shielded behind his fingers, but you can’t quite make out the picture or title. “You?”

“Bukowski.”

Your lips part slowly. “Oh.” His eyes follow your movements when you raise a hand to gently tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “Sorry.”

“No, no it’s okay—it’s hard to see because the cover is well loved.”

“No, I meant I’m sorry that you have shit taste in books.”

His face is blank for a minute, not giving away anything as he mulls your words over in his head. Then the corners of his lips poke up. When you see the dimple is more prominent on his left cheek, you almost let a strangled, breathless Fuck slip out. “You think so?”

You scrunch your nose and nod.

“You should try something by Murakami.” Multiple titles run through your mind and you purse your lips as you mentally browse which one to offer. Something about recommending a book, a song, or another piece of art, can be so vulnerable because people only like things they can see themselves reflected in. You pray to whatever higher powers that exist that Harry won’t think twice about it. “Have you read Norwegian Wood?”

He wets his lips with his tongue. They become a vivid pink, like fresh peonies or a sickening sweet birthday cake frosting. “I’m afraid I have not.”

Your fingers dip into the slit of your bag and before you can register what is happening. Your copy of the novel is slightly curving at the corners and feels more weighted from when you first bought it. This is because countless sticky notes and page markers you’ve stuffed in between the front and back cover. You can’t believe you’re freely handing over your annotated book, it’s full of all your thoughts and views and it seems intimate to give him access to that. You think to take a moment to rip out all your work, but your arm is already extended and he clutches the other end of the book.

***

“He held a door for you,” Alice notes.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“He sat with you. For hours.”

“—Because the place was full.”

“You caught him staring at you! This sounds exactly like a dreamy movie!”

“It’s not, it’s just—” Your palm gestures vaguely in the air. You’re at a loss for words because if you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t know what this is. What you do know, is the childlike glee you get around him and the stolen glances you pocket away and the shy smiles you exchange. “—Harry from the coffee shop.”

Alice stresses your name in a pointed tone. “Please.” She drags a tiny brush over the sparse area of her toe nail, the fushia pink compliments her newly tanned skin. The smell of polish and acetone is poignant in the living room. “We both know you’re clueless as can be about these things.”

Your jaw meets the floor as you prop up your weight on the cushion of the sofa. “Am not!”

“Are so!” Alice twists the cap on the nail polish tightly. She flips the small bottle and shakes it to insure it won’t drip. “You need people to literally spell out if they like you or not!”

“Being clear is a good thing!”

“But… where’s the romance in that?” You should’ve known telling Alice about Harry would get twisted into something. Alice is adamant that he has a thing for you, but you can’t connect the dots. You thought asking for an unbiased perspective on this situation would bring some clarity, but all Alice knows are the countless rom coms on Netflix and the wall full of cheesy lovey dovey novels she collects. “From where I see it, you both are longing from a distance. How long has this been going on for?”

“Like almost two months.”

Her eyes double in size. “Jesus!”

“I know, I know.” A palm comes to rub over your face to hide the red colouring your cheeks.

“Before we leave you need to do something about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Find a moment, grab him by the shoulders and lay one on him. It’s not like he’ll see you again.”

You roll your eyes.

***

Harry doesn’t sit alone at his table like he previously used to do. After that day you gave him the novel, he has glued himself to the seat across from yours. It’s nice. You both work in amicable silence together with occasional conversation; you switch between your laptop and novel and he scribbles some words in his journal. It’s not a stream of consistent thought, the words are broken and spaced out and formatted differently. You assume he writes poetry.

It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve both made together. Every week you pick something new off the chalked menu items and alternate buying. Today you pick a slice of carrot cake. You remember him saying in passing that he was fond of it and wondered how different it would be from traditional American or European cake.

The plate sits dead center of the table, a fork at each end. You dig the metal to the pointy end of the cake and cup your palm underneath the utensil when you bring it to your mouth. Harry does the same except he doesn’t use his palm. It’s endearing that a crumb is stuck to the left corner of his top lip. You make deliberate eye contact while you both chew slowly. A rating becomes more clear in your mind as time passes and you see the same behind his eyes.

“Love it,” he concludes.

You continue chewing your bite for a little longer, he’s waiting, expecting to keep this conversation going. Harry scans your features as you derive your final thoughts. He doesn’t realize this, but his eyes have a weighted tenacity that you find yourself squirming under. It’s not uncomfortable, more so intense—He makes you feel like you’re an exceptionally important person. You run a tongue over your teeth before letting yourself speak.

“It’s good.”

“Just good?”

“Good,” you confirm.

He has gotten a sense of your rating scale without you defining it for him. He remembers the coconut slice was mind blowing. The strawberry was amazing. The peanut butter, nutella and banana was exceptional. He recalls you closing your eyes briefly because they rolled back in bliss. The indulgent moan you let slip through made his brain short circuit. The high points of his cheek were the same colour as the cherry drizzle that topped the rhubarb cake.

He digs his fork once more to grab another bite. You refrain.

A sweet smile dances on your face as you tuck your chin in the palm of you hand, your elbow anchors your weight on the table. You don’t know when to tell him that with each bite he takes, he adds on a couple more crumbs to his face. A part of you doesn’t want to tell him at all because it’s so adorable.

“What?” He prompts when he sees you observing him.

“You’ve...” You trail off, but then roll your eyes last minute, deciding not to let him in on it. It’s a miniscule thing. “Nevermind.”

“Now you’ve got to tell me.”

“It’s fine.”

The sinking feeling in his stomach knots his intestines together. A plunging fear of his identity being revealed is something he doesn’t know that he’s ready for. You had asked him what his name was for Amjad to write on the cup. You clearly didn’t know anything about him. He wanted to see how long the cloak of invisibility spell would last on him. There’s something about meeting someone without them having preconceived notions set about him. It’s rare and refreshing for him and he wants to prolong this with you. He gnaws at his lip momentarily, do you know?

“Did you google something?”

You splutter a confused laugh. “What?”

“It’s—I” He threads his fingers through his hair. A panic bounces in his eye. He knows the inevitable, you will find out sooner or later. Should he just tell you now? “Did you—”

Before he gets a chance to finish his sentence you crumple a napkin in your hand and lean slightly across the table.

He is taken aback by your sudden closeness, but relaxes his tense shoulders when the floral notes of your perfume floats around him.

You drag the napkin at the corner of his mouth and collect the persistent crumbs. You feel his eyes trained on one side of your face. There is a charged intimacy in the air that both of you don’t acknowledge. This innocent act speaks louder than any words between you two could. You tell yourself that maybe this feeling is one sided, a complete travesty, but then you see his adam’s apple rise and fall has he swallows a nervous gulp. It’s enough to let you know he feels it too. To keep yourself from doing something you might regret, you pour all your focus to the task at hand. This moment lasts for a couple seconds at most, but the fervor behind it could outlive even the oldest stars.

“There,” you say, your back meets your chair once again. “That was all.”

***

“How much have you gotten through?”

“I’m at the halfway mark. A few scenes have stuck out to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your eyes immediately flick up meet his. Curiosity and anticipation pull at each end of your lips to form a smile. Your wrist finishes jotting down the last of correction on your essay, the red pen in your grasp moves on autopilot because Harry has once again captured all your attention. He’s done it numerous times before, it’s just something he is good at. “Which ones?”

There is a soft grin on his lips. “When Toru lets go of the firefly on the roof.”

“Why did you like it?”

“It was such a simple act, but probably meant so much more.”

“You’re right, it did.” You nod. Red ink strikes out two sentences, but your ears are still perked up. “What else?”

“Naoko’s birthday.”

“Really?” The pitch of this word is higher than your previous ones, you’re surprised. You once had a conversation with someone who passionately claimed the scene should’ve been ripped out Norwegian Wood. You stop writing completely and give him your utmost undivided attention. You elbows press to the surface of the table as you lean it slightly and drop your volume to an octave lower. “Is it because they fucked?”

“Yeah,” he nods after a moment of contemplation. You shoot him a look, not because of his scene choice, but his lack of explanation, and he backtracks immediately. It would be awfully disheartening if that is all he had to say about that. “No, no, no. It’s not what you’re thinking. It was just so sad and lonely and—” He takes a deep breath and his nostrils flare. “I really felt for Naoko. It’s an oddly relatable thing—being in that state of mind, feeling that, all while giving yourself to someone. I don’t know, it’s just—”

His words hang in the air, but from the crumpled look on his face, you know exactly what he wants to communicate. The impervious silence between you two stays for a moment.

Talking about books with him was something you look forward to. He likes when you push him to read certain books. He admits once with a bashful look that he was intimidated by you. Your list of recommended books—it only went up to five, ink scratches on tissue you handed him one night before parting—made you seem very well read in his eyes. You dismissed it quickly with a wave.

A smile quirks your lips. “That was one of my favourites too.”

The praise balloons a feeling in your chest that would only contribute to one-sided feelings. You told him your list is no match to what is really out there; your goal isn’t to be a pretentious well-read girl, but it’s to find more titles that make you feel a spectrum of emotions.

He takes a minute to absorb your words. With an understanding nod he goes back to writing in his journal. You think you pick up on a musical note or chord, but you can’t be sure.

***

The blanket of humidity suffocating the town finally breaks on a Friday. In the wee hours of the early morning, you hear the clap of thunder rip through the clouds and pour down a bucket of water. It transitions into a romantic drizzle as noon rolls around.

It was one of those odd days where you are at the cafe before Harry. Your plain black umbrella sits in his chair, drops of water fall off the pointy tip and splatter against the floor.

“What’s this?” Harry grips the hooked handle of the umbrella as he lifts it up. The folded flaps of the fabric move like the arms of a ceiling fan before hitting against each other. “You’ve replaced me already?”

He has a pleased look on his face, clearly too proud of his joke.

You drop all traces of expression from your face and force your eyebrows to curl in a deep, confused frown. The slight tilt of your head to the left completes the faux look. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He rolls his eyes, pinching his lips to on side in an effort to subdue the smile you both know is about to flourish. “Funny.”

You laugh under your breath. He wipes away the remaining droplets of water on the chair before taking his seat. Fingers comb back his hair, you notice it is a darker brown, a wet curl curves at the shell of his hair in a perfect swoop.

Like always, hours go by without you noticing. The sun has long bid its farewell. You’ve shared casual conversation, another slice of cake, and another book recommendation.

Amjad begins to flip the stools upside down on their respective table, the sound makes you look up. The lights are toned into a dim buttery yellow rather than the stark white you’re used to. He’s closing up for the night. It’s just you and Harry in the space, both of you begin to collect your belongings. You tuck your laptop into its sleeve before plucking your highlighter and pen into your bag. The novel you used is carefully bookmarked and pressed into your tote bag.

“Shit,” Harry hisses. Through the glass window you see the sky is an angry black, flashes of white remind you of when you had taken your high school graduation pictures. The rain is no longer a shy drizzle, it’s a wrath coming down so hard as though it seeks age old revenge.

You are thankful that you’ve brought your umbrella, but Harry can’t say the same for he is looking at the scene in front of you while scratching the back of his head. As he turns to you, you can see the same thought floating in his head.

“It’s alright, I’ve got one.” You wave the umbrella in your hand as you hike up the straps of your bag to your shoulder.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “We’re headed the same way anyways.” You know your stop comes before Harry’s, it’s only a short walk from the cafe, you plan to pass the umbrella to him so he can continue his path back home.

As you near the door, you call out a farewell to Amjad. “Ta ra!”

“Ta ra!”

The sound of rain drowns out the clanking of the bells as the door shuts behind you. You quickly press a hidden button and the metal arms of the umbrella spread wide open. You shelter yourself under it and shuffle so Harry has enough room under it.

“You’re good at it, you know?” He says as you both begin the trek. The raindrops make a muted pattering against the material of your umbrella.

You face him and raise a brow. “What?”

“Just—living here, communicating, and all that sort. I would’ve never guessed you weren’t from here until I heard you speak English.”

“Yeah?” You breath in the smell of fresh rain, the wind mists some water on your face and a calmness seeps into your bones.

Harry shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his shoulders cave inwards. “Would’ve probably just sat at my table like a fool and wonder why you come here so religiously.”

A smile pulls at your lips. “You would wonder about me?”

“Maybe.”

You laugh at his reluctance to say a proper yes. You know it’s a solid yes. Your eyes focus on the potholes in the sidewalk, rain water creates puddles and you strategically place your steps. “I would too—about you.”

“Now, you’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Sure,” he hums.

A cool breeze circles the lonely streets, the thin hair on your arms stand up tall. The silence that makes itself prominent is comfortable. You decide this a perfect moment to tell him. You can’t begin to imagine the hurt on his face when he steps foot into the cafe and you’re not there. You’ve been practicing a speech in your bathroom mirror for two weeks now, trying all sorts of combinations to find the right words. Nothing has stuck so you bite the bullet and blurt the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’m going home.” Your heart is in your throat. Your voice is no where near bold and sure as you’d like it to be. It’s a timid whisper and you’re just thankful you haven't stuttered from the bundle of nerves in your gut.

He doesn’t reply immediately, you begin to ponder if the sound of rain submerged your sentence.

“We both are.” He gives you a weird look.

“No—I mean, I’m leaving Tariz. My semester here is ending, for the study abroad thing.”

Though the humidity in the air is long gone, you feel a thick heaviness in it.

“Oh.” The tone of the word suggests that he wasn’t expecting this. Harry scratches the back of his neck looking down at the pavement. “When’s your last day?”

The silence speaks for you.

His eyebrows jump. “Really?”

You roll your lips together before replying. “I’m afraid so.”

“Well, did you like it? The experience.”

You grin. Of course he could ask you this. You haven’t given much thought to this question up until now. You know when you go back home this will be the first thing people ask you, you take the opportunity as a way to practice an answer.

“Loved it,” you say without a shadow of doubt. “It went beyond my expectations.”

Harry gives your hand that fists the umbrella stem a push from below, urging you to raise it slightly higher. When you look up to see him, you realize the material grazes the top of his head. You mumble a quiet sorry before complying, he ignores your apology by prompting another question. “Favourite part?”

“There are loads. But the Kirree, the culture—”you take a brief pause, it builds the anticipation. “Amjad.”

“Amjad?”

“Amjad,” you confirm. It takes so much from you to not laugh at his ridiculous tone. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” The shrug of his shoulders is anything but casual. “I just thought, nevermind.”

You chuckle, shaking your head while trying to keep your smile at bay. “You’re so obvious.”

Wet hair strands glue to your face with the help of the rain. Your fingers peel them from your skin before tucking them behind your ear.

A deep sigh leaves him.

“I am, aren’t I?”

You both stop at the abandoned intersection. A red palm glows from the other side of the road, halting you from taking a step. You both could make a run for it because no cars are zooming the streets at this time, but you don’t. You feel the heat lift off Harry’s shoulder, there is something so intimate about being under the same umbrella on an empty street with him.

A sigh slips through your lips. You’re going to miss him the most. The routine, the secretive smiles, the tension. Alice’s words inject into your skin like a long needle. Do something.

“I liked meeting you too, for the record,” you say after a moment.

“Yeah?” His nose scrunches up as he looks to you. The traffic light above waves from the wind, a colourful glow lights up his profile emphasizing the sharp cut of his cheekbone and jaw. “It was good, seeing you every day at the cafe. Liked it—quite a lot actually.”

The sentence would’ve been fine as is, but the last four words he tacks on the end adds a double meaning. They put a tangible definition to the feeling that you both had been dancing around since day one. A painful silence settles between you two, it’s razor sharp and so prominent. You both know that it’s something you can’t avoid for any longer.

It’s a brush of fingers at first. Innocent enough to be an accident between strangers on the subway or two people walking in opposite directions on the same side walk. Then it happens again. This time his fingers slot between yours. The silver metal of his rings are frigid against your heated skin. You hope the relentless pattering of rain against pavement masks the boistourius thumping of your heart.

You think you’re imagining it all, but then he shifts his body towards you. His towering height looms over you and he leans in slightly. His breath is warm as it puffs on your cheek, a dizzying contrast against the cool drops of water that rest on your skin. Your lips slowly part in awe and his eyes immediately flicker to them.

The sharp tug he gives your hand is enough to pull you in a step closer, chests press against one another. The touch makes you tighten the grip on the handle of your umbrella, your knuckles become a snow white.

“This okay?” He asks softly. It’s a whisper, silvery and light, but flares a torrid heat in the pit of your stomach.

A stated latency is introduced into the wet atmosphere around you, it traps your bodies into a secluded bubble. His thumb brushes a long stroke from the diviot where your thumb and index meet all the way up to the tip of your pointer finger. The slow, tender pace of it almost makes you whimper.

Only when he sees your chin move in a nod does he press the tip of his nose to the skin of your cheek. You almost cry then. It’s a cruel, calculated torture for him to drag his nose from your cheek to your temple. Your fingers slip from his in favour to clutch the fabric of his sweater. You pull the threads closer to you, a silent plea to move his lips near yours. You feel his smile press against your temple. His palm rests on your hip then gradually slides to your lower back. Your lashes flutter momentarily before resting on your flaming cheeks.

His lips brush the smooth, thin skin of your eyelid twice, he plants a gentle kiss at the corner of your eye. He moves down to the apples of your cheek, the cupid bow of his lips lovingly traces the skin there. Your fingers crawl up from his chest and rest where his shoulder and neck meet. As he continues his innocent torment, the pad of your thumb traces the bump of his adam’s apple.

He brings his free hand to tilt your chin up, he aligns his forehead with yours. You both stay there for a moment while taking calming breaths. You notice his skin his warm under your fingertips and the rise and fall of his chest isn’t steady. You never put sugar in your Kirree, it’s always been honey for you. This is because the grains don’t fully dissolve and sit stubbornly at the bottom of your drink. As you crack your eyes slightly open, you see he has something golden on his lips. Shiny, sticky, inviting.

“Please,” you breathe.

His lips are warm, slick, and sweet against yours. You’d seen them quirked up in a smirk, in bashful smiles, in teasing grins. You wonder what they look like pressed so delicately against yours. The pads of his fingers dig into your flesh as he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth. His tongue laps in just the right way—slow, with the tiniest bit of pressure. You cradle his cheek and follow the line of his jaw with your finger.

When you sigh into his mouth, he lets out a tremulous whimper. Harry was like a cup of freshly brewed coffee; scalding hot and tempting. The steam dancing above the rim would blister your mouth, but you took a sip of him anyway. You know when weighed, all the benefits surpass the costs. You’d rather feel him on the roof of your mouth all day than never at all.

His arms snake around your waist and hold you in place. Your lips part for the length of a blink, the glistening of his mouth is mesmerizing under the light of the lamp post hovering above. You can only draw half a breath before he’s leaning in once more. This time his lips are ferocious. The iron grip you have around the nape of his neck pulls tightly at the curls resting there.

Every nerve ending in your body is screaming, ablaze with the same intensity of molten lava. Your mind is swimming with too many emotions, you don’t begin to label what they are, it will be useless in your dazed state. Your palm presses flat against his chest, you feel his heart jackrabbit through his sweater. There is a tingling sensation in your palms that shoots sparks up your arms.

When you both finally pull away, he doesn’t let go of you. He keeps you close to resume his light brushes; his lips against your cheek, chin, temple. It’s when the tip of his nose bristles against the bridge of yours, your shoulders sag with a deep sigh.

“We...” the word wavers when you say it.

“Yeah?”

You gulp. “We missed our walking signal.”

The slow grin that crawls on his face says he is willing to miss a million more.

***

“Aww,” Alice coos towards her laptop screen. A dopey grin splits her face in half. It tells you she’s either looking at the current royal wedding pictures or reading another one of her romance novels. “That’s so cute, she must be so lucky.”

“What are you on about?” You inquire from your position on your bed. Although you had no complains while studying abroad, you firmly believe there is something so delicious about sleep in your own bed.

“I’m reading the Rolling Stone article about Harry Styles’ new album,” she says without turning back. He is her newest celeb obsession, you think it will pass over in a month. Alice has her laptop situated on your work desk that you’ve placed in the corner. From her position, her back hides the screen she is reading. “He said he wrote a song about a girl who he met in Tariz when working on his new album. Isn’t it crazy how small the world is, like we were there just last year.”

“We were,” you agree from behind a parted novel. It’s another Murakami novel. You woke up today and your fingers had a mind of their own when they plucked him off your reading shelf. Something in your bones was begging you to read it. “I’m glad you took me.”

Alice ignores what you say, she’s too busy gushing over the guy on her screen. She is speaking way too fast and going off in a million different tangents all fueled from her excitement. You think you hear her say something about psychedelics and sex. You shoot her a worried look and before you know it, she’s pushing the device onto your lap.

“Here, just look!”

The fans of the laptop start up and blow a gust of heat on your thighs. As you blink to the article pictures in front of you, your heart drops to your stomach.

“Alice,” you say breathlessly as if you’ve just seen a ghost. You blink quickly to help clear the image, maybe you’re seeing things. But the longer you stare at it, you become more and more sure of the face staring back at you.

“What?”

Sharp jaw, wavy hair, high cheekbones.

“Oh my God.” Your mouth is dry. “Oh my God.”

“What! What is it?”

You point an accusatory finger in the direction of the webpage. “It’s him! That’s him!”

Alice’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t follow.”

“The guy I snogged from the cafe in Tariz!”

Her eyes become the size of Saturn. “No...”

“Yes...”

As the confirmation is uttered in the air, a stillness floods in. You both stare at each other, blinking slowly with blank faces. The suspended silence makes it harder for you to draw a breath. You see the gears turning and locking in place behind her eyes as she grasps onto this new piece of information.

The high pitch squeal that comes from her wind pipes can be easily mistaken for a hyena sound effect. “Fuck!”

“I’m—” Your face is burning and your palms have a sheet of sweat, but your neck and chest is like ice. You fan yourself with your palms. “—I think I’m having hot flashes.”

“I would too if I snogged Harry fucking Styles.”

Blood rushes to your face. “I didn’t know!”

“How did you not know?!”

“Because I live under a rock, you know this. I just thought he was another study abroad student like us!”

“This is so fucking funny.” Alice is howling with laughter. She clutches her stomach and leans forward without any shame. You can’t blame her though, if the tables were turned you doubt you’d react differently than her.

“Fuck, he wasn’t writing poetry.” The inside of your palm slaps your forehead. You feel a sharp throbbing pain pulse at your temples, so you clutch your head and clamp your eyes shut. “Those were probably songs, oh my God, I am so stupid!”

“Babes, babes.” Alice drags the pad of her thumb under her eyes to catch fallen tears. “We’re buying tickets.”

The pillow you throw at Alice lands with a loud smack.

“There is no fucking way I’m going to another study abroad thing with you—ever again.” Your arms limply flail about. “Look what this first one made me do.”

Alice scoffs. “You made out with a rockstar.”

The pointed look you shoot has enough strength to bring down civilizations. “Not the point.”

“Well, I wasn’t insinuating buying a ticket to another place.”

Your lips part with confusion. “Then what?”

“We’re going to catch his show.”

————

Don’t ask me where the city of Tariz is in the world, I made it up. Also all of the language is made up. So is the drink. Lol. Can you tell I didn’t want to do research? My mc is dumb, that scene in NW was ass. Anyway, let me know your thoughts?

Thank you for amina @harrysdodgyankles for editing the moodboard

My wonderful betas are the best. Thank you so so so much to @drivingmekiwi @midnightcities @shelvesandwhelves @fireawaynjh

#1dff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles prompt #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #self insert #y/n fic #harry styles writing #one direction fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles #let me know what u think?#summer

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lilnasxvevo · 4 years ago

Text

Here’s something pretty not-important that I’ve been trying to put into words for a long time but like...if you’re writing an AU for a gay ship where each of the characters are going to be put into one of two tropes...

(Beauty and the Beast, vampire and werewolf, knight and person in distress, that unique-to-tumblr tattoo artist and florist AU, etc)

Like...look. Whether or not it’s “there” in canon, fanon is sometimes a little too attached to tropes and probably will have assigned one member the “masculine” role and one member the “feminine” role based on such silly things as who’s taller or who the fandom identifies more with, and you can identify which is which by which character almost always bottoms in fics and which character is always the one in fics who gets in danger and needs to be saved or who gets hurt and needs comforting...

You probably know what I mean. It’s a pretty frustrating thing about fandom, I think most of us can agree. It’s also true that a lot of these can fall across unfortunate lines such as race or class that have not-great implications.

So when you’re writing a fic where each person falls into a role. Do not, repeat NOT, lean into fandom’s idea of “which is which,” and I promise you your own fic will be more boring because of it.

I have spent this whole time writing this post trying to find an example ship that absolutely everyone will know...and I still don’t have one, so oh well.

But you know what I’m talking about. Here are some broad examples:

If one of your characters is black and one of the characters is white, and you want to do a Beauty and the Beast AU, for the love of GOD make the white one the beast even if he’s been stereotyped to death as the more “feminine” partner.

If one character is “tough” and one character is “not,” and you do a tattoo-artist-and-florist AU, try having the tough one as the florist and the not tough one as the tattoo artist. Challenge yourself to see these characters in a new light and explore traits of theirs that fandom often ignores—and indeed, challenge your perceptions of tattoo artists and florists while you’re at it. (Tattoo artists are, well, artists. They’re inherently artistic people which stereotypes about what they’re like tend to ignore. Florists often have to be REALLY strong because they lift a lot of heavy things, they get stabbed by rose thorns sometimes dozens of times in a day and can’t stop because holy shit it’s almost Valentine’s Day or whatever other holiday, and at least one person in the shop has to have the fortitude to face extremely pissed off customers.)

Knight and damsel AU? Take the big buff one and put them in the tower, send the tiny one after them. For both knight and damsel AND vampire and werewolf AUs, please for the love of god do not bore me to death if you take a ship that’s one working class person and one fancy rich person. The working class person gets to be the prince/ss and the vampire, do you hear me?? Why WOULDN’T you want to explore a working-class vampire character and a fancy rich werewolf?? Because society tells you vampires and werewolves can only have one kind of personality and background, that’s why! Tell society to fuck off! Personality doesn’t factor into it when you’ve been cursed to be a supernatural/undead being! It happens to who it happens to!

I don’t know how to end this post. Be more creative or I’ll—I’ll—I’ll be quietly angry. That’s it.

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dissociationnation · 5 years ago

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Sun and Moon Part one.

Characters: Nyal Grey, Mako Reyes (OCs)

AU: Florist and tattoo artist, supernatural.

Wordcount: 9.7K+.

A/N: Hello my dears! I’ll be writing this with the hopes of getting some feelings out, this’ll be mainly fluff and slow-burn galore but I do plan to sprinkle in some angst.

Slivers of bright sunlight peeked through the curtains, falling onto the sheets that pooled at Nyal’s hips, the slightest burn from the light made him shoot up, yells of ‘FLUFF’ and ‘CRUSH A UNICORN’ leaving his lips. His fangs sunk into his bottom lip gently, whines leaving his lips as he tugged his black sleep shirt down, rich ruby-coloured eyes narrowing into a glare as he tugged his slender fingers through his raven locks. He half-glanced to the clock, watching the bright numbers mockingly flash 13:41. He was late for his shift, good unicorn saviours as if the day could get worse.

He lifted his shirt up once he got to the bathroom, rummaging through his things until his hand wrapped around a small can of cream for such incidents that happened much too often to be considered ‘incidents’. It was truly his fault for always being out just before sunrise and retreating in a hurry that he often forgot to secure his curtains. He just never learned. A low hiss left his lips as he pressed the cool gel against the burn that was no bigger than a nickel. His head fell back, bloody tears beginning to form and fall without much of a care for his floor. His sleeve came to wipe it away, resealing the cream and setting it away. He stripped his shirt, staring at himself in the mirror, fingers ghosting over his chest, the faint lines of surgery still apparent if you looked close enough, or rather had a vampire’s sight. He tore his eyes away from the mental image of himself before, pulling out gauze and wrapping that would be covered by his uniform shirt. He tugged his hair back, tying it into a bun, admiring the undercut as he finished. He left without another glance, brushing a few loose hairs from his face and beginning to undress, tugging the curtain back into place.

His eyes scanned through his pants, catching on a few brighter-looking rather than the usual black cargo pants that he was famously known for in his workplace. He took out a white pair, slipping them on and readjusting the size slightly and pulling on the bright yellow shirt that was a trademark to the flower shop he worked at. A sigh of relief left his lips, though the moment was short-lived once the familiar beat of his most recent song addictions filled the air. He floated over to his phone, picking it up and holding it to his ear “Grey, how may I assist you?~”

“Nyal get your ass to the shop before I literally take away every cat plushie from the break room” a gasp left his lips, though it wasn’t out of shock it was more so teasing “HAH! Jokes on you, I moved them to my house.” a groan was heard on the other line “Guess you won’t get the limited edition Junie kitty.” within a few minutes all that was heard from Nyal was rushing and the breaking of a few things as he searched for his umbrella and shoes, shouts of “HOLD IT LADY!” being heard distantly before he reached for his device and rushed out the door, half running half floating. “I’m on my way right now!” his pale cheeks were blooming with colour, reds and pinks creeping across his face as his chest heaved. He came to a stop outside of the shop, leaning against the window and leaning down to catch his breath, catching the stares of a few humans, witches, and vampires alike. He waved them along and stepped inside, inviting the cold air with open arms, closing his umbrella and setting it aside as he usually did each time he stepped inside. His steps were light, sneakers sliding across the floor as he began to float, turning so he was on his back and drifted over the flowers, admiring their differing colours with a gentle smile. Raven locks tickled a few petals, his fingers drifting over a few that seemed to be drooping.

His relaxation was interrupted when the door suddenly swung open, hitting the window and effectively scaring the wits out of the small male. His floating turned into falling quickly, landing on his back, gasping for air once it had been knocked from his lungs “holy unicorns dude.” he sat up slowly, beating against his chest as he moved behind the counter, glaring to the man that had entered, resting his chest against the counter “How may I assist you, sir?” The flustered look on the man’s face was almost enough to let him forgive the taller for making him casually fall out of the air.

“What’s the best flower for a confession?” the question was easy enough, though he felt a bit out of his element since well...ya know. “Would you rather have one specific type or a bouquet of different flowers? Bouquet’s tend to be more pleasing, but to each their own darlin’.” the slightest southern drawl was detectable, his hands already reaching for a few flowers to use to sample. He set down a few variations in colours of roses, adding in a few white Gardenia’s. “How do these look, sweetie?” he looked to the back of the store, his foot tapping nervously as his boss stared at him through the breakroom window, a smirk on her face. Tricky women. He excused himself for a few minutes, allowing the man a few minutes to decide what he wanted to do and collect the apron he’d left on his hook. A smile graced his lips at the tape over his name, the N was etched beautifully and the rest covered with tape, the messy handwriting of Elsie covering the rest with ‘yal’. She really was a supportive woman, working with her the past three years was lovely to him. He fastened the apron, reappearing at the counter “Figured it out yet, love?”

The man nodded mutely, mumbling something he couldn’t quite catch other than ‘bouquet’ and ‘price’ “You wish for the bouquet? That’ll be…” he trailed off as he began assembling the bouquet with one hand, using the other to tap into the register and pulling it away to finish tying the ribbon “18.37.” he smiled slightly, enough to keep his fangs partially hidden. The man paid and left with his bouquet, seemingly much more confident in himself now.

Hours passed, customers came and went and at this point, Nyal was exhausted from being the only one to do anything, his boss watching and enjoying his painful social interaction. A few times elderly women came in and with a confused stare attempted to refer to him, his deep voice “not doing much to help them” apparently. Pure bullshit, but he’d never comment on it. He collapsed in the breakroom, glaring daggers at Elsie, watching as she let out giggles and snorts “You looked so cute! Like a lost puppy AH HAH!” his cheeks burned, arms crossing as he huffed out a mumble of what he’d call kid-friendly curses.

The door rang out, alerting to another customer and Nyal stood with a groan, leaving the break room and stretching his arms, not taking notice of the stranger until he made it to the counter and opened his mouth to greet. His throat ran dry as he stared at the much taller customer, allowing himself to float a bit for the sake of comfort for his neck. “How may I help you darlin’?” He could practically feel Elise’s gaze on the back of his head, his mental sensors making everything inside of him explode when the customer replied with “pick me any flower you like, sweetheart.” he clicked his tongue at the line, lowering himself back to the ground and coming from behind the desk to look through the flowers, he knew them all like the back of his hand but he’d never really thought of them in a way he’d choose a specific plush. “I don’t think I have a favourite, sorry sweetie. Is there a flower that catches your eye?” his head tilted as he motioned to a few of the brighter flowers, more pleasing to the eye to him. “Only other pretty flower here is you, so I’m afraid there’s none. Unless you’d like to come with me?” he couldn’t help the laugh that left his lips, his hand moving to muffle the laughter and only failing as he crouched to keep from shaking in place “I’m sorry but… I’m no flower darlin’.” he stood up shakily, a few wheezes of laughter continuing to leave his lips “I could suggest you a rose or something, but I’m afraid even if I were a flower my boss can’t do anything without me.” he jerked his thumb to the breakroom, Elsie nearly falling backwards when the customer glanced at her. “What a shame. Well, if you ever take it back I’m Mako.” Nyal nodded, slightly shaking as he suppressed more laughter “Nyal. I’m almost always here, but don’t expect a time.” with that Mako left, sending one or two winks in Nyal’s direction through the window before disappearing. Elsie left the backroom, her giggle bouncing off the walls and making Nyal’s composure break within minutes “Your face is so red Ny, are you okay?” Nyal shook his head, leaning against the counter and continuing to shake and laugh.

Mako sat at the tattoo shop, staring through the window to the flower shop just across the street. A fond smile crossed their lips as Nyal and Elsie continued to laugh, Nyal’s small form bouncing and shaking Elsie who would smack him in response. They’d observed Nyal’s routine ever since starting their job as an artist, how he’d smile, his confidence changing as he transitioned and became more comfortable, at this point, they were sure they’d be a confirmed stalker. Nyal’s gaze would always fall on the tattoo shop, the urge to go in but being far too scared to commit with each time he left his shift. It was amusing to see the way he’d stop a few of the artists at the end of a shift, asking them for ideas or tips if he were to ever get inked. In a way, it’s what caused Mako to admire the male, and gain enough confidence to even approach. They hummed in content becoming lost for what felt like seconds though it was more close to an hour or so, only being brought back to reality when the buzzer rang to alert someone entering “Hello welcome to Glory tatts, you think it we ink it.” they looked down to see a familiar face, raising an eyebrow as a smirk graced their lips

“Well if it isn’t my little flower.”

#Sun and Moon #kolwrites #Nyal Grey #Mako Reyes #nblm writing #Rant writing #fluff #not sure how long each part is gonna be but #we'll get there

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skullsandfairylights · 4 years ago

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Writer’s Month 2020

Day 1: tattoo artist/flower shop AU– 2638 words

Snufkin took a deep breath as he stepped off the bus. His knees felt stiff and he was actually questioning if his legs were still attached to his body, with how little feeling he had in the bottom half of his body. He hadn’t moved once since he first got on the bus and sat down almost six hours ago.

The bus wasn’t his favourite method of travel. There were too many people. Although most kept to themselves, occasionally, he would end up sat next to someone who took his lack of headphones as an invitation for a chat. Which would have been nice had Snufkin not decided early on in life, that travel time was quiet time. Snufkin liked to use his travel time to reflect – he would think back on the adventure he’d just had and think forward to the adventures still to come.

He was grateful that, this time, he had ended up sitting next to a young mumrik woman who had simply shoved her bag onto the overhead shelf, plugged earbuds into her ears and then started writing into a small journal – which appeared to be full of recounts of different adventures she had had. She had given him a polite smile when she boarded – three stops after his own – and then another small smile as she rose to let him out of his seat, into the aisle when the bus reached his stop. Snufkin had tilted his hat to the fellow traveller and smiled before heaving his rucksack from the overhead shelf and left the bus.

Now he was in the middle of Moominvalley – a town that he found he could not completely abandon. Even though Snufkin didn’t like the idea of being tied down to any one place, there was something about this town that kept pulling him back.

If asked, he would probably say that it was his family that pulled him back. His mother owned a large house (which needed to be large considering how many children she had) near the coast and Snufkin tried to at least show his face whenever he was in town even if he wasn’t that close to his mother or younger siblings. Then there were his older sisters. His oldest sister, Mymble, lived just outside the town in a modest house with her partner. They were eagerly looking forward to expanding their little family (hopefully soon, according to Mymble’s latest message) and Snufkin would admit that he was looking forward to having a little niece or nephew, so he would often call in to his sister before he even thought about venturing anywhere near his mother’s house.

Mymble also knew her brother well. She knew that he enjoyed his freedom and his travelling. She never tried to pressure him to stick around longer than he was comfortable and she had converted a small shed in her garden into a small guest room. The key was hidden amongst the well-kept flowerbeds, giving Snufkin a dry place to sleep no matter the time or day. All she had asked was that he check in regularly to let her know that he was okay, a habit which likely rose from Mymble practically raising her younger siblings whenever their mother got distracted.

Snufkin’s other older sister, nicknamed Little My, also lived in Moominvalley. However, where Mymble was the epitome of the responsible, sensible sister, Little My was the epitome of the rebel child. For as long as Snufkin could remember (backed up by tales from Mymble), Little My had been a troublemaker. She loved to cause mischief and mayhem wherever she went. Likely spawning from a need for attention as a child, Little My just loved to see people jump. Thankfully, her pranks and antics calmed down as she got older, but she still had an appearance that would make some uneasy and recoil.

Little My had gotten her first piercing at ten – no one bat an eyelid at pierced earrings – and then followed that with more until the top of her ear was almost covered. Her ear piercings were then followed by a nose stud and an eyebrow piercing. At 14, Little My had decided she wanted something to make her stand out from her innumerable siblings and dyed her hair black with a DIY dye kit – the bathroom never quite recovered.

And then, at 15, she got her first tattoo. Again, it was something she did herself. She bought a tattoo starter kit online and tattooed “I BITE” in wobbly letters on the side of her foot. It was not very pretty, even Little My herself had admitted that. But that first tattoo got her hooked. 5 years later, she started working in a tattoo parlour in the middle of Moominvalley High Street and quickly became a popular artist.

And that was who Snufkin was on his way to see first. It had started, as many things do, with Little My being annoying.

Snufkin had been away traversing the mountain range two hours outside of Moominvalley. He’d been away for almost a month before he returned to Moominvalley and his sisters, covered in mud and dust but with the most content smile he’d ever had on his face. Little My had taken one look and immediately started complaining.

“You look happy. It’s disgusting.” She had said, “What’s so great about a dirty great lump of rock?”

Snufkin couldn’t have even begun to explain how he had felt when he finally reached the peak of the mountain and looked out on the land. He had been able to see everything. The air had been so pure and clean that he felt like he couldn’t get enough of it in his lungs. He had sat and watched as she sun moved across the sky, the shadows moving slowly over the landscape. He had felt at peace.

“I know what will get that stupid grin off your face!” Little My had suddenly announced. Snufkin had looked at her as she disappeared from the room, only to return moments later with her tattoo kit. Snufkin had originally said no but Little My refused to drop the subject until he relented, on the condition that it couldn’t be bigger than his harmonica.

Mymble had then found them ten minutes later, Snufkin lying shirtless on his stomach in the middle of the kitchen floor with Little My sitting on his spine, focussing intently on Snufkin’s shoulder.

After that first tattoo, Snufkin found that he quite liked the idea of recording memories in his skin. He didn’t like pictures all that much – they were too easy to lose. He didn’t like souvenirs either – they required more space than he had to store. But getting his sister to ink symbols and images into his skin? They would last and didn’t require him to start carrying around a suitcase. So, after every big adventure that he took, he would return to Moominvalley and visit Small Beasts’ Tattoos to get a memory imprinted onto his back.

Moomin loved his job. He worked in a florist on Moominvalley High Street. The shop only had four employees. There was the owner, Mr Hemulen, who loved plants and flowers and would spend hours tending to the stock which sat on display in their buckets of water. There was Snorkmaiden who had a very good eye for design and took on the job of building the bouquets and arranging the displays so that they caught the eye of those passing. There was Sniff, Moomin’s best friend, who handled all of the backroom work – managing the finances, ordering in new stock, and keeping track of custom orders.

And then there was Moomin. Moomin filled in and carried out the other jobs. He would handle customer service and man the till – Mr Hemulen was hopeless with technology, so much so, that Moomin wouldn’t even trust him to answer the telephone. Moomin would fill in when Snorkmaiden and Sniff had days off, he was no where near as talented as them, but he had watched them enough to get by. Moomin would play courier and deliver orders when the customer was unable to get to the store. And Moomin would close up, he would let Snorkmaiden head off to whatever social event she had planned for that evening, he would let Sniff scurry away to get on with whatever scheme he had planned to earn him some extra cash and he would let Mr Hemulen head home so that he could tend to the personal plants he grew at home – Moomin knew Mr Hemulen’s greenhouse to look like a jungle from the inside.

Moomin really loved his job. It wasn’t too taxing, and he loved getting to see his best friends every day.

It also didn’t hurt that the shop was opposite a tattoo parlour that a certain mumrik happened to frequent.

Moomin hadn’t meant to stare the first time. He had been just finishing tidying up the shop when he noticed a mumrik dressed head to toe in green walk passed the window. The mumrik had walked into the tattoo parlour and then ended up getting tattooed in the one window seat. Moomin had glanced over as the mumrik had gotten settled on the seat, his shirt gone and his back on display, and was struck by the tattoos already decorating the skin. There were about 15 miniature images dotted around the mumrik’s back. They didn’t appear to be connected to each other, yet they flowed like they couldn’t not be connected. They were all rather small – too small for Moomin to be able to make out from across the street – and they were all just black, no splashes of colour anywhere.

Moomin was fascinated.

Due to his fur, tattoos would never be something he could realistically consider. He’d thought about it, during some rebellious moments of his youth, but eventually decided that the upkeep would be too much for him to maintain and gave up the idea. But he was still fascinated by tattoos in general. Particularly, the seemingly random assortment on the mumrik’s back.

Moomin was thankful that the mumrik only ever appeared after the florist had closed. Because whenever he appeared, Moomin couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting and he would never live it down if Snorkmaiden should ever spot his staring. The only downside was that while the mumrik often returned to the tattoo parlour, his schedule didn’t seem to follow any rhyme nor reason. Like the tattoos on his back, he appeared at random – sometimes having only a couple of days between visits and then disappearing for a couple of months. Whenever a long period passed, Moomin often found himself thinking of the mumrik. He didn’t know where he disappeared to but Moomin still hoped that the mumrik was safe, wherever he was.

The bell above the door tinkled as Snufkin made his way inside the parlour. There was the buzz of a tattoo gun emanating from the back rooms and a murmur of conversation just beneath it. He was later in arriving than usual, there had been a rather talented street performer who Snufkin simply had to stop and watch. He’d then dropped a few coins into hat and continued on his way. He was lucky the door was still unlocked, which meant that someone was still getting worked on, and meant that he would still likely be able to see his sister.

Footsteps gradually drew closer from the hall leading to the back, and a voice sounded “Hiya, sorry we’re actually about to close soon so you’ll have to book an appoint- Oh, hey Snufkin. How are you? Good adventure?” Ninny was one of the other tattoo artists and good friends will Little My.

“Hello Ninny. I’m good, the fresh air is just what I needed.” Snufkin smiled. As he spoke, the sound of the tattoo gun stopped and then a shriek filled the air.

“IS THAT SNUFKIN? YOU [JERK]! YOU DIDN’T SAY YOU WERE ARRIVING TODAY!” Little My went quiet as the tattoo gun started up again and Snufkin huffed out a laugh as he slung his rucksack down next to the chair by the front window. He chatted casually with Ninny for a few minutes until a rather large, muscled man with a very bushy moustache and wearing biking leathers appeared from the back rooms. Little My followed behind him. “And I swear, if you come back to me again to get another cover up, you will wish you hadn’t been born.” The man nodded once at Little My, eyes wide and nervously fidgeting with the bandana in his hands. Snufkin smirked at the sight of the large man quite obviously feeling intimidated by his sister who barely reached the man’s chest in height. The man quickly paid, speaking to Ninny in a quiet voice before scurrying out of the parlour.

“Still terrorising your customers, Little My?” Snufkin asked as his sister finally turned to look at him.

“I wouldn’t have to if people actually thought their tattoos through. That’s the third time he’s asked me to cover up his arm tattoo.” Little My stood with her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes scanned up and down his brother’s figure, “Well, what are we doing this time?”

Snufkin smiled and started to describe his latest adventure where he went to find a waterfall hidden deep in a forest which had a large cave, big enough to live in, behind it. Little My nodded, pulling a sketch pad onto her lap, absently doodling as she listened. Soon, she held up the pad to show Snufkin her designs. Snufkin pointed to his favourite and pulled off his shirt as Little My went to grab her kit.

By the time Little My was finally inking the design, the other artists had all left, leaving just Snufkin and Little My in the shop. Snufkin asked about what Little My had been up to during their two and half month separation, and then asked after their sister, Mymble, and then finally after their mother.

“She got married again.” Little My casually stated. Snufkin hummed in response.

“Who’s step-dad this time?”

“I don’t know. I barely paid attention at the wedding. I only went for the food, to be honest with you.” It was quiet for a few moments. “You should probably bring flowers when you go visit.”

“I spoke to mother when I got off the bus, she wants me to stay with her tonight. I won’t be able to get flowers at this time.” Snufkin glanced out the window at the sky which was beginning to darken.

“Go across the street.” Little My grunted, tongue out in concentration.

“It’s closed, the lights are off.”

“Moomin will still be in. The large lump of a marshmallow always stays really late for some reason.”

“They’re still closed.”

“Like I said, Moomin will let you in. He did it for me when I forgot Valentine’s Day. I would not have survived arriving home empty-handed.” Little My started to finish up. “I’ll even walk you over, if you’re that concerned.”

“No thank you, Little My, I’m sure I will manage.”

And twenty minutes later, after wrapping his latest tattoo up tightly, Snufkin said goodbye to his sister and left her to clean up her workspace while he walked across the street.

Sure enough, as he approached, he noticed a figure moving around inside the shop. He walked up to the door and rapped quietly on the glass. A large white moomin came and unlocked the door.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“My sister Little My works across the street and she said you might be able to help me get some flowers for my mother?”

The Moomin smiled brightly and nodded, holding the door open wider, “What were you thinking?”

#Yup #I'm trying to do Writer's Month again #I hope I can keep it up alongside my probation year #fingers crossed #i tried writing words #Writer's Month 2020 #writersmonth2020

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pratktcven · 7 years ago

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bloom

bloom part two. heith. pg-13. in which keith is a florist and hunk is a tattoo artist. thanks to @faorism and @blackcatbone for the beta! also available on ao3

part one

They work in relative silence, a quiet upset only by the snip of Keith's shears, the rasp of Hunk's soft lead pencils, and the occasional question.

"Hey, Keith," Hunk says several minutes after settling onto Shiro's stool. Keith looks up from his work—which he was struggling to focus on instead of Hunk—and tilts his head wordlessly. "Sorry to interrupt but, uhh, can I pick these up? I want to sketch them from different angles."

"Yeah," Keith replies. "Go ahead."

Hunk grins at him and gently picks up a stem. He holds it carefully as he examines it, sketching quickly and from several different angles.

"Do these come in different colors?" Hunk asks when the blue thistle is pinched between his fingers. "I mean, not this one, specifically, but all of them. My client was still trying to decide between grayscale and color, and I don't wanna make something yellow when it should only be red, you know?"

"Well, the thistle you're holding is always blue or purple, in any shade between the two," Keith answers. "The wax flowers—the tiny ones with the needle-like leaves—are commonly white or pink or magenta, though I have seen variants in pale green or red. As for the cabbage roses, those can be pretty much be any warm pastel color you want, like pink or peach, yellow or ivory."

Hunk writes down Keith's notes in the margin of his sketchbook, tongue between his teeth in concentration. He circles a few and draws arrows to some of his drawings; Keith recognizes the motions, but he is too far away to see any real detail.

"What about the filler?"

"There isn't any variation on those."

Hunk hums a thank you as he jots down a few more words at the bottom of the page, then flips the sketchbook over to a clean sheet.

"Okay, last one," Hunks says. "Do these flowers have any special or secret meaning?"

Keith snorts at the question. Hunk grins wryly at the derisive sound, as though to say, "That bad, huh?" It is very different from the sour frowns Keith usually receives from customers when he is impolite, but it is enough of a reminder for him to feel a tiny pinprick of guilt.

"Sorry," Keith murmurs, dropping his gaze to the echeveria, hydrangea, and dusty miller laid out before him. Sometimes he forgets that not everyone has been a florist since they were seventeen. "It's just—well, nobody really cares about flower language anymore."

"Really?" Hunk blinks. "What about, like, roses and stuff?"

"Those are an exception," Keith admits. "Red roses for love. Yellow roses for friendship. But those are mainstream enough that people buy them by the stem or by the dozen if they're trying to say something. Otherwise it's all about the recipient's personal taste."

"Do you get a lot of clients who ask about it?"

Keith shrugs. "Some. Shiro's the one who deals with most of the orders, and he always tells them that what's important is who it's for, not what it's for."

"I get that," Hunk says with a nod. "A good tattoo is the same way. It's how you feel about your tattoo, not how other people do."

Keith's eyes dart from Hunk's face to the intricate lines covering Hunk's skin. They're gorgeous, straight lines on an organic, curving canvas, and they manage to be both delicate and masculine. Surely the tattoos mean something—Hunk does not seem like the kind of person to do something without purpose, even if that purpose were for aesthetic—but by the time Keith gathers enough courage to ask, Hunk has returned to his sketchbook.

Briefly, Keith regrets his inability to make conversation. He wants to talk to Hunk and learn more about him. He even tries to think of something to say. Everything he comes up with sounds stilted though, and if it's awkward inside his own mind, Keith can't imagine how his thoughts would flounder off his tongue. So instead of speaking, he heaves a silent sigh, and returns to his arrangement.

Keith does not know how long Hunk sketches. There is no clock in the shop, and Keith's cellphone is plugged into the outlet by the register. He cannot gauge a time by his arrangement either, since his normal efficiency is hindered by the distraction of the man across from him. If Keith were to hazard a guess, however, he would say that Hunk spends an hour perched on Shiro's stool before he hops off and stretches.

The hem of Hunk's pale blue, pineapple-and-palm-tree print muscle tank rides up over the swell of his belly. Keith's gaze sweeps over Hunk's exposed skin, before his common sense reminds him that it's impolite to stare.

"Get everything you need?" Keith blurts in an attempt to act casual.

"I think I did!" Hunk beams in reply. "I have enough rough sketches to get the feel of the flowers. Now I just need to google the main flower. After I do that, I can start fitting it all together and make some concrete designs."

Keith takes a sprig of dusty miller from his arrangement, mumbles, "Sorry I don't have any king protea for you," then sticks the silver-green foliage right back where it was.

"Dude," Hunk interjects emphatically. "You have helped me so much, you don't even know. I'm not kidding when I say this is my first floral tattoo. I didn't even know where to start before I came over. I owe you big time, seriously."

"You don't owe me anything," Keith says, his shoulders tightening at Hunk's praise. He loves his job and he knows that he has a good eye, but compliments are difficult to accept when he hasn't really done anything. "It was fun."

"Pretty sure I still owe you," Hunk responds with a smile. "How about I buy you lunch at Xi's?"

The brittle tension in Keith's shoulders slips down his spine. While he cannot think of anything better than having lunch at Xi's Noodle Emporium, eating with and talking to the man he has been harboring a crush on for the better part of two months, he also cannot think of anything worse. The tables at Xi's are tiny; if Keith spends an hour knocking his knees against Hunk's legs, he is sure that his face will become hot enough to spontaneously combust.

So instead of accepting Hunk's offer, Keith shakes his head and lies.

"Sorry," he declines. "Shiro and Lance are going to be back soon, and they said they were going to pick up lunch. But—umm—thank you?"

"Oh." Hunk blinks. "Okay." He pauses, his eyes flickering over Keith's face. Briefly, Keith wonders if Hunk can tell that he isn't telling the truth; Shiro has always maintained that Keith is a terrible liar, but Keith doesn't know how accurate the statement is considering that Shiro is also his cousin. "What about some other time this week?"

At this point in their conversation, Keith's back is so tense that if anyone touches him, he may snap in half. He wants to say yes—he really, really does—but he also knows what would happen if he did. He is not good at maintaining conversation, only killing it, and he balks at the thought of their easy rapport dying an awkward but inevitable death.

"Sorry," Keith says again, though this apology sounds much more sincere and much less panicked. "I have a shipment tomorrow and a wedding on Sunday, so I'll be really busy until then."

This, at least, is not a lie. Keith will be consumed by work the moment he receives his awaited order.

"Oh." Hunk's smile dims a little and his gaze dips down. "I guess it is wedding season, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Keith affirms. "It is."

Silence descends and stretches into several very uncomfortable seconds. It is exactly what Keith had been trying to avoid with his first rejection, but he supposes that the presence of such discomfiture only confirms his previous surety of disaster.

"Well, uhh, you gotta do what you gotta do, I guess." Hunk tucks his notebook firmly between his bicep and his torso, then reaches up and scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. "I should get back to the shop and get started on some real sketches. Not that these aren't real, because they're obviously there on the paper, but like—more together? I—shit—I already told you that. About putting it into a single piece. Right?"

"Right," Keith says.

"Because I thought I did, but then I just blanked? Or whatever. But—uhh—thank you? No, that came out wrong." Hunk clears his throat. "I mean, thank you again. For the help. That I needed. For my… client." Hunk visibly winces as he stumbles over his own words, his wide, handsome face momentarily pinched. "Wow, okay, this is not how I imagined this going."

The last statement is muttered beneath Hunk's breath, giving Keith pause. He is a little perplexed by the devolution of Hunk's confidence into disjointed rambles, and this confusion makes him tilt his head and ask, "Imagine what going?"

"Nothing!" Hunk blurts. The hand on the back of his neck flies upwards into the space between them, his palm out and fingers splayed as though to physically deflect Keith's suspicion. "Nothing at all! I was just—just talking to myself! Ha! But seriously, this is me leaving. Right now. You're busy, I've taken up way too much of your time and—bye. Yes. Thank you very much for your time, I hope the rest of your afternoon is great, good luck with the wedding."

After this last sentiment falls out of his mouth, Hunk nods to himself, turns around jerkily, and all but speed-walks to the door with his shoulders squared stiffly and his head held unnaturally high. Then—when his free hand comes into contact with the exit's stainless steel push bar—he stops.

Pauses for the space of a heart beat.

Looks over his bare, tattooed shoulder and grins, small and sheepish and warm.

"Bye," Hunk says.

"Bye," Keith echoes.

Then the bell above the door rattles, and Hunk is outside, skin cast golden beneath the summer sun. Keith watches as he checks for traffic; as he briskly jaywalks across the undivided four lane street; as he approaches the tattoo parlor. He does not look back before he disappears, the door swinging shut behind him, and Keith mentally chides himself for the stab of disappointment he feels. Keith is the one with the inconvenient crush, not Hunk, and no matter how much Keith wants him to, Hunk isn't obligated to cast a final look at the floral shop…

Or ask Keith out to lunch for a third time.

"Stupid," Keith mutters to himself as he drags his gaze away from the tattoo parlor's closed door and back towards the table. He needs to finish his arrangement, not stand in the middle of the shop and overanalyze every word he and Hunk exchanged. "Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…"

And with that mantra in his brain, Keith grabs his trimming scissors from his apron pocket, and gets back to work.

to be continued!

#heith #keith #hunk #my fic #text

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bunnikook · 7 years ago

Text

✧・ﾟyoonkook fic recs (pt. 2)・ﾟ✧

Hello, it’s me again! I have brought you more sugakookie recs. Again the *** show my personal favorites. Also if you love bangtan or sugakookie, how about following me on twitter, i use it 1000x more than tumblr

The Sound Of Winter

Yoongi has a lot on his plate, but when his pack discovers a small pup in their territory, he finds that he's about to have a lot more.

Capturing Passion***

Min Yoongi was a simple guy living the simple lifestyle in university with his relatively normal friends. However, his simple lifestyle wasn't enough to pull him out of his artistic slump, which was dragging him down a dark and lonely path.

Of course, this is all until one drunken evening and he comes across a beaten kid, and decides to take him in for the evening.

In his drunken state he didn’t notice the pair of tall, soft black ears that came from the top of the kid’s head, and he certainly wasn’t sure what to do when he woke up next to them the next morning.

the nights really were for saying things you can’t say tomorrow***

"you know, the fact that my rap puts you to sleep should be insulting," yoongi says wryly.

all your curves, and all your edges

Tumplr prompt:

In which Yoongi is a traveller who collects memories of people. Up until he meets a boy who makes him realise that this time he wants much more than a simple journal entry.

future tense**

Jeongguk was born with wings of blood and bone, broken beyond repair. It was Yoongi who had stitched feathers to the seams, promising that they would fly away from here, as far as they could possibly go.

I got a feeling (got a feeling, got a feeling) about you**

Min Yoongi is not sure about a lot of things, but if there’s one thing he can be sure about, it’s definitely: he wants to spend the rest of his fucking life with a certain Jeon Jeongguk.

Cerulean and Malachite***

tumblr prompt from anon: "You said you take requests on here on your ao3 and I'm here with a request! How about a SugaKookie soulmates. After that, you can do whatever you want with it, but if you could add some smut, that would be nice. :) Thank you!"

bless you, precious sugakookie anon.

Ever since Jungkook could listen, he’d been watching. Watching the streets, the crowds, watching the people pour on and off the trains. Jungkook had watched for the flash of color that was said to indicate the instant when one found their Soulmate. Under normal circumstances, in everyday life, an aura would be invisible to the eye; but when two Soulmates found each other, it was said that they would see the color of each others’ auras. Jungkook spent his entire life with his eyes wide open, searching around him, waiting; watching and waiting. Jungkook became impressively good at observation.

the collection

a collection of all my tumblr shorts and prompts!;

(my notes: all of these are amazing but #22 is ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL)

Distance makes the heart grow fonder (said by someone stronger than me)*

"He had no clue how long he stood there, waiting for a single foot to step out the gate. All he was aware of was people moving around him and his legs turning to jelly underneath him. His heart pounded and his knuckles turned white from the strain of his grip on the roses. Yoongi had never been this nervous in his life. The pain of being far from his love was hard before, but now it was unbearable. His boyfriend was on that plane, getting off of it right now, and those minutes of waiting were absolute pain. He had half a mind to rush onto the plane and kidnap the boy right then and there, but he had a feeling that it wouldn’t go over well.

When the first person stepped out of the gate, he found it harder to breathe. The people began pouring out of the gate, painstakingly slow, families pushing past Yoongi and talking animatedly to each other, somehow not hearing the thunderous beating of his heart. It was torture, standing there waiting for a sight of the boy he’d been thinking about for months. It wasn’t until the stream of passengers died down that Yoongi caught a glimpse of fluffy brunette hair and doe eyes, and suddenly, Yoongi couldn’t breathe."

off the record

“Hyung, I think you might actually be fucked.”

There’s a phone being held offensively close to Yoongi’s face, opened on an article with a bolded title: ‘POP IDOL JUNGKOOK ENLISTS THE HELP OF UNDERGROUND HIP HOP PRODUCER MIN SUGA FOR UPCOMING ALBUM’. There are a multitude of pictures beneath it, one of him and Hoseok from two or three years ago at university, and an equally unflattering and familiar one from outside of his own studio.

(be)a(witch)

five moments between slytherin house sixth year min yoongi and third year transfer student jeon jungkook.

(five long drabbles according to the words spell, potion, spirit, fantasy, and witchcraft.)

You Stir Up A McFlurry In My Heart

Jungkook is completely and utterly screwed the moment he develops a crush on the voice behind the McDonald’s Drive Thru speaker.

what’s in a name?

Yoongi's mind is racing with thoughts of bills and lack of money and want of something better and his heart is in the hands of a (freshly turned) nineteen-year-old who is currently at his parent’s for a rare weekend of family bonding and ignoring his inquiring texts of how it’s going and driving him crazy.

(part 2 of the tattoo au I’ll never fully write)

kiss me, kiss me

Jungkook normally exudes an aura of maturity, always fighting his youthful image to make sure people treat him with respect. He works out consistently, puts his heart and soul into dancing and never complains about pulling late nights and early mornings. But sometimes he’ll say things like “I want kisses” and it’ll remind Yoongi just how young and innocent Jungkook really is.

(part 3 of the tattoo au I’ll never fully write)

( ✓ read 10:18 p.m. )*

By the time Suga got back to him with the name of the sample, Jungkook was sitting in class. He’d never been an in-class text-er. He listened well. He followed rules. He gave professors the attention they deserved. But if Min Suga texted him, Jungkook always found himself texting back, attention 100% on his phone. Maybe it was because messaging the stranger felt as informative as half of his classes. Suga gave good advice. He’d caught himself thinking over the weekend that maybe he actually did owe Jimin some coffee.

hello, maintenance calling

it's completely fine to call for maintenance about once every two weeks... right?

Sweaters

yoongi has been into sweaters lately, jungkook notices.

read 04:46 a.m***

"tall americano to go, please."

kkt (5 new messages)**

[jungkookie] [00:08] keep me company?

semantics ***

semantics is the study of meaning; it focuses on the relationship between words, phrases, signs, and symbols and what they stand for.

so far away (don’t fall away)

“The spare to the heir, Joon-ah,” Yoongi drawled through the buzz of two glasses of whiskey he’s already admitted to having before Namjoon showed up. “That’s what I am. The spare. Married off.”

"Elizabeth II was a spare, you know."

(arranged marriage sugakookie that no one except me asked for HAAHHA)

if i could (for just one day)

Yoonkook Week, Day 2: Favorite AU (1/2)

Harry Potter AU (~2k words)

witches petals

"is there anything i can help you with?"

(or: yoongi has an affinity for cute witch florists)

you and me are like peaches and cream

where jungkook is the new employee at the ice cream shop where yoongi works, and yoongi really, really didn't ask for any of this.

(or, jungkook is pretty and yoongi is weak)

fools (fall) ; a collection

a collection of drabbles from a canon point of view about falling in love.

seven: wrong/right

wrong is a five letter word. so is right.

(or: yoongi is whipped. jungkook might be, too.)

Watercolor

tumblr request from peach-blossoms: It’s for Sugakookie (yeah I’m a hardcore shipper now): In which Jungkook is a tattoo artist who barely makes ends meet but still continues his line of work because he loves it (most of the designs are original, unless the customer brings their own), loves the drawing, the technical aspects, the myriad characters that enter his store, their varying reasons for getting a tattoo(s), not always disclosed but some are more prone to talk than others. Yoongi comes in as a customer one day, his reason for getting a tattoo simple but embarrassing (for him)–to give his image an edge, to make people stop underestimating him for his small frame and slightly feminine cat-like looks.

It’s a man, he realizes, his hair a muted shade of mint, like the pebbles that rest at the bottom of the water fountain outside of Taehyung’s dorm. He’s not the tallest, but people seem to give him space, so he’s easy to observe, despite his black on black outfit, a t-shirt tucked into tight denim.

Why Jungkook Won’t Leave Yoongi Alone *

The members of BTS have never been shy about being affectionate with one another. They hold hands, hug, and just generally touch each other a lot. It’s all innocent, really, except that recently Jungkook won’t leave Yoongi alone. Even the other members have started to notice. At any opportunity to embarass his hyung, he takes it. Any opportunity to praise him - mock him - argue with him - honestly, it’s all getting a little tiresome. But this is Yoongi, the non reactionary member of BTS who will not be so easily defeated. Herein lies the problem.

not just (pretending)

Yoongi agrees to a fake relationship with Jeongguk to get Jieun's attention. It doesn't go as planned.

Fucking Date Me

On his birthday, Jungkook messages Yoongi:

i'm eighteen

fucking date me

I.-x.

Yoongi agrees to go on a blind date with That Guy from Jimin's English class. When he develops a crush on him, it's strictly between himself, Jimin's unwilling ears, and apparently Jungkook, when he's pretending to be asleep.

most of all

beauty is beauty in whatever form it happens to take.

scraping the skies with our fingertips

Yoongi gave Jungkook his leather jacket and it all went downhill from there.

Take a Picture, It’ll Last Longer

It’s not that he thinks Jungkook is attractive...he just really wants to have the weekend off.

—In which Yoongi has been friends with Hoseok for years, so he should have known this bet would be stupid.

(part 2. Jungkook is good at a lot of things, but flirting is definitely not one of them. Thank god he’s got Taehyung and Jimin feeding him advice through an earpiece...)

too sober for this

after they finally get a night off, the members are at a lost of what to do with all their free time, and resort to drinking. even that doesn't help, but after some brainstorming and turned-down ideas, they settle on truth or dare. jungkook was expending it to be more fun than it was.

‘til the stars come out

he came in once a week around midday, always sat in the same booth by the window and always ordered the same thing.

let me love you

jungkook lets out a breathy giggle, “what was that for?”

“shhh…” yoongi hushes him, shakes his head. “let me love you.”

Just Missed It

In which everyone seems to know about Jungkook and Yoongi before Jin

when i think of you the sun comes out

Yoongi ends up taking Jungkook back to his apartment– not because he’s feeling generous, but because there are no fucking buses at four o’clock in the morning and the kid doesn’t have any money, doesn’t even have a wallet on him. It becomes evident that he’d been mugged by the guys that decided to use him as an impromptu punching bag.

Cerulean

Yoongi learns that stealing isn't always so bad

It’s February 13th

Jungkook is 14, not stupid. He understands the basics of Valentine's Day, Step 1: Buy a card, Step 2: Confess your feelings. How on earth is he screwing this up so badly? Maybe because his crush is Min Suga, also known as his best friend who's been living with his family since they were kids. Yeah, that can be an issue.

Sweater Weather

"Yoongi being cute in oversized sweater and Jungkook being overly possessive"

bunny boy

Somehow, they both ended up with animals tattooed on their wrists without even realizing it.

(i guess that we did it) on purpose**

in which yoongi and jeongguk work at a pet shelter and are bad at feelings.

Hand Holding and Misconceptions

Grabbing Yoongi’s hand in both of his Jungkook pulled him towards his door. “Come in for a while, hyung?” He swayed back and forth with a soft and eager smile on his lips. He wasn’t up to anything mischievous he just wanted to spend more time with his boyfriend. The blank expression was back but Yoongi shift his gaze and Jungkook couldn’t see it anymore. After a moment of silence, Yoongi took his hand back and put it in the pocket of his leather jacket. “I don’t think-“ His face fell immediately and dropped his arms by his side. “What did I do?” This got Yoongi’s attention and he looked up at Jungkook and shook his head. “Nothing.”

Letting out a scoff, Jungkook’s eyes hardened as he stared at the one person who wasn’t supposed to lie to him no matter what. “Don’t lie to me. I saw your expression when you stopped by the studio, the same one you gave me just a minute ago. I’m not dumb, something is wrong.” Before he could stop himself he reached out a hand to Yoongi but the elder flinched just enough for Jungkook to notice. That was more than the last straw. He didn’t know previously how to approach his boyfriend about the issues he’s been having but now he was forced to.

This.

This hurt.

the little things

the little beauty spot beneath jungkook's bottom lip becomes one of yoongi's favourite places to kiss.

#weee #i love sugakookie #theyre my otp #yoonkook fic rec #yoonkook #sugakookie #sugakookie fic rec #sugakookie fic #yoonkook fic #syubkook #bts #방탄 #방탄소년단 #bangtan #슙국

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