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jimlingss · 4 years

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Kale’in Me Softly

➜ Words: 17.1k

➜ Genres: 90% Fluff, 9.5% Angst, 0.5% Smut, Farm!AU

➜ Summary: After your grandfather's passing, you decide to take over his farm and plant the trendiest vegetable: kale. It's a struggle to be in the countryside when you've always been a city girl. But there's someone less than sympathetic — a grumpy farmer across the acres who's constantly trying to pick a fight with you.

➜ Warning: Strongly implied smut

cr.

Home — you left it all behind for this. The tractor chugs and wheezes. Its wheels roll over the craggy and unpaved road, making you feel every bump and pebble through constant jolts and bounces. The sweltering heat of the scorching sun was already making you break into a sweat and you sigh, listening to the buzzing of cicadas and the sputtering engine. But otherwise, it was quiet. More than what you were used to. There isn’t any traffic, honking, construction or the noise of motorcycle engines or sirens of ambulances. There’s just the rustle of leaves and the swaying of grass strands. “I can’t believe Old Man Seok had such a pretty granddaughter.” A laugh bubbles out of you. “It’s all in the genes. Did you know my grandfather?” “Everyone knew Old Man Seok. Everyone knows everyone here. But it sure helps that our farms are next door to each other. Just down yonder.” The middle-aged farmer grips the steering wheel. A good-natured aura in spite of his intimidating disposition, he feels like a strict but caring father figure. “He was very kind even to the end of his life. Offered my family a lot of jam throughout the years. A good man through and through. My condolences.” Your smile softens. “Thank you.” “I gotta say, it’s nice to have a new face around these neck of the woods. Doesn’t happen often.” The corner of the man’s mouth pulls and the wrinkles by his eyes crease. “You should come meet my son sometime.” “I wouldn’t mind.” The tractor pulls up to the worn house you’ve seen in your mother’s childhood pictures. “I always love making new friends.” You hop off the tractor the moment it comes to a stop and the man wishes you luck before you thank him again and he’s on his merry way. With only one packed suitcase in hand, you walk up to the house and push your Gucci sunglasses to the top of your head to get a better look. The fence, door and roof are made with a cherry wood that compliments the forest green walls. The patio, on the other hand, is out of oak that matches the rocking chair in the corner. There’s white trim lining the rectangular windows, giving you a peek at the purple, paisley curtains inside. The house looks tattered through time, but cozy. “You’re leaving?!” — “Do you really think this is a good idea, Y/N?” — “Do you even know what you’re going to do there?” The voices of the friends you left behind echo in the recesses of your mind while you fiddle with the hem of your dress in the shade of classical blue — 2020’s pantone colour and a fantastic fashion statement. It’s not farm-appropriate, but better than most of the things in your closet. You went shopping for the last time before you packed your one pink suitcase, but you’re starting to realize those tight, denim overalls might not work like they do in the movies. “You think you can run a farm?!” — “I didn’t raise you so you could go back to the countryside!” — “You don’t even know what you’re doing, Y/N! Grow up already and stop being ridiculous.” An exhale squeezes out of you as you dispel away your family’s discouragement and you grip your grandfather’s letter as you finally muster the courage to approach the house. When your grandfather passed away, you inherited ten thousand dollars and his five acre farm. It’s small. Nothing worthy of bragging about and one of the hundred of reasons everyone thought you would sell it. They even urged you to, so they could get a split of the money. But they never thought you would refuse. That you would leave everything behind and come all the way here. It’s a mess. Thick layers of dust coat the antique furniture and peering out from the kitchen window, the field is littered in leaves and twigs, wooden planks and debris. A sense of guilt overwhelms you. You can’t believe your family let it become this way. You set down your belongings and almost immediately, you begin to look around. Pacing the backyard, the field, the barn, trying to figure out what is what. And it’s not long before a dark-haired man with doe eyes and a permanent dear-in-headlights expression finds you. He nearly startles you to death with his timid greeting. “H-Hi...” “Holy shit!” You press your hand to your chest, spinning around and he boyishly grins. “You scared me!” “S-Sorry…my bad...” Boots, jeans and a white shirt, he looks like a newly graduated high school student who stumbled into the wrong place. “Are you Y/N?” “That’s me.” You wonder if he’s here to kill you. The farm setting was the perfect location after all and serial killers these days have the potential of looking as cute as he does. “You’re...?” “I’m Jungkook. I used to work with Old Man Seok. My mom told me you’d be comin’ today and that I should show you around, so….” He scratches the back of his neck, oddly endearing for how awkward he is. You let him guide you despite having already gotten the chance to peek at almost everything — a detail you leave out to spare him from being disheartened. But with Jungkook here, he has the strength to widen the doors of the old shed out back and you get a better look at the storage and old equipment. “God.” You cough and bat your hand from the dust piles arising. “It’s so dirty.” “Yeah. The tractor needs a bit of fixin’ up which I can help you with, if you need.” It’s clear that towards the end of your grandfather’s life, he was too weak to properly take care of his property. You can tell by the way the field is in tatters, all his crops long dead and his machinery is in desperate need of repair. But as you gander at the space, you discover that there’s everything you need right here. Shovels. Wheelbarrows. Sickles and spades. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.” Jungkook nods, wearing a small smile. “Your grandpa used to help me out a lot, so it’s the least I can do. If you ever need any help, I’m down a few acres West by the market. Just give a holler.” Your cheeks warm, realizing he’s not as young as he appears to be. “I will.” After a while longer, Jungkook leaves you to get settled down and you bid him farewell. You know it’s going to take a bit of time for you to get used to this change, but with a sigh, you try your best to familiarize yourself with the land and surrounding climate. // Back in LA, you were a fashion design marketer. Originally, you set out to fulfill your childhood dream of being a top designer for a big brand like Chanel or Dior, but along the way, you ended up in the marketing sector. It wasn’t as bad as what people thought. A kind of niche you actually quite enjoyed and while you might've left it all behind for the farm life, you know the first step to starting anything is doing market research. So at nine in the morning sharp, you enter the farmers’ market. Open every Sunday, there’s a certain bustle and liveliness in the atmosphere. People from surrounding communities and even far away cities have come to get their fresh produce and dairy products. The market place is held in an open building with doors and massive garages wide open, practically held outdoors itself, and as you walk along the stands, you notice goat milk to beeswax lip balm being sold. There’s everything someone could ask for, bath salts and herbal soaps, baked goods and handmade aprons and quilts. You didn’t know farmers’ markets had so much to offer. “Would you like to try some raspberry jam, darlin’?” A plump lady offers you a spatula. “Sure. Thank you.” The sweet taste ends up bursting on your palette and you hum at the taste, considering buying a jar for breakfast. But she interrupts with a curious stare and a bigger smile. “I haven’t seen you around before, dear. Did you come from somewhere far?” “Oh no, I just moved in. My grandpa was Seokjin….” “You mean Old Man Seok?” Her entire spine straightens, face lighting up. “I never knew he had a granddaughter!” You warm, proud that your grandfather’s made such a lasting impression. “I just moved in a few acres away.” “Taking care of your grandpa’s farm?” she asks and when you nod, the woman practically swoons. “Why, what a gracious thing you’re doin’! Old Man Seok would be proud to have a granddaughter like you! Keepin’ his legacy alive like that. Heaven knows I can’t even get my boy up to milk the cows!” You laugh and she ends up handing you a small jar of raspberry jam for free, wishing you the best of luck. Apparently word spreads fast in this place. After ten minutes of exploring the market, kind and overfamiliar strangers approach from behind their stands, greeting you and taking your hands. Some muse how similar you are to your grandfather while others happily send you some cheese and bread. By the time you’re at the end, it looks like you went grocery shopping. But in the midst of it all, you get the chance to talk to some customers. Making conversation with a pregnant woman, an elderly man, and a little kid overly excited to use his allowance for some candy. People are receptive and friendly, more than what you’re used to back in the city. But you study what they purchase, their spending habits, what people seem to be interested in. Then, your attention is caught at a cute honey stand — jars of honey sealed being sold with beeswax candles tied with pastel yellow ribbon. More importantly, you recognize the doe-eyed boy at the cash register. “Jungkook!” He greets you with a big smile. “Oh, hey, Y/N! I didn’t expect you’d be here.” With your previous lifestyle, the attention of a cute boy like Jungkook isn’t enough to make you bashful — a few years too late on that — but you can still appreciate how endearing he is. “I’m just taking a look around. Thought I should get to know the place since I might be here soon.” “How’re things going? Did you settle in yet?” “I did actually.” It wasn’t in the realm of your expectations to make friends so quickly out here, but to have such pleasant small talk with Jungkook proves your anticipations were wrong. “It took a lot of time to clean the house, but totally worth it! I strung polaroids above the mantle and I found a vintage armchair that’s really in style, so I’d say things are going pretty well.” The boy grins from your enthusiasm. “It sounds like you’re adapting better than I would.” “I’m trying.” Your smile becomes sheepish. “I’m still figuring out the fields and the land. I haven’t even gotten started in clearing out the shed yet.” He nods, lips parting to respond. But then there’s a call of his name behind him and he sighs before sending an apologetic expression. “Sorry. My ma has more honey to unload from the truck. I gotta skedaddle before she yells, but I’m glad things are working out for you!” Jungkook’s undoubtedly cute, even when he says goodbye and promises to catch up with you soon. You don’t dwell either, continuing to parade through the market by yourself and discover all the places you missed on your first walk that was overwhelmed with others intercepting. What piques your curiosity this time is a wooden stall with a soft green cloth draped over the flat surface and a sign that reads ‘Romaine with Me’. What’s offered in the crates are lettuce. Lots and lots of different heads of lettuce lined in rows like plush animal prizes on display at carnival games. You don’t pay much mind to the man behind the stall that’s sleepily blinking and leaning his head in his hand, elbow propped up and figure slumped over. He looks like he’s dozed off but somehow kept his lids peeled back. You approach and read the labels underneath. Red. Green. Romaine. Boston. Bibb. Arugula. Batavia. Radicchio. Iceberg. “I didn’t know there were so many types of lettuce,” you mutter to yourself. “It’s two dollars for each bundle or head,” the man suddenly pipes up in a raspy tone, nearly startling you to death. You realize his pupils have darted right on you and that’s he’s not in fact sleeping with his eyes open. “Romain is three. And there’s a sale on the radicchio.” The man has an oddly intimidating disposition for looking so tired. He has tender features and seemingly soft skin that makes you wonder about his skin care routine. Yet, his hair is as dark as his cat-like eyes that have narrowed in on you. You suddenly feel pressure to make a purchase lest you waste more of his time. “What are the differences?” you ask, studying the lettuces in front of you. “Iceberg, romaine and radicchio are crispy. But iceberg has a clean and fresh taste. Romaine is more bitter and radicchio is a bit bitter and spicy. Boston and bibb are butter lettuces which are softer and have a sweet taste. Boston's leaves are wider and lighter green than bibb's. Arugula is peppery. Batavia is your usual with more crinkled leaves. Red and green are your standard.” The man breathes the explanation out with only one lazy inhale in between and when he’s done, he gives you a look as if asking if you’re satisfied. But you’re more than that. You’re genuinely impressed. He spat facts at you and you’re not sure what to do with the information. “You know a lot about lettuce.” “I’m a lettuce farmer,” he deadpans. “Really?” The corners of your lips pull, even more intrigued than before. You didn’t take him for much of a farmer. The man has a kind of bad-boy vibe that you’re accustomed to and without much thought, the clumsy words stumble out of your mouth— “I thought farmers were dirtier.” “What?” “Like sunburnt, straw hats, overalls.” You nod, studying the produce and missing his offended expression. “Like that’s totally the farmer’s aesthetic.” “Aesthetic?” “Yeah,” you hum, not realizing the man was glaring holes into you. “I’ll take a bundle of the romaine, please.” You end up going home shortly after, trekking underneath the sun with recyclable bags full of food that fills your fridge, sure to be enough for a whole week. You’re not sure what to exactly do after that — there’s plenty of tasks and jobs to be done, but you’re not certain where to start. So you decide to take a break — partly to relax and partly to procrastinate. With your sweat wiped away and a fan whirring in the corner, you plop down into the vintage armchair and grab one of the magazines you brought with you. But it isn’t a good read, not when you had already looked at most of the pages on the plane ride over here…. Your mind ends up wandering, considering what you should do with grandfather’s land, if there was anything new you could offer at all. And at the same time as you’re flipping through the magazine, you stumble on a particular page. A recipe for an avocado kale poke bowl. You skim it and your eyes stop at a single word. Kale. Kale. It sticks to you like glue and you squint at the text, the four letters in print. Your mind searches and it hits you that kale was never sold at the farmers’ market. There was everything, every fruit, every vegetable. But not kale. A smile stretches across your face, determination blooming in your chest. Organic kale was a total new fad. Good for you. Healthy. Sought after in the city, but yet to be prevalent in the countryside. It was a perfect opportunity, one that was sitting right in front of you this entire time. Relief overwhelms you as you make a decision on your niche: kale. // It starts off with books. Gathering as much information as you possibly can, you also learn through guides and internet articles on your chosen crop. You find out that kale becomes bitter over the summer, sweetest in the Fall after being touched by a light frost. It bolts in Spring, so sowing seeds is most appropriate around April to May while they can still be planted throughout the seasons. It provides a yield between late September to early May, direct seeds maturing in fifty to seventy days while transplants take a bit less than half the time. You learn how to protect seedlings from pests, purchasing lightweight fabric to cover rows, and you begin to plow the fields. It takes time to clean up, to get your grandfather’s equipment fixed, to become financed. But you start right away and soon, you’re sewing the seeds eighteen to twenty four inches apart. Getting transplants. Watering them appropriately. Working day and night. You’re not exactly sure if you’re doing this right. Especially on hot days when you’re sweating buckets, dirt has marred your skin and your lower back screams. But you know that even if you fail and have to pack your bags, the effort of trying would be enough for you to feel satisfied. So, you persist. And day by day, the seeds begin to sprout. The dirt is littered with tiny green specks and you feel thrilled that it’s actually growing. Slowly, but surely, you would return this farm to its former glory by your own hands. // It’s another Sunday when you take a trip to the farmers’ market. In spite of having only been here for a short amount of time, you’ve become acquainted with the market. You don’t get lost anymore in the bustle and many like to stop you to ask about your day. It’s a hospitable place, never making you feel uncomfortable or awkward, and you feel relieved that your grandfather was surrounded by such warmth till the end of his life. You’re also starting to become familiar with one particular wooden stall and the sleepy man behind it. No matter what week it is, he’s always there, wearing the same loose flannels but in different colours, flipping through a pamphlet or dozing off. He only looks up when someone comes to buy lettuce. But today, he’s joined by an older man that recognizes you all too easily. “I almost didn’t see you there without being so gussied up in those city clothes. Looks like you’ve gotten yourself comfortable with farm life. Almost reminds me of Old Man Seok back in his heyday.” Immediately, the younger lifts his head up, brow cocked. “You know her?” “She’s Old Man Seok’s granddaughter. I gave her a ride to his farm when she first came,” Mr. Min introduces and his son gives you a better look, one that’s ridden with a modest amount of distaste. “Y/N, this is my boy, Yoongi, that I was talking about.” It never occured to you how similar they are. Their husky voices and quiet yet intimidating dispositions are unparalleled. But the older seems more open and friendly than the younger who has a blank expression and his eyes narrowed in at you. Although you don’t get much time to dwell, ask him that the issue might be or if that’s simply who he is. Some people naturally have a resting bitch face and Yoongi might be one of them. “How’s the countryside life doing for you so far?” his father asks and you smile, attention redirected. “It’s not too bad. But the sun’s hot and I didn’t know farming could be so hard!” Your head quirks to the side, still awed that this was the lifestyle of so many. “I always thought it would be easy cause the organic edamame plant back at my apartment wasn’t so bad to take care of.” Yoongi scoffs. “Yep, it’s difficult alright.” Mr. Min’s engrossed and asks, “What’re you growing?” Enthusiasm and a sense of pride makes you exclaim the answer— “Kale!” Yoongi winces at the volume of your voice while his father is made even more curious. “Kale?” “I was thinking about what wasn’t being sold at the farmers’ market and I found that kale was underrepresented,” you rant, “Kale’s totally the new wave. It’s a trendy, super food and packed with antioxidants. Did you know that kale is among the most nutrient-dense foods on the planet?” “Can’t say I knew that.” Mr. Min has his mouth upturned into an amused smile. Yoongi, on the other hand, sighs. “I’d love to hear more about it. My wife’s quite passionate about these kinds of things too. She practically runs the entire farm! You should come over for dinner sometime, Y/N.” “She should?” — “I’d love to!” Both you and Yoongi talk over another, but you don’t hear him. You’ve never been invited to this kind of thing before and your family rarely ate together. So, the aesthetic of sitting down for a countryside meal with a farming family, like it’s Thanksgiving, is a fantasy you’re eager to fulfill. // Unfortunately, dinner at the Min household has to be held off when your first harvest comes. Finally after a month of waiting, there’s actual kale out in the fields that are ready to be collected. The leaves are small, a little bitter and it’s not a large yield — but it isn’t bad for the first time. You’re happy enough that you’ve grown something, so you don’t nick pick for now. Instead, you focus on wrapping up the bundles, on preparing a stall, on organizing a spot at the market to sell. And when the days of busy work and high pressure accumulate into the first Sunday of the month, you’ve arranged crates of freshly washed, organic kale ready for purchase. It’s exciting. One week you’re walking around as a customer and the next, you’re on the other side of the stand as a vendor. You get to witness the behind the scenes of other farmers, the doors opening at nine sharp, the increasing bustle of the market. But for some reason, you only have a few people who stop by and only one who buys a bundle. “Don’t be worried,” Jungkook comforts, having stopped by once he noticed you. “People tend to buy what they’re used to, so just wait a while. You’ll eventually get your own set of customers!” You can only hope he’s right. By five in the evening, it’s over and you hold in your sigh. You wonder what you should do with the abundance of kale you have left, but you try not to linger as you close shop and the market shuts its doors. Everyone seems to disassemble their stalls with ease, carrying crates to their cars, collecting their earnings. Most are gone within ten minutes but you struggle, unable to keep up when it’s all too new to you and before you know it, you’re the last one left in the space that’s still cleaning up after yourself. The only person you catch is Yoongi who’s walking off, passing you with a crate of two lettuce heads, having already sold most of it. You notice he’s in one of his open flannels again, this time it��s yellow and gray, and you send a friendly smile. But he doesn’t say anything or make a change from his indifferent expression. But then he stops. Five meters away. “You should stop treating this like a joke,” Yoongi deadpans, swiveling around on his heel. You freeze, halfway from grabbing the mason tip jar that you decorated with washi tape the night before. You blink, not sure if Min Yoongi is actually and willingly uttering words to you or if it’s your imagination. “What?” But it isn’t. He is very much talking to you. “The market isn’t here for someone like you to play games.” Now, you’re just confused. “But…...I’m not playing games...?” “It’s obvious you’re not serious about this.” You scoff. You’ve had your fair share of running into mean girls in the fashion industry and in High School, the ones who are snarky and make passive aggressive insults that are disguised as compliments. You just never expected to run into something like that here. And in such a straightforward way too. Usually people are more subtle when they show that they don’t like you. “You can’t accuse me. You don’t know anything about me!” Yoongi stares at you boredly. “You’re making a mockery out of people’s livelihood.” “I’m trying to learn.” You cross your arms, standing your ground. You suppose from his perspective it might be off-putting that you’ve come from nowhere and you’re trying your hand at the farm life. But you swear you haven’t been condescending nor have you ever looked down on anyone. At least you hope it hasn’t come across that way. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but if it seems like I’ve been mocking you then I’m sorry.” This isn’t just a hobby to you nor is it a spectacle for your amusement. You’re serious. Even if you might come across as ditzy, insincere and inexperienced. “But you don’t need to go out of your way to insult me. I already know I was stupid for coming here. Why do you think I came alone? This is a whole new world for me and I’m trying, so I’d appreciate some empathy.” Yoongi stares at you. You stare at him. The two of you have your eyes locked in one another’s, and you want to throw hands, but then he suddenly walks away as if he didn’t hear a word you said. You glare at his backside, huffing out in frustration. As if your day wasn’t bad enough, he had to make it worse. // “Stop being ridiculous, Y/N!” Your mom’s voice is jarring on the other end of the line. It’s grating to your ears. There’s a strong urge to hang up, but you’re not sure if she’ll call again. You’re surprised she called you in the first place — the likelihood of a second time is slim. “I’m actually doing well, thank you very much.” She ignores you. “Sell the land and come home. Do you really think you can do this?!” Tears sting your eyes against your will. You inhale to keep your voice even and steady. “I do actually. I’m learning while I’m out here and it’s not as hard as I thought it would be.” “You’re making this harder than it needs to be. You had a high paying job. An apartment. Clean water to drink. Lots of food to eat. You were comfortable! And you gave it all up, why?!” “The air’s fresher here,” you quip much to your mom’s chagrin and frustration. “I’m a grown woman, mom. I can make my own decisions.” “Until you make others pick up after you!” You wince, hand tightening on your duvet. You try your best not to cry. She doesn’t need to know that you’re running out of money, that your kitchen is filled with leafy greens you couldn’t sell, that your back aches from working out on the fields. “Don’t come running to me when you finally get bored or you’re halfway to starving to death.” You know they think sooner or later, you’ll show up back home with your packed bag. But you refuse to give in. You’ll prove your friends and family wrong — you’ll follow through with this. If there was one thing you were good at, it was being stupid. Being stupid made you at the bottom of the class, it made you have friends who used you, it made you struggle. And it made you resilient. It made you know what working hard to get to where you want meant. It made you determined. And you’re gonna fucking give it your best! Even if the smarter route would be to give up! So with your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, you brace yourself and enter your kitchen full of kale. If you can’t sell it raw, then there are other things that you can try. // “Get your kale kombucha! Your kale smoothie! Full of vitamins and nutrients!” You’re holding a tray of paper cup samples, voice loud with a wide smile. A woman who’s looking at your stand curiously passes by and you steal the chance, smoothly intercepting her way. “Would you like to try one, ma’am?” “Sure.” She takes a sample and once she sips, her eyes light up and her expression becomes inquisitive. The woman approaches your stand, looking over the products you have. “It’s really delicious. How much is it for a smoothie?” “The three sizes are here.” You gesture to the display and she hums. “Two dollars for a small, two fifty for a medium and three for a large. We also have salted kale chips, kale guacamole and kale pesto.” “Is this all homemade?” “It is!” Your enormous smile is proud. “I grew the kale organically and made these with fresh ingredients.” “I’ll take a large smoothie, this guacamole and a bundle of just regular kale then.” “Coming right up!” You’re no stranger to the art of advertising — it’s one of your strengths with your marketing background. You’re pretty sure the chalkboard signs are doing a good job of directing attention to your stall and the samples are certainly going a long way too. “Can I try one, miss?” A little kid tugs on your green apron and you lower yourself down to their eye-level, happily handing them two. “Of course you can!” Sunday after Sunday, you do better and better. Of course, it’s not without constant trial and error, honing in recipes and packaging, learning how to keep products as fresh as possible. But the improvements make the labour all worth it. You notice how Yoongi watches you across the floor and when you smile, he immediately looks away. But there's little time to pay attention to him when the lineup at your stall gradually becomes longer and longer. Jungkook helps you out when he can, whether that’s manning the register beside you or handing out samples to draw in curious customers. “You’re gonna run me out of business soon, Y/N.” Jungkook says in the midst of a slow down when you’re finally able to catch your breaths. “Please,” you giggle. “I’m sure you’re the one drawing in the business. Weren’t those last two customers trying to get your number for the past ten minutes? Last time they kept on asking me about you too.” The boy laughs shyly and it’s all too endearing. “They’re just bein’ nice. If anything, you’re the one drawing in the customers since you’re so pretty and all.” More giggles bubble out of your throat and you lean closer to him. “So you think I’m pretty?” Jungkook realizes what he said and his face reddens. He awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “I mean...isn’t that a fact?” “You’re too sweet, Kook,” you sigh wistfully. “Thank you for helping me.” “Anytime, really.” Jungkook’s smiles softly and his lips part, but before he can say anything, his peripheral vision finally catches the weight of a third party’s stare. His eyes travel across the market floor to the wooden stall of lettuce — right on the man behind it who’s rolling his eyes. You follow his line of sight and a knowing smile appears on your features. “Jungkook, can you hand me the sample tray?” You might not be the brightest crayon in the box, but you’re not that big of an idiot. For the past two weeks, you’ve noticed how Yoongi keeps staring at you. You don’t suspect it to be sudden infatuation either. Most likely, it’s surprise that you’ve proven him wrong or reluctant admission that you’re on your way to success, or perhaps passive aggression too. Whatever the case is, you approach him and witness him visibly stiffen as you come closer. Your smile remains bright when you ask, “Is everything okay, Yoongi?” “I’m fine,” the man deadpans. “You should move. You’re blocking my customers.” “You have no customers.” “I would if you weren’t standing there.” You scoff. “You are not cute.” Yoongi’s brow lifts, amused at your comment. “Excuse me?” “I want to make peace,” you outright declare, having no shame with confronting him. “I’ve had my fair share of drama back home and I’m not looking forward to picking fights here, so I forgive you.” Yoongi snorts as you raise your sample tray as a peace offering. “I know you’re curious, so you try one. My kale kombucha is my most popular item. It’s a fermented tea that has lots of healthy yeast and bacteria.” “No.” The dark-haired man rejects without needing to blink. “Kale is disgusting. There’s a reason no one sells it here.” You’re shocked, not knowing where to start. But there’s no point in arguing with him and spewing nutrition facts. Your pride is much too high to insist too, so you merely lift your chin. “Fine. Suit yourself. But one of these days, you’re going to fall in love with kale, Min Yoongi.” It’s a challenge — but a one-sided one. Yoongi simply sighs as you strut away, feeling more tired than he did before. // The engines of the moving truck rumbles and coughs as it rolls down the dirt road. It’s drawn the attention of several, including his dad and mom. They’re peering out the front window, curtains tugged with their noses pressed to the glass. Usually, Yoongi doesn’t care much for what the neighbours are up to or keeping up with community gossip, but for some reason, his curiosity is piqued enough that he glances out as well. “What’s going on?” “There are trucks coming back and forth from Old Man Seok’s land.” Yoongi wonders if you’ve given up and you’re moving out. He wouldn’t be surprised. But suddenly, before he can walk off and mind his own business, his mother whirls around. “Yoonie, go check up on our new neighbour.” He exhales exhaustingly. “Why?” “Well, you’re friends, aren’t you?” “We’re not.” It’s a firm fact, but his mother doesn’t hear him. She’s already moving into the kitchen and making him follow her. He knows arguing is futile — once she’s set on her mind on something, no one can change it. “Go on and deliver some cheese too.” She hands him a paper bag. “We haven’t welcomed her properly yet and it’s customary to at least give a greeting and gift.” Yoongi begrudgingly obliges and minutes later, he finds himself making the trek across the acres to the cottage that always reminded him of Christmas with its cherry red roof and forest green walls. The polluting trucks drive away in the meanwhile, wheels turning against the gravel fading, and the countryside returns to its quaint atmosphere. As he comes closer, Yoongi notices the wooden spools on your lawn and some barber chairs littered around, akin to a dumpster yard, but he avoids them and walks up the porch, knocking twice on the door. He can imagine thrusting the bag in your hand, muttering a greeting and question or two before getting back to the farm. Yet, what he doesn’t anticipate is silence and then noises farther away. The man sighs and decides to follow the sounds lest he spends the rest of the afternoon waiting at your front door. He rounds the house to the backyard. “What are you doing?” Yoongi discovers mason jars, picnic blankets, wooden crates sprawled all over on the grass — things he guesses the trucks brought over — and he finds you on a ladder with fairy lights tangled around your limbs. You jolt. In horror, Yoongi watches the ladder dangerously wobble back and forth, but luckily, it steadies and you twist yourself around. “Holy shit! You almost scared me half to death!” “What are you doing?” he repeats, more urgently and concerned than before. “I’m setting up fairy lights obviously.” Your smile is big, cheeks swelling with it. “I’m gonna decorate part of the land with hipster furniture and channel the farm aesthetic. It’s going to become an Insta spot. Hashtag kale-in-farm.” Yoongi doesn’t understand half of what you just said and he’s not sure if he should even ask. “What’s a hashtag?” “You don’t know what a hashtag is?” Your eyes are perfectly rounded, looking at him like he’s an alien and he chuckles. The irony isn’t lost on him. He isn’t the weird one — you are. “Should I know what it is?” You don’t answer, merely climbing off the ladder and his breath hitches at how you don’t watch your step. Yoongi doesn’t get stressed easily, but he swears he’s going to get a heart attack looking at you. You pull out your phone suddenly from your back pocket and after some tapping, you thrust the screen in his face. “This is Instagram, see? It’s an app where you can follow people and see the pictures that they post. An Insta spot is a place where you can take good Instagram pictures. Hashtags is a way to label the posts, so others can see and search it up. Or at least that’s what I think it is. It’s kind of hard to explain, it’s one of those things that just catches on and you get after using it. This is my page, see?” You’ve given your phone to him and Yoongi eyes your bikini photos before handing it back. “Uh-huh.” “I can’t believe you don’t have an Instagram. You should make one and add me!” “No thanks.” You huff, pouting at him and Yoongi’s mouth twitches as he resists the small smile. There’s something in the way you react to him being mean to you that makes it all too entertaining. “My mom wanted to give you some cheese.” He hands the paper bag over and you excitedly peer inside. “It’s just goat cheese. Usually she makes a cherry pie as a housewarming gift, but today….was a bit last minute.” Yet in spite of the measly present, Yoongi’s taken aback at how happy you seem. “This is so sweet! Tell your mom I said thank you! I should probably give her some kale—” He lifts his palm, stopping you in the middle of your sentence. “There’s no need.” “Well, tell her I said thank you.” You put it down on the wooden patio steps and move towards the ladder. Then something by his foot catches your eye. “Oh, can you do me a favour and put that typewriter on the wooden crate?” Yoongi doesn’t know why you have a broken typewriter, but he follows your instructions. His eyes travel to several worn bikes you have leaning against the railing. It’s strange considering you don’t seem like the type to bike. As if reading his mind, you laugh. “They don’t work. It’s just for the aesthetics.” “Uh-huh.” He turns back, about to bid goodbye and leave this mess behind him. But as he turns away, he witnesses you step on the highest prong of the ladder. The part you’re not allowed to step on. With the danger warning signs plastered on it that says ‘STOP’ in big, red letters. Yoongi’s breath hitches and he lurches over, grabbing the ladder to steady it as it wobbles. “Woah!” You regain your balance and turn to grin at him. “Thanks for that. You saved my life!” “Get off.” “What?” “Get off the ladder before you die.” His stern command has you obeying and you come down to the ground again. Yoongi sighs and takes the lights from you. “I’ll do it. Tell me where you want them and hold the bottom rung for me.” You’re bewildered, but you don’t reject his offer of help. Yoongi follows your instructions too, working quickly and more efficiently than when you were, and you can’t help but giggle as you watch him string the fairy lights. He glares at you. “What?” You look up at him, beaming a grin. “For being such a mean, old grump, you’re actually pretty reliable and considerate, Yoongi.” He diverts his vision elsewhere. “Whatever.” But it’s all too true. In many ways, Yoongi reminds you of peppermint candy. Hard on the outside but with just a bit of melting, all too sweet and sugary on the inside. // It starts off with you. A post, a cute caption, the hashtag. You manage to get Jungkook to follow suit and then it’s a group. A person who shows up with their friends, stopping by to enjoy your kale farm and haphazardly filming their adventure to put onto their social media. Then it’s three or four, more and more of the hashtag being used, of pictures being taken, of others catching wind of the trendy new place to take photos, of fresh kale being harvested and kale kombucha being sold. It’s an exponential growth and before you know it, there’s a bustle at your farm. Strangers that park in the designated area, families enjoying the picnic spots, young adults posing for photographs underneath the strung fairy lights after dark. Your kale chips and smoothie sales skyrocket and after constructing a website, you know you’ve made a name for yourself. You hire Jimin, Jungkook’s cousin, to help you out. Recently turned eighteen, he’s gentle and luckily attentive. He excels in customer service and in between selling your products and doing measly tasks to upkeep the farm, you know you’ve finally found a sustainable income aside from the farmers’ market alone. “This ‘s what I call innovation,” Yoongi’s dad muses as the two of them stand near the tractor, looking over the field to the figures prancing on your land and listening to the laughter that leaks over. “It ain’t often a smart woman suddenly shows,” he says, glancing at him. “You should take advantage of it.” “It’s not smart.” Yoongi turns away. “It’s dumb luck. There’s nothing impressive about it.” His dad sighs at him, but as they retreat home, Yoongi can’t help glancing over his shoulder. // Yoongi has accepted that you’re a complete wild card — when he thought you were making a spectacle of this rural life for your own amusement, you make a whole declaration about how serious you are. When he expects you to move out, you instead bring bits and bobs to your farm. When he expects you to completely and utterly fail, you thrive. Yoongi always thought that he was the enigma — hard to understand, hard to get to know, one of the many reasons he isn’t particularly close to anyone. But in reality, you are. At surface level, it looks like you’re simple-minded, overly enthused, optimistic. Yet you continuously defy his expectations. And he has to applaud you for it. But of all things, Yoongi most certainly did not expect to see you on his porch one afternoon. “I got invited by your mom for dinner,” you explain with another infamously bright smile and your arm lifts with a bag. “I brought kale!” “You did.” He holds in his sigh. “I don’t know how you want to eat it, so it’s raw….unless…..do you not have electricity? I can go back to prepare it.” “What?” “You know, electricity.” When he stares at you, you begin explaining to be helpful. “The stuff that gives you light and power and you can turn on the stove—” “I know what electricity is!” Yoongi shouts. He’s almost always calm, but you have a talent for being condescending without even realizing. “What’s with all the noise?” His mom emerges and her face immediately lights up, lips forming into a warm smile. She wipes her hands on her apron and comes to embrace you. “Y/N! I thought I heard your voice! Come in, come in! Oh my word, what’s this? Kale? Thank you! Was the walk here long?” “Not at all.” You smile, being ushered in the kitchen. It still amazes you how much Yoongi looks like his mom. They both have tender, soft features. Albeit, the male took on his father’s personality and characteristics, his physical appearance compared to his mom is nearly a carbon copy. “It’s only a few acres away. I love your home, by the way. It has a good energy to it.” Yoongi wonders when you got so comfortable with his parents. “I’m preparing dinner right now. Should be done fairly soon, but Yoonie! Why don’t you show dear Y/N around the farm?” Yoongi knows he doesn’t have a choice and you hold in your giggle at his dejected expression. It’s not often you can witness him being obedient and when he takes you through his backyard, you can’t help poking fun at him. “Yoonie?” “It’s a childhood nickname,” he grumbles. There’s an urge to squish his cheeks together. They’ve always reminded you of jello or bread loafs, but for the sake of not being slapped, you control the desire. The Min property is vast. Chicken coops and several sheds are close to the house, but in the distance, cows and goats graze in the open pastures. The lush fields seem to stretch to the horizon, only broken up by the occasional tree left to grow in peace. It’s a tranquil landscape and there’s an urge to sit back in a rocking chair and knit. Even though you don’t know how to knit. “How big is the farm?” “It’s a hundred acres.” Yoongi says it like it’s nothing impressive, but it’s still fifty times the size of your own farm. “Is that all lettuce?” You look over the plowed fields filled with green. “Some of it is asparagus and carrots, but it’s mostly different kinds of lettuce,” he explains, “We don’t sell all of it at the market. We got a few contracts from grocery stores and those get shipped out, so we’re always busy year round.” You’re amazed. His family manages to do a lot more than you and you already feel swamped half the time. But you suppose you still have a long way to go before you can call yourself a real farmer. The pair of you approach the fence and you watch the goats chewing on their grass, bleating at you. You grin and mimic their noises, oblivious to the way Yoongi steals a glance at you. “What do you do with all the animals?” you ask. “They’re for personal usage. We eat chicken eggs and my mom makes cheese a lot.” Yoongi diverts his vision at your intense stare and clears his throat. He didn’t know all of this was so interesting to you. “Have you ever milked a cow before?” “No!” “Do you want to learn how?” “Yes!” This time, Yoongi can’t hold back his chuckle at your childlike enthusiasm. He leads a smaller cow into the stall, introducing her as August, and you help him brush her down. Yoongi shows you how to wash August with warm, soapy water, how to clean her utters and let the milk down by relaxing her. He demonstrates as well, clamping the top of the utter between his thumb and first finger before squeezing. You follow his instructions, mimic his movements and milk squirts into the silver pale successfully. “It feels kind of weird.” The corner of his thin lips pull. “Is it supposed to feel nice?” When your hands get tired, Yoongi leans over to help you out, explaining how often someone can milk cows for, where August came from and how long she’s been around. You never expected how awfully endearing it would be to listen to a farm boy talk about his precious cow, but it is. Or maybe that’s just Yoongi being Yoongi. Everything that comes out of his mouth is interesting to you. “—months ago and…..are you even listening?” “Of course I am!” You totally weren’t and he doesn’t seem to believe your assertion either, so to divert his attention, you turn the direction of the utter and squeeze. The line of milk squirts directly at Yoongi’s kneecap, dampening his jeans and you laugh at his scandalized expression. “What the fuc—!” “Stop! Stop!” You stand, giggling incessantly while blocking your arms up when Yoongi lunges down and squeezes two utters at you. The milk is warm and sticky against your skin. “I’m sorry!” “Too late!” His cheeks are swollen with a gummy smile, happily taking his revenge. Before any of you have realized, the sun has gone down and there’s a lingering scent of milk on your clothes. But no one other than you and Yoongi notices or at least his parents don’t say anything. “How are things going, dear?” his mom asks you with a satisfied smile as she watches you devour her dessert apple pie. Dinner at the Min’s was all too cozy and welcoming. Food had filled the rounded table and the family, albeit only three members in total, had gathered together. For the past few months, you’ve been eating by yourself with a magazine by your side or in front of the old television with some obscure show on. You missed having conversations over delicious meals and part of you wonders how you’ll return to your regular routine after tonight. After a taste of the forbidden fruit, you’ll wish every night was like this. “Better than expected actually. It’s a learning process, so it goes up and down, but everyone’s been so helpful to me that it hasn’t been bad.” Yoongi’s father nods solemnly. “All on your own too.” You become shy under their praise. “It’s nothing, really. I just wanted to preserve the memory of my grandfather and all I have is his land, so....” Sometimes you lay awake thinking about how much your life has changed. A year ago, you were still in LA in a high rise apartment working, and in an effort to connect with your family roots again, you left it all behind. But you don’t regret your decision whatsoever. From the moment you came here, no matter what challenges you faced, it all became worth it in the end. It’s a hard life, but a peaceful one. A simple and serene way of living that you always needed. “Bless your heart,” his mother swoons and you realize Yoongi’s gazing at you too — with an odd sense of gentleness that you aren’t used to. Or maybe that’s merely the dim lighting of the small dining room. “You are the hardest working, gosh darn smartest young lady I have ever met.” You look away from Yoongi, face warming at the compliments. “No, I just try my hardest.” “And try hard you do!” His mom leans across the table, eyes bright. “Don’t you think so, Yoonie? Isn’t Y/N marvelous?” You turn to him expectedly, but Yoongi’s eyes are suddenly down at his empty plate. “Well, there’s nothing else to do out here but work, so isn’t that the default?” You scoff and it takes his attention. “You aren’t cute at all.” The corner of his mouth tugs. “Excuse me?” “Don’t pay any attention to him, Y/N.” His mom bats at your arm. “He’s too much like his dad.” “You mean, he took after my best traits?” The older man at the table has his brow cocked and you smile at the banter, but the woman beside you doesn’t entertain it. “He took after your temper and grumbling.” “Which is why no one ever bullied him.” Yoongi’s father slaps him on his back and he sighs. His mom turns her head to continue, “Never mind them. I swear, Yoonie used to be the cutest kid in the whole country. I don’t know when he changed. Do you want to see his baby pictures?” Your spine straightens and your eyes widen. “I would love to—” Suddenly, there’s the ear-piercing noise of the chair leg scraping against the wooden floorboards. Yoongi has stood up and tosses his napkin down. “It’s getting pretty late. Probably time to go home, right?” You laugh, but oblige only because it gives you reason to come over again. Yoongi’s mother at least assures as much, promising that next time you’ll be able to see all the albums and photographs of that time he cried while being chased by a goose — something you’re looking forward to, much to Yoongi’s dismay. He’s just too much fun to tease. The more and more you get to know Yoongi and the people in his life, the better you’re coming to realize that he’s not that much of a grump at all. It’s a facade, really. A thin curtain that hides how soft and pouty he actually is. Less like the bad boy you initially thought. More like a farm sheep. “You didn’t need to walk me home, you know.” You turn to him, glancing at his profile. “It’s only a few acres away.” “Yeah, but then I would never hear the end of it from my mom. It’s dark out anyway and it’s not like I mind.” You nod and the pair of you fall into a comfortable lull. There’s a lot from tonight that you have to think about and it’s not just about Yoongi and his family. After seeing how they run their farm and how much they’ve expanded, you wonder if you’ll ever get to that size too. “What do you think if I started growing quinoa and soy?” He gives you an incredulous look, still visible in spite of the darkness, and it makes you laugh. “What would you do with quinoa and soy?” “I don’t know. Make different smoothies or flavours of kombucha? I would have to look into it. But it’s just a thought for no—” The pitch of your voice raises as you lose your footing, about to plunge. But then Yoongi yanks your arm back, steadying you before you trip in the ditch. “Oh my god! I almost died!” “Watch where you’re going, woman,” he scolds and his hand boldly wraps around yours, palms clasping together firmly. You glance down, foreign to the feeling of his affection and Yoongi notices. He looks straight ahead, but quickly explains, “If you die and haunt the farm, that’ll bring down the value of the land nearby.” You scoff. “You’re lucky you have a cute face, Min Yoongi.” His lips curl. “I thought you said I wasn’t cute.” “Your personality isn’t, but your face is alright.” If anything, you’re downplaying it, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Out here, you’re a good eight, but where I’m from, maybe you’re a six and a half.” His laugh is mellifluous, and it infects a smile on your own features. “What about you?” You look down to where you’re joined at the hands and muse how much larger his palm and fingers are to you, how his skin is calloused from working the fields, how warm and secure it feels. “Clearly, I’m a ten wherever I go,” you quip. “Can’t you see?” Yoongi apologizes, “I’m sorry, I might be blind then ‘cause I can’t see you as attractive at all.” Another scoff tears from you, a lighthearted one that makes his grin widen. “You know what? I take it back. You aren’t cute at all. Not even your face can make up for your sour personality.” Yoongi chuckles, squeezing your hand, and it’s awfully unfair how your face heats more. // Despite how busy you get managing the Insta spot, planting and harvesting kale, and cooking and packaging products, you never fail to find time to be at the market every Sunday. While your other sources of income are slowly increasing more than what you get from the farmers’ market, the atmosphere and sense of community is enough for you to scrape up time out of your week to set up your stall. And it’s often the time that you get to have your conversations with Jungkook too. “So….did you try it out?” Your eyes glisten, locked into his. “What did you think? Did it work?” The boy scratches the back of his neck. “I...don’t think kale shampoo is it, Y/N.” You deflate, keeping your sulking to a minimum. It didn’t work for you either, but you were trying to see if it was just your hair that was the strange one. “Really? But it looks soft.” You reach over and plant your hand in his black bed of hair. To your surprise, it’s even silkier than it appears. “Woah! It’s soft!” Jungkook ducks his head, colour blooming on his cheeks. He doesn’t bat your hand away nor does he lean into your touch when you pet him incessantly. “It isn’t that soft…” “What shampoo and conditioner do you usually use? It feels so nice, Kook.” The both of you are oblivious to the flannel-wearing man from across the market who’s glaring above the heads of lettuce. He bores his gaze into you, wondering what the hell you’re doing in the middle of the farmers’ market and putting on a show for all the older ladies to watch. Don’t you know how gossip and rumours start at this place? Merely chatting is enough to grab attention, but to be outright flirting like this was downright reckless. His jaw ticks, nostrils flaring. He’s uncomfortable. It isn’t any of his business, but Yoongi feels an urge to do something. It’s utterly irrational. Completely out of the norm of his usual behaviour. But somehow, he finds himself abandoning his stall and crossing the floor. “What the hell are you two doing?” “Yoongi!” You turn, greeting him with a big smile and suddenly that irrational emotion is replaced with something else that sits at his chest. To have your attention, he feels…..satisfied. Even if it’s childish. “I was just talking about the kale shampoo I made, but I think it’s an idea I’m going to have to scrap.” “Shampoo?” “It left a sticky mess on my head and took me ten minutes to wash it off,” Jungkook tells and his smile softens at your sigh. “Sorry, Y/N.” “Maybe kale conditioner would work better....” At the same time, Jungkook’s name is called by his grandma nearby, so he bids goodbye and a see you later to the both of you. It’s a slow down period right after lunch, so there’s fewer people around and with Yoongi here, you take the opportunity. “Can you watch my stall for me?” “What?” “I need to go to the bathroom.” You clasp your hands together and bat your lashes, trying to appeal to him. “Pretty please, Yoongi? I would really, really appreciate it.” He exhales and waves his hand boredly, not sparing you a glance. But you already know he’s relinquished before he says it. “Fine.” You jump up with a smile. “Thanks! You’re the best!” In the next three seconds, you’ve jogged away and Yoongi’s left standing at the market, watching your stall and his stall from across the floor that he abandoned. He wonders how he got into this predicament, but doesn’t dwell when his eyes stray to your bottles of fancy kombucha on display. He picks up a bottle, curious as to how you made these fancy labels, and he snorts when he notices in tiny text it says, ‘don’t kale me’. You’re such a dork, it’s impossible to believe. Then again, his mom decided to make a pun for the lettuce stall too, so he’s not one to talk. For a moment, Yoongi ponders what the hell this kale kombucha tastes like. He got a chance to try it before when you waltz up to him all those weeks ago with a tray of samples, but he denied you out of pride and stubbornness. He knows it must taste somewhat decent if you’re making all those sales. He’s seen people drinking it as they walk around too, but he’ll be damned if he actually went up to you and bought one. He’s sure you’d throw a celebration and do the whole ‘I told you so’ dance if it was actually delicious. Relinquishing, he places the bottle back on the display. But then the awful happens. Time slows — there’s a noise and the entire dainty shelf is collapsing. Yoongi is helpless to the way the bottles collide against the ground deafeningly, how the dark green liquid splatters on the concrete, to the way the glass shards spray. He cusses and manages to catch one bottle before turning around. There are people staring at him — customers alarmed and vendors sympathizing. But more importantly, you’re standing meters away, returned from the bathroom. He catches your shock, your confusion, and then the heartbreak — even if it only lasts for a blink before you’re smiling again. You come over, looking down at the mess. “I didn’t know you hated me this much to sabotage my stuff like this,” you quip jokingly. But there’s no banter or excuses being made. There’s silence. And you lift your eyes to meet Yoongi’s, realizing how mortified he is. “Hey, it’s alright. I knew the shelf had a few loose screws, but I didn’t know it would fall like that. I should’ve fixed it sooner.” “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.” “You don’t really need to do th……” “I’ll make it up to you,” Yoongi states more firmly than before, eyes darkened and you swallow hard. He knows you’re trying to cover up how hurt you are, how you’re trying to save face and not only is he embarrassed, he’s guilty. “You were supposed to sell all this, weren’t you?” You give in and Yoongi grabs a broom, aiding you in cleaning up the mess. You’ve never seen him so serious and solemn before, but it makes you glad that he’s the one here to help. // At six in the morning, you wake up and less than ten minutes later, you hear the wheezing engine of a truck out front. The sun was barely on the horizon, but when you walk out to the porch, you discover Yoongi shutting the door of his vehicle and coming up to you. He’s dressed in an oversized purple and black plaid flannel and gray shirt underneath, black hair flopping to the side, features softer than usual. He’s yawning and rubbing his eyes, all too endearing that you have to admit it. “Mornin’,” you greet with a grin and he merely grunts, gesturing inside your house. A laugh draws out of you and you open the door for him. “You didn’t need to do this, you know. I told you I was totally fine.” “Just accept my help, lady,” he sighs and looks around your living space, glancing at the polaroids strung above the brick mantle, the recycled jar of flowers on the kitchen counter, and the couch cushions made from flour sacks you reused. You grow warm under his scrutiny, realizing that no one has ever entered your home before. But while you expect to get criticism, Yoongi instead says, “I like what you did with the place. It’s cozy.” You smile, still a bit self-conscious. “Thanks. Do you want tea? Coffee? Kale juice?” “I’m fine.” He follows after you, stepping into the kitchen. The space is crowded or maybe it’s just you feeling small with him so close. “I’m here to help. What do you usually do at this time?” “Well, I usually start by harvesting whatever kale I can. The weather seems good today too and there are some fields that need to be plowed, so I should do that and then plant some seeds…” “Okay.” He’s already tugging his sleeves up. “Let’s get to it.” It’s unusual to have someone join you during your morning chores, but it isn’t unwarranted. Granted, you have to teach him a little on the way you do things, but he already knows a lot from working on his own farm and you find Yoongi is a great listener. He might have a blank expression and be exceptionally quiet, but his occasional questions are insightful and he’s attentive when he mimics you. It’s peaceful — the sun not yet sweltering in the sky or giving an unbearable heat that makes it hard to work, the animals in the far distance not awoken, the breeze curling through your hair. When you look up from your spot, you see Yoongi working as hard as you are and it tickles the corners of your lips into a subtle smile. Things finish twice as fast and then you’re taking a break, making breakfast for Yoongi. His company is nice at the table, even when he complains that your sunny side up eggs are too overcooked and you threaten to throw him out. It’s a kind of banter that doesn’t so much irritate you — rather, it keeps you on your toes, making you giggle at witty remarks while he rolls his eyes. After breakfast, Yoongi insists on washing the dishes and succeeds when he whines and feigns annoyance on how you don’t trust him to clean your plates. He ends up fixing a light fixture in your kitchen too after you mention that it sometimes flickers off and startles you. He’s helpful and handy, more than you thought he would be, but you try not to get used to it. “This is where you keep your kombucha?” he asks as you show off the pantry that you’ve practically changed into a cellar. “Yep.” You tap one of the large jars on the shelf. “It takes five to seven days for it to ferment after I make it. Then, I have to add in the kale and let it ferment for another three days. These babies will be ready for tomorrow. But I have to make a new batch today.” “That’s a lot of work,” he comments. “Oh. You haven’t seen it yet.” You brush past him, smirking. Yoongi looks all too cute in the pink apron. It’s a comical sight and albeit, isn’t actually a part of your usual routine to wear one, you made it up on the fly just to see him wear it and he’s too cute. “What?” His head whips up, brow cocked at the way you’re grinning. “Nothing. Hand me that bowl.” It’s a bit of an irony that Yoongi hasn’t tried any of your kombucha, but is first to learn the recipe from you. You show him how to brew the gallon of black tea, how to add the cup of sugar in and allow it to cool before pouring it into the jar. “What’s that?” he asks when you’re sticking a rubbery flab into the jar. “It’s a scoby. It has a bunch of yeast and bacteria that helps with fermentation. It’s made from kombucha, sugar, black tea.” You seal off the jar and Yoongi goes quiet. You look up at him, discovering a thoughtful expression on his face as if he’s impressed you know what you’re doing. “I’m not completely stupid, you know. I know I come across as—” “I never thought you were dumb,” Yoongi suddenly states without missing a single beat. Your eyes become rounded and the corner of his mouth pulls. “Maybe insensitive and ignorant, but not stupid per se.” “Hey!” “There’s a difference,” Yoongi laughs and insists, “Being ignorant means you just haven’t learnt yet, but being stupid means you can’t learn at all.” He ducks when you half-heartedly swing and more chuckles fill the home, including your own. But Yoongi’s right. You had no clue what you were getting yourself into when you first arrived. Everything’s been a learning process, but it finally feels like things are falling into place. Yoongi helps you wash the kale out back and stays by your side, peering over your shoulder, as you make the kale chips, guacamole and pesto. He stirs and gets ingredients when he can, and you find he has quite a knack for packaging things neatly. He’s somehow careful yet efficient. “I didn’t know you did so much.” “Yeah.” You wipe your sweat with the back of your hand. “I try to space everything out, but sometimes everything falls on the same day and I’ve been running low on products, so I can’t put it off.” He hums, sealing the jar of pesto shut and then working on smoothing the label on the surface. It’s mid-afternoon already. You didn’t realize how quickly time was going. The golden sun is already coming through the windows of the kitchen as you and Yoongi work across from one another, falling into a lull. You turned the staticky radio on, but it often acts as background noise when either of you start another conversation. You giggle and he tilts his head up at the noise. “What? Did I put the label on upside down again?” “No.” You shake your head, smiling to yourself. “It just kind of feels like we’re a married couple, that’s all.” Unbeknownst to you, Yoongi freezes. But then he eases, the corner of his own mouth tugging. “You’re not trying to seduce me, are you?” “Seduce you?!” You scoff, looking up to see him focused on tying the ribbon around the jar. “I have higher standards than that, Min Yoongi.” “Says the one who’s been flirting with me all morning.” “I’m not flirting with you.” “Uh-huh. Don’t tempt me with the suggestion of marriage then. I might actually do it.” You’re baffled, made speechless with how he twists his words and how sweet he can talk. Your face heats and you know that if you open your mouth, you’ll blubber and make a fool out of yourself. So you opt for a huff and silence which only spurs on his chuckles and inadvertently makes you sulk harder. If anything Yoongi was the flirt. But you’re not about to declare it in case he asks if that means you’re affected by it. Because you are. The rest of the afternoon is spent finishing on packaging and storing away the products to sell tomorrow when the Insta spot opens and the following day at the farmers’ market. But as you dust off your hands, you feel the gurgle of your empty stomach and you offer to make him an early dinner. “Is there anything you want to eat? My cooking skills aren’t that great—” “Clearly.” You glare at him. “—but I can look up any recipe you want.” Yoongi makes a disgruntled noise and he leans over to open your fridge. You peep over his shoulder and at once, blood drains from your face. “There’s nothing in your fridge, Y/N.” He turns around with puzzlement on his visage. “How did you make breakfast this morning?” “I….used the last of my eggs to make breakfast. I didn’t think you would actually stick around long enough for dinner.” “And what would you have eaten tonight if I did leave?” With one foot keeping the fridge open, he starts taking out several things like a maid cleaning out your kitchen. “The strawberries have gone bad...and there’s….mold on the bread. How do you live?” “My budget was a bit low for this week and I underestimated how much groceries I would need.” When he pulls out the drawer with bundled kale, you stop him. “That’s for me to sell.” “You don’t eat what you grow?” “Not really,” you admit. “I don’t actually eat much kale….I brought lots of instant noodles from the city, but I ran out two weeks ago….” He shuts the fridge. “I’ll talk to my mom and bring more eggs and milk to you more often.” “You don’t need to do that.” “No, but I want to.” Looking at you, Yoongi realizes that you’re really just a girl who came from nowhere to start a whole farm. Partly hopeless and causing an urge in him to take care of you, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind as much as he thought he would. “Move. I’ll make dinner. You have some iceberg lettuce and kale that I can work with.” He starts rolling up his sleeves again and you don’t let your eyes linger on his exposed veiny forearms for long. You feel a bit embarrassed that you didn’t prepare more and that he caught you at a struggling week. But more than that, guests are supposed to be treated better. “I’m sorry, Yoongi.” “Don’t be.” As he passes, he plops a hand on your head and you look up at him, surprised at the unusually affectionate gesture. “I’m quite the chef, you know. I make better breakfast than you do.” Yoongi probably does, but your pride won’t let you admit it. “Psh. You haven’t started yet. Don’t get so cocky.” You help by setting the table and then pulling a stool to watch him cook. Maybe it’s a bit lame, but you’re impressed at his knife skills and how fast he chops the lettuce and kale into thin strips, keeping a constant rhythm and never once stopping. You scoff when he glances at you with a smirk, but there’s little you can say, especially when he sautes it in a pan with oil and half an onion you have left. The house is filled with a mouthwatering scent and it’s even more delicious than expected once the plate is plopped down in front of you and you get a taste. “Oh my god….how did you make this?” Yoongi smugly shrugs. “I made it up on the fly. Can’t help that my talent is inborn.” You’re too busy eating to retort with a snarky comment. “Maybe I should marry you.” He laughs and quickly eats before you steal his own portion. The sun eventually goes down and it’s hard to say goodbye after one of the best days you’ve had since coming here, but you know you’ll see Yoongi tomorrow and the next day — whether that’s across the acres and through a giant wave or arguing as you do at the market. He’s always been around, an addition to the farm life itself, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

When Yoongi returns home, he announces that he’s back. There are storming steps, his mom enthusiastic and racing down the stairs to ask him how it went. His dad looks around the living room corner as well, and he sighs at their intrusiveness. “It was fine.” Yoongi tosses the keys aside, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s actually a lot more hard-working than I expected.” He walks off before they can bombard him with any more inquiries, but they understand their son well enough and they exchange knowing smiles.

You never expect to see Yoongi awkwardly lingering on your porch like a car salesman, especially considering you were once doing the same thing at his house not long ago. But while he’s here just to deliver some apple pie his mom made, you eagerly pull him inside. “Why? Why?” he whines childishly, but stumbles after you anyway. “I need you to try something for me.” It was an Insta spot day, cars filled in the lot you designated, people from the city out in the back and the chatter loud enough to leak inside the kitchen. Families were strolling about, children picking kale, young adults posing for countless pictures by the picnic blankets and decorations. Yoongi can’t quite understand what their fixation and fascination is to drive all the way out here for such frivolous things, but if it works then it works, he supposes. You set the apple pie on the table and notice Yoongi peering out of the window, primarily watching the brunette boy fussing about and working the register behind the cute stall you made. “Oh, that’s Jungkook’s cousin, Jimin,” you tell him, even though he probably already knows. Everyone knew everyone around here. “I hired him to help out.” “Doing well enough to hire people?” he asks, brow lifted and a smile raising on his cheeks. “I guess you could say so.” Your pride is supported by the bustle outside the window. “I need all the help I can get.” “Are you trying to get me to help out too? Because I don’t work for free, lady.” “Pft. No. I thought you might want to try out the kale kombucha you made with me last week. You came right in time actually. I just got it packaged and everything. Wait here. I’ll go grab a bottle.” Without another word, you pull the door open and Yoongi sighs with a softened smile, watching you march across the land to chat with Jimin. But within seconds, his attention is taken away by the squeak of the door and a middle aged woman sticking her head through. “Excuse me,” her voice is shrill, “is there a bathroom in here?” “Uh…” He’s fairly certain you don’t let anyone inside your house and that he caught sight of fancy porta potties you set up on the side. “No. If you turn the corner, there’re some bathrooms you can use.” Yet, she blinks blankly at him and Yoongi holds his long exhale in his nose. Whatever your intentions are, it seems like he’s working for you anyhow. “I can show you.” Yoongi hopes he’s not wrong or it’ll be terribly awkward, but luckily for him, there’s indeed bright blue stalls and the woman thanks him as she waddles off. But he can’t take refuge inside your home when he’s interrupted by someone again. “Excuse me!” This time it’s a group of girls around his age giggling with caked makeup and dressed in short rompers. They thrust their phones forward before he can utter a word. “Can you please take some pictures for us?” “Uh, sure.” Yoongi feels out of his depth. Embarrassed. While you knew nothing about farm life, he knows nothing about city life. You might’ve disproved a lot of prejudices and stereotypes he held, but he still feels awkward and out of place in their scrutiny. Like he’s part of a completely different world, and he’s not sure what to say or how to act. But he still tries and crouches down, trying to frame the photo and catch the trees in the back with the stringed fairy lights above. “One. Two. Three. Smile.” “Thanks!” The girl comes forward to look, but before he can ask if it’s good enough, her friend comes up to him with another phone. “Can you take another one?” “Alright.” He gets back into place and times it. “One. Two. Three.” Yoongi hands back the device and is about to duck his head and seek refuge no matter who calls out to him, but the girl stops in front of him with a brightened smile. “Is it alright if you take a photo with me? I’ve never had a picture with a farmer before!” Yoongi sputters, speechless. For one, he hasn’t taken a photo in years, much less for a stranger’s personal collection. And secondly, he’s not some spectacle to be gawked at. He’s not some dancing monkey or clown. Not a poster boy or a cardboard cutout. This is his life— “I’m sorry.” A voice calmly cuts through his annoyance and Yoongi feels a hand against his shoulder. You’re beside him with a polite smile. “Staff aren’t allowed to be photographed.” “Oh. Okay.” They walk off and resume their activities. You take Yoongi’s hand and tilt your head towards the door. “C’mon. Let’s go back inside.” He feels safe inside your house again when he can remain an observer and not a participant. “Sorry about that. Some people can be a bit insensitive, but most of them have good intentions.” “It’s fine.” You pour out the bottle of amber liquid into a tall glass. “They probably just wanted a photo since you’re good-looking.” “What?” Yoongi snorts and turns around with a grin. “So you think I’m good-looking?” “Isn’t that a fact? That’s why people were staring at you. The whole rugged look works well for you.” You plop down the glass in front of him before you can think twice about the honesty that just unabashedly spilled from your mouth. “Try it. You had a part in making it, so it’s only right, right? And if you like it, I’ll even let you bring some home.” He rolls his eyes at your mischievous smile and lifts the glass to his lips. It’s fizzy, and the taste is both tart and slightly sweet. It reminds Yoongi of sparkling cider, but with a herbal hint that he assumes is the kale. He doesn’t utter a word, even when you’re watching him intently. But after Yoongi smacks his lips together, he goes for a second sip. And you take that as a positive sign. “You like it?!” He’s startled at your overly excited voice. “It’s not bad.” “See?! I knew it! All you needed to do was to try my amazing kombucha recipe and your mind would be changed. Didn’t I say that? I totally told you I would get you to like kale!” “Hold on, hold on.” Yoongi stops you in your ramble. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I only said it was decent.” You laugh. “Sure. Whatever you say.” He sighs, but ruffles your hair as he walks past, already bidding goodbye. “Get back to work.” “Yes, sir.” You dramatically salute him and he leaves through the front door. But then it hits you a moment later. “Wait a minute….” This is your farm. Not his. // You’re thriving in more ways than one. Aside from your personal projects on the farm, you’ve gotten yourself established at the market, like one of the decade long vendors who’ve spent their whole lives here. After a few months of setting up your stall, now everyone knows you by first name basis. A few older ladies even gave you the nickname of Sunshine and it only makes you love them more. “You’re staring at her a lot, Yoonie.” His mother nudges him and he tears his eyes away from you across the market floor. “No, I’m not.” He’s not sure why he bothers. Yoongi feels like a child trying to deny the obvious. “Go talk to her. Lookin’ is not gonna do you any favours, young man. You have to talk.” Yoongi already knows — he doesn’t need his mother to tell him. “She’s busy,” he grumbles, “I’ll talk to her later.” Fortunately, a customer comes up and Yoongi takes the opportunity to escape the conversation, immediately moving to ring them up and leaving his mom with a hopeless sigh. At the same time, someone approaches you. After taking a sample from the tray, she decides to purchase a whole case of pesto much to your delight. “I actually bought smoothie and kombucha from you last week,” the lady mentions as you’re packing it up for her and you nod. “I know. You bought two large smoothies and half a case of kombucha, right?” Pleasant surprise takes hold of her expression. “How do you remember? Don’t you get a lot of customers?” “I remember most of them, but I especially remember your Chanel classic handbag,” you point out with a smile. “The medium pink is a rarer one, plus it’s not the kind of thing lots of people wear in this sort of place.” “You have a good eye,” the lady notes and you take the compliment. “It’s the only flashy thing I own and I have no other place to wear it aside from running errands.” “Oh trust me, I’m like that too.” You grin, finishing up and passing the machine card for her to tap and pay. “I find that as long as you have confidence, you can pull anything off and it makes running errands a lot more fun.” The lady laughs and easily agrees. She takes the box you offer her, but lingers. “Your kombucha and your smoothies are delicious by the way, and the pesto seems pretty good too.” “Thank you. It took me a while to narrow down the recipe, but I think I nailed it.” “You did.” She affirms and then out of the blue, asks, “Would you be willing to sell your products at the supermart? It’s a local grocery store I run with my husband, five miles from here, just down Imlings road.” You’re speechless, blinking twice at her as your mouth opens and closes. The older woman waits patiently with a smile and you muster a half-coherent answer. “I-I would definitely consider it!” “Great.” She smiles and then reaches over to her pocket. The woman hands you a business card. “Some folks around here have contracts with me too, and I’d love to add your products on the shelf. Give me a call some time tomorrow and we can chat about the details.” You’re stunned and only broken out of your trance when a customer comes up and clears their throat. It’s a triumphant day. You feel like you’re floating, walking on clouds — and Jungkook notices how you’re humming to yourself too and boyishly grins. “Something good happen, Y/N?” The pair of you are walking out, Jungkook carrying your boxes as you lug your totes with you while waving goodbye to the other vendors that were leaving for the evening. “Just everything. I feel like things are going right for me, you know? And that’s kind of rare for me.” “No, I get you. Pop always says there are rainbows after the storm. Then again, he always says how the Kim’s are running around like chickens with their heads cut off.” That makes you laugh, but then the two of you interrupted by a sharp cry of your name. “Y/N!” You witness Yoongi running up to you, completely out of breath. “Hey. Are you okay? Where did you even come from?” “Never mind that.” He straightens out. “Let me drive you back.” “Oh, Jungkook was just going to….” “Nah.” He insists and takes the boxes from the younger boy. “Our houses are closer together anyway. I don’t mind.” “What about your mom?” “She’s already left since she’s having dinner with a friend.” You look at Jungkook who’s wholly confused, a deer in headlights and you decide to spare him from the trouble. “Well, alright. Thanks then.” It feels a bit odd, but you take him on the offer and bid Jungkook a goodbye. The rest of your kale and belongings are packed into the back of Yoongi’s truck before you’re getting in. It’s old and worn, but the vehicle feels like it’s full of memories. You buckle yourself in and then he’s driving off with the fuzzy radio playing in the background as the golden sun sets over the horizon. “Jungkook ain’t shit,” Yoongi suddenly pipes up after a moment. You glance over to discover him looking straight out the windshield, hands gripped on the steering wheel. And you burst out laughing. “What?” “He was seeing Aria for a while and then left her for the hills, so he’s got a reputation around here. I thought I should let you know.” You see him peek at you in the corner of your eye, but you can’t repress your grin. “You sound like a boyfriend.” “Yeah, well, I’m actually a good one.” “Oh yeah?” Yoongi’s knuckles are white and with the way his tongue peeks out to lick the seam of his lips, you wonder if he’s nervous. “I could show you.” A giddy giggle that belongs to the sixteen-year-old you bubbles out. “And what would dating Min Yoongi look like?” Yoongi plays off of your playful tone. “For one, I haven’t gotten to show you around properly yet and you still haven’t gone to one of Taehyung’s bonfire parties. He’s the guy with the strawberry farm. And I have access to his exclusive parties cause we went to school together, so you could use me to get in.” “Hmmm….you drive a hard bargain, Min Yoongi.” “I know how to cook a mean dinner if you give me real ingredients too.” You laugh again, leaning your head back against the seat. “You’re too good at sweet-talking. Does your mother know you chat up girls like this?” “Maybe. But I only really sweet talk you.” He’s bold tonight and it’s not doing good things to you. Your face is heating and you’re incessantly tapping your fingers against your leg. Beneath the lighthearted flirtation was a sort of simmering nervousness that’s filled with questions of if the line is going to be crossed and when that would be, and who would be the first to make the move. Yoongi parks the car in front of your house and pulls the keys out of the ignition. The pair of you naturally shift and look at one another. Your gazes lock together and there are three seconds of tense silence — neither wanting to get out, to break the rather intimate moment. Where you muse how brown his eyes are and Yoongi, himself, hitches his breath. And then you’re lurching over for a kiss. It’s all mouths and noses bumping together, obscene and sloppy, but a long time coming. His lips are softer than expected, only chapped at the corners, but you don’t get to think about it for too long or deepen the kiss. Not when you’re too busy giggling and laughing against him. You pull apart, hands grasping onto the collar of his loose flannel. “You’re so eager.” It’s a bit unusual to see Yoongi be anything other than annoyed or composed, but you soak it up as much as you can. The sunset is painting his skin golden and the car smells like him too. It seems like you’re surrounded in Min Yoongi and it’s fully welcomed. “You are too,” he retorts on an exhale, hand skimming down to the dips of your waist. But then Yoongi swallows hard and retracts. He leans his arm on the steering wheel and looks out the window in disappointment. You wonder if you did something wron— “I can’t stain the truck. My mom has hawk eyes and she’s gonna know if we do something, and I’d rather she not.” You scoff and lean forward, swift enough to plant a kiss on his cheek and pull away. “For such a good talker, you sure are stupid, Yoongi. There’s a whole house behind you and no one in it.” A gummy smile spreads into his face and you feign a tired huff, lifting your chin and sticking your nose in the air. You add, “But for your information, I only give people the time of day when they make it worth it for me.” He’s already opening the door and accepting the challenge before you can finish. “Oh, I’ll make it worth it alright.” You find out that Yoongi has a dirty mouth and an even nastier tongue. Part of you always wondered if he hated your guts, but you couldn’t be any more wrong. You’re tugging on the strands of his hair, chest rising and falling as you pant. “W-Where did you learn how to do that?” The bastard shrugs with a smug smile. “I might be unlikable, but I’ve had plenty of practice before.” “Oh yeah?” The corner of your own mouth tugs. “With who?” Yoongi grins and lifts himself up to plant a sweet kiss against your lips. “You wouldn’t know them. But they’re not as important as you are.” “I’m going to choke over your greasiness, Min Yoongi.” “Good. Choke.” “You’re gonna have to stuff me with your cock first.” Yoongi laughs at how you’re desperately tugging him closer to you, but he easily agrees with one condition— “Only if you’re good for me.” The pair of you are sweaty when you finish. You thought the old bed frame was going to give up mid-way. Luckily, it held up even with all its loud squeaks and creaks. But you wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a dent where the headboard slammed against the wall. But you’ll count your losses later. You’re just relieved that there was no one in the house. While Yoongi might’ve been all soft groans and rapid exhales, he made you absent-minded to your own noises that somehow leaves your throat sore. You’re sure anyone who would’ve stood by your porch would’ve heard and been scandalized for the rest of their life. “You know.” You turn to Yoongi, having stared at the ceiling. His eyes meet yours. “You’re pretty good for a farm boy.” The playful quip ticks him off enough that he does it again. Yoongi pins you underneath him and is merciless. Your bubbling giggles turn to tears leaking down the side of your face from overstimulation, but you climax again through a moaning apology. When you’re spent, Yoongi collapses next to you. You’re surprised at how cuddly he is, how he naturally reaches for you, torso molding against yours and arms wrapped around your waist. In spite of feeling hot and sweaty, Yoongi holds you against him and you relish in it. “How is it possible that no one’s snatched you up yet?” “Maybe it’s because I’m known to be standoffish.” He smiles against your temple, soothed by the way you run your fingers through the strands of his hair. “And what about you? Do you have a boyfriend or a husband I don’t know about that’s waiting in the city?” “No. No one’s drawn me in quite like you have.” Yoongi’s smile pulls into a grin, and the pair of you are lulled by each other’s inhales and exhales, unintentionally falling asleep in one another’s embraces like lovers underneath tree canopies on a Summer afternoon. It’s some of the most peaceful sleep you’ve had, but then you’re shaken awake by a rattle and an ‘ow’. Your eyes open to find the other side of the bed empty and Yoongi nursing his hip after presumably bumping into your nightstand. You sit up, disoriented as he’s hopping up and down, barely getting his pants on. “I need to get home before my parents find out I was gone the entire night and start asking questions.” His voice is thick and husky, hair in a disarray, eyes bleary and barely awake. His panic makes you giggle and you watch him struggle to put on his clothes. Peeking outside, the sun isn’t up yet and the clock reads that it’s five in the morning. “Are they even awake this early, Yoongi?” “I don’t know. Sometimes.” He fiddles with his flannel, putting his arms through the wrong holes, and even when he figures it out, he doesn’t realize it’s inside out. “I’ll...see you later?” “Wait. Yoongi.” You stop him for a second and he turns around. It feels awfully juvenile, like you’ve reverted back into your sixteen-year-old self that giggles over crushes, but Yoongi always seems to make you feel that way. “Are we….dating now?” “If I didn’t make it any more clear last night and by sleeping over, then I don’t know what else to do.” It takes a beat for the words to sink in, but once it does, a bright and overexcited smile overcomes your features. Yoongi snorts before the corners of his own mouth tickles. When he’s gone, you discover that you miss him already.

The morning alarm rings at six. But by then, you’re already up. You’ve fallen into a natural schedule, a cycle that your body has picked up on and has awoken before anything needs to call you. And after brushing your teeth and running a comb through your hair, you’re taking care of your farm. Plowing fields. Harvesting kale. Having breakfast. You also package the last of the pesto and guacamole, pouring the kombucha into the bottles with the proper labels. Some of which are prepared for the grocery store to pick up while others are packed for tomorrow. Afterwards, you come to the farmers’ market and meet Hoseok, a boy you’ve hired to help you take over. He helps you man the stall and the cash register, giving you the freedom to chat with customers and other vendors or complete other tasks with Jungkook. By afternoon, you come back to the farm to check out the Insta spot and aid Jimin in running things smoothly. “This is beautiful, Y/N.” Today, you’re graced by a few friends from the city. They drove out here after you reached out to them again and you couldn’t be more pleased from their genuine reactions. “When you said you were coming out to start a farm...I didn’t imagine this.” “It took a lot of work, but it’s not half bad, right?” Mina leans in, eyes flickering around. “Where’s this infamous Yoongi?” A laugh spills from you. “He’s busy. You’ll see him next time.” “I keep hearing about him, but I haven’t even seen him or his picture once,” Tiffany huffs. “I’m beginning to think he’s fake.” You grin and insist, “I promise you he’s real.” “Oh my god!” Yeri startles the group by the sheer urgency in her voice, but when you all swivel to her, she has her phone held in the air, screen directed to her face. “This is the perfect lighting! Guys, come here and take selfies up before the sun moves!” You can’t help smiling as you watch them, matching their footsteps as they approach the fields. You can tell that they’re still surprised, that they love what you did — and you couldn’t be prouder. At ten at night, the last people have filtered out and you bid them goodbye. “Great job, Jimin. Thanks for the help as usual. It didn’t get too busy when I was gone, right?” “Not at all.” The brunette with the polite smile shakes his head. “Oh, but the customer feedback box was full. I put it in the living room for you.” “I saw that. Thank you. I’ll take a look tomorrow.” Looking ready to go, you walk him to the door. “Rest up then! I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Goodnight, Y/N.” But as one man leaves, you catch another down the road. The familiar truck is chugging, head beams piercing through the darkness settling across the horizon. Jimin recognizes it too after months of the same routine and smiles at you before he’s on his way. The truck is parked on your lawn and the dark-haired man in the flannel is already smiling when he catches you through the front windshield. He opens the door and slams it shut as you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed and the screen door held behind you. “Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in.” Yoongi chuckles and grabs a crate from the back of his truck. “It’s groceries from my parents.” He meets you at the porch and plants a chaste kiss on your lips as a greeting. You follow him into the kitchen as he beelines to it. It’s almost like this is his home — an idea that tempts you greatly. “Aw, she packed me more pie.” There’s goat’s milk too and you store it in the fridge as Yoongi organizes your cabinet, making sure there’s enough sustenance to keep you healthy for the week. You’ve already told him that you could take care of yourself, but he’s stood firm and you didn’t argue. It was a guilty pleasure to be pampered by Yoongi after all, and you weren’t about to refuse it. “My parents want you to come over soon. They keep asking me about you.” You nod. “I’m happy to come over whenever they want. But I should probably bake something. Your mom always makes me food.” “Nah. She does it cause she likes to. How about Tuesday?” “That works for me.” “Have you eaten yet?” One shake of your head leads to him cooking and then the pair of you sitting at the table across from one another and sharing a warm meal. You ask Yoongi about his day and he tells you about bailing Namjoon and Taehyung out of jail. Apparently, they landed themselves into trouble after they lost their cow and went looking for it. Yet somehow, they ended up miles away on an orchard farm where they had a confrontation with an old grump and got arrested for trespassing. But as exasperated as Yoongi likes to act, the irony isn’t lost on you how he drove that far out to bail them out and keep the secret from their parents. He’s the kind of man that conveys his feelings through his actions instead of his words and you’ve come to endear that quirk about him. After dinner and cleaning up, you turn on the twinkling fairy lights strung along the backyard and stand on your patio, leaning against the banister. The land and rows of kale are strangely bare without people and the ruckus of crowds, yet there’s a certain peacefulness of the uncertain horizon. “What’re you thinking about?” A husky voice sounds beside you as Yoongi meets your side. “Nothing.” You shake your head. “All day I’ve been feeling proud of myself, that’s all. I think...my grandfather would be proud of me too.” “Of course he would be.” Yoongi drapes his arm around your shoulder. “I’m proud of you too.” As calm and detached as Yoongi may be at times, he still has the effect of catching you off guard when he sweet talks. And it’s a kind of duality that makes you adore him even more. You wrap your arm around his slim waist, grinning and he plants a wet kiss at your forehead. “Hey, Yoongi. Since you love me….does that mean you love kale too?” “Those things are mutually exclusive.” “But kale is my lifeblood.” You look up at him. “You can’t love me without loving kale.” He scoffs at your ridiculous argument, but it’s pointless back and forths like this that you enjoy the most. Especially when Yoongi gives in. “Fine. I love kale. But for the record, I love you a lot more.” You laugh and lean your head on his shoulder. “I’m glad I came here.” You’re glad you never gave up or gave in to the discouragement of your family, the apprehension of your friends or the voice inside your own mind. You’ve finally found your place. “I’m glad too.” There’s no need to go home when home is right here.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fluff #yoongi scenario #yoongi reader insert #bts farm AU #bts farm!AU #YOONGI AS A PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE BOY IN FLANNELS #AND OC AS A GIRL WHO KNOWS WHAT'S TRENDY #welcome to my first and only farm AU lol #hope you enjoy

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luminnara · 4 years

Text

Victor Zsasz x Reader NSFW | 18+

Fandom: Birds of Prey/DC

I don’t see nearly enough BOP!Zsasz appreciation here, so I’m determined to change that. Reader is fem, but if there’s interest I can definitely write stuff for male or nb! The reader also has a whole backstory because I’m way more into world and character building than I am reader inserts so this is practically a little OC fic lol

This is sort of set pre-Birds of Prey, don’t worry about it too much, it’s just fun

Warnings: Violence, Zsasz being Zsasz, reader is an assassin who unalives people, light smut

This is short because I’m testing the waters! If there’s interest, I’ll write a part 2!!

Requests are open!

When Roman announced that he was hiring a new girl, Victor was less than thrilled. He liked what they had going--Roman was the money and the brains, and Victor was the muscle, the devout follower, and the one who loved to spill blood. They didn’t need anybody else, especially not a new hitman, and especially not a girl.

You had grown up in Gotham City’s East End, a district that was infamous for harboring all sorts of crime. You knew every street, every dark alley, every burnt out shell of a once-great building. The East End was a far cry from Gotham’s nicer neighborhoods, with their shining skyscrapers and big fancy department stores, but what could you say? The East End was home. It was dark and gritty and dangerous, but you loved that about it.

Besides, it’s not like you could really go anywhere else.

You had developed quite a reputation for yourself over the past few years. Places like the East End have a tendency to breed criminals, and you were no exception--as soon as you left home, you followed right in your mother’s footsteps and became a gun for hire. Thanks to your family name, you had no trouble taking on the odd merc job here and there, working for mob bosses who didn’t mind the mess you tended to leave behind. Silent, sneaky kills weren’t really your thing, but you never really got into the whole...artistic thing that a lot of other killers did. You didn’t sit there and fuck around with the blood and guts, you just...weren’t very tidy. You were quick, but you weren’t clean. If somebody wanted their enemies taken out quietly, they knew not to even look in your direction, because you were not the girl for the job.

If somebody wanted to make a statement, though...

You were more than happy to crush some skulls and splatter some blood across the sidewalk for the right price.

Of course, so much killing got to be exhausting after a while, and even brutal assassins like yourself needed to relax every so often. So, that’s how you found yourself finishing up a job and heading back to your modest little apartment, hopping in the shower, and scrubbing all the blood and dirt off your skin as if you had just spent a long day at the office. It was all normal for you--the killing, the shady bosses, the weirdos you worked with--and you treated it the same way any of those prim and proper office people in Old Gotham treated their day jobs. It was a way to make ends meet, something to pay for groceries and take care of the bills...only, in your case, you were generally paid fully in cash, and sometimes that cash had some suspicious stains on it.

But hey, work was work, right?

That night, you headed to a club you had yet to check out. Done up in a little black dress and wearing some very expensive pearls you had nabbed off of a target a few months back, you took a cab and found yourself entering The Black Mask.

It was a nice spot, the booths and bar all packed with socialites and crime lords. Waitresses and shot girls flitted around, there was a band playing on the stage, and the atmosphere seemed to be cheerful. Honestly, it wasn’t what you had expected, given what you’d heard about its owner.

Roman Sionis was a businessman, as he liked to call himself, who had been steadily growing his empire. He practically owned the entire East End now, and word on the street was he was looking to expand further into the rest of Gotham. You had never met the man, but you had enough mutual connections that Roman knew exactly who you were the moment he spotted you at the bar.

“Zsasz, go get her,” he said, gesturing towards you with a gloved hand.

Zsasz followed his gaze and tilted his head slightly. “You got it, boss.”

You were minding your own business, ordering yourself a gin and tonic and elbowing drunk men out of your way as you carved a little spot for yourself at the bar. They were rambunctious, leaning towards you with wide grins and beady eyes that told you they were hoping to get lucky tonight.

As you were getting ready to throw another elbow, the men suddenly scattered, vanishing into the crowd as if something had scared them off. The bartender set your drink down in front of you, and just as you raised the glass to your lips, the scent of musky cologne filled your nose and you looked up to see none other than the notorious Victor Zsasz standing before you.

“Boss wants to talk with you.” He said simply, his voice rough and hoarse.

But you were too busy taking in his facial features to really listen to his words. His short hair was the lightest blonde you had ever seen, almost snowy in color, a stark contrast to the black stubble that covered his jaw. He was wearing a silky dress shirt the color of red wine, or dark blood, the kind that was thick and coagulated and dripped off of knives so beautifully.

As he stared right back at you, you saw the scars that cut into his face, straight, meticulously carved lines that you were sure he had given himself. After all, just as you did, Victor Zsasz had a reputation, and while you had never met him, you had heard plenty about the sadistic assassin who kept tally marks of all of his victims.

Part of you wondered just how many he had.

You took a sip of your drink, eyes never leaving his. “I only just got here. I haven’t even paid for my drink.”

“On the house, courtesy of Mr. Sionis.” Zsasz said, regarding you with heavily lidded eyes as he looked down at you.

Just as you knew of him, he knew of you. Even though he was pretty much locked in place with Roman now, Zsasz heard plenty about everyone else in the East End. You practically ran in the same circles, and he had to admit, he was a tiny bit curious about the lady assassin everyone was raving about. He almost admired the messiness of your kills, but he also thought that you were sloppy and too quick, never taking the time to truly appreciate what you were doing.

Now, as he glanced down at the swell of your tits as they practically spilled out of your dress, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kill you, or fuck you, or both.

“It’s rude to stare, Mr. Zsasz.” You teased as you caught him.

“It’s rude to keep the boss waiting.” He shot right back.

“Fine.” you sighed, pushing away from the bar. “Lead the way.”

He offered his hand and you took it, holding onto him gingerly. The crowd parted for Zsasz in a way that they never would for you, smoothly and easily, club patrons giving him polite, frightened nods as he pulled you past. His grip on your hand was tight and harsh, squeezing as if you might try to run, but in all honesty, you were marveling at how warm his skin was around yours. You didn’t hate the way he led you over to his employer, and you knew that he was being gentle, or at least his version of it.

When he brought you before Roman Sionis, he immediately let go of you, moving to stand next to his boss. Roman himself was sitting in a booth, sinking into the lavish red velvet upholstery as he held a drink in his gloved hand. He regarded you with a calm smile, immediately gesturing for you to take a set across from him.

So you did, and the rest was history.

Roman Sionis had heard of you, and when he realized that you lived in the East End, in his East End, he had to have you. He had to own you. So, he did what he always did with people, and he bought you. All you had to do was complete one little, simple job for him, and he would keep you around on a regular salary, giving you all the benefits of joining his tiny little family. You passed his test with flying colors, taking out your target faster than Roman could have hoped for, and the next thing you knew, you were spending your days lurking around Roman’s penthouse.

You stayed quiet and obedient, not wanting to give Roman any reason to get rid of you. It was a good, steady gig, one you didn’t want to pass up, but you could tell that Zsasz wasn’t pleased. He scowled at you, always waiting for you to trip, always ready to watch you fall. You got the feeling that he viewed you as an intruder, someone who was messing up his life even though you gave him more than enough space. He would raise his lip in a sneer whenever you passed, showing off gold teeth in a maddeningly handsome way that always had you hoping and praying that he wouldn’t notice the way your cheeks sometimes flushed. He never seemed to care, as he never made any other moves. Maybe he was under strict orders not to fuck with--or just plain fuck---you, or maybe he legitimately didn’t want to.

You didn’t know why you had started to care so much.

You didn’t know about the way he watched your ass when you walked away from him, or the lewd way he sometimes palmed himself right out in the open. You never heard his pants and moans as he got off to the thought of you wrapped around him, and you never got to hear your name rolling off his tongue as he spilled into his hand, hips rocking of their own accord.

Yeah, Zsasz was pretty much head over heels. He was fucked.

He didn’t know why he liked you so much. There was just something about you, something about the way you walked and talked that always made his cock hard. He had reached the point where you would enter a room, and his pants would grow tight. Did you even know? Could you possibly fathom the torture you were putting him through every single day in Roman’s penthouse? Zsasz wanted to grab you and bend you over something, anything, hike that cute little skirt up and just go to town on your cunt. He dreamed about it at night, he wanted it, he craved the taste of your pussy...

But he couldn’t have it.

Not yet.

He would wait. He could be patient. After all, Roman came first. Roman always came first. Zsasz needed to focus on keeping his boss calm and happy, and he couldn’t afford to get distracted, no matter how much he wanted to press you up against the windows and fuck you so that the entire East End could see who you belonged to.

No matter how badly he wanted it, Zsasz would wait.

#victor zsasz #victor zsasz x reader #zsasz x reader #bop zsasz #birds of prey zsasz #birds of prey imagine #birds of prey x reader #roman sionis #dceu #dc imagines

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buck-buck-boose · 3 years

Text

I'll Love You 'Til I Die

Masterlist | Playlist

Summary: A Brooklyn schoolgirl fell in love with James Buchanan Barnes at the tender age of nine. With this love she made a vow, promising to love him until her very last breath.

Pairing: Bucky x OFC

Warnings: Language, pining

Word Count: 2.1k

Author's Note: Thank you for all the patience and support! I love love love seeing replies and reblogs :,)

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Journey to Azzano

October 24, 1943

Yet another sleepless night. A night spent away from the nurse’s tent, handkerchief in hand, with eyes cast towards the heavens. The stars stared back, silent watchers from above; the petrified audience to a grotesque display of gore, violence, and inhumanity. Lottie knew that they were nothing but balls of gas, great masses of fire that drifted in that infinite chasm of space millions of lightyears away. Somehow, her heart still broke for them.

How painful it must be to be a star, she thought, To see the Earth, to see its people, to see the love and hope. To be forced to watch its destruction, its pain. Oh, how the stars must weep, gazing down at the broken bodies of men and boys, women and children, all victims of such a cruel war.

Still, the pain of a star could never come close to the pain of a nurse. The stars would never hold those bodies in their arms, they would never fumble for a tourniquet as blood spilled from a fresh wound, the stars would never have to slide a man’s eyelids shut, his skin cold to the touch.

Lottie was becoming quickly acclimated to the smell and feel of death. It never seemed to leave her skin, no matter how thoroughly she washed her hands. Though they were constantly rubbed raw, she could not rid them of death’s stench or its thick grime that seemed to coat every inch of her skin.

After they’d left Pantelleria, the SSR had scrambled to stay afloat, constantly caught in the crossfire of other Italian campaigns. The Germans had weaseled their way into northern and central Italy, with carnage in their wake, the nurses of the SSR were left to care for their victims. Lottie had come to know death as intimately as one knows the curves of their lover’s body, all the dimples, ridges, and edges.

“No number of bandages would’ve saved him, Lottie,” Gladys would whisper, “We’re nurses, not miracle-workers.”

“If I remember correctly, folks at the SSR sure love to rant about that ‘miraculous’ serum we developed.” “Betty, you know what I mean.”

Lottie wished she could be a miracle worker. The men that she managed to save definitely thought she was, but who wouldn’t think so highly of the woman who saved them from certain death? It would have been a comfort to visit them in the recovery ward, but the SSR would whisk them away, further north and closer to Hydra before she had the chance.

The SSR found themselves in Siano, a village an afternoon’s trek away from Salerno. At another time, it would be quite lovely. The quiet little community was nestled between small mountains, far too grand and looming to be called hills. The greenery was lush and the air was crisp, mingled with the saltiness from the nearby sea. A cool, sweet breeze kissed Lottie’s cheeks and became entangled in her curls that had finally been loosed from her strict bun. With every graze of the breeze against her cheeks and every rustle of the grasses beside her, it seemed that the very earth was breathing beneath her. Every movement was a great inhale or exhale that emanated around her; the only calming element to an otherwise restless night.

Their camp was just outside the town, stationed in an expansive field which was quite likely an abandoned pasture. Camp had been sloppily thrown together, after a horrifically bloody day in Salerno, morale was low and they knew their stay would be short-lived. Agent Carter had mentioned that they were urgently needed in Azzano; there was a POW situation up there that involved Hydra. Their stop in Siano, as Colonel Phillips had explained, was merely for recuperation. With a day of bloodshed behind them and several days’ worth of traveling ahead of them, rest was needed by all.

But she couldn’t really rest, could she? Lottie would always be on edge, on high alert, until she had her boys by her side once more. At every camp, in every campaign, she searched for the 107th. For any sign of a USO show. So far, she had come up with nothing. Nothing but disappointment.

All that she could do was gaze up at the stars and wonder if a pair of clear blue eyes were doing the same.

Somewhere in Azzano

Liquid fire in his veins. Muttered words in German. Leather straps that dug into his skin; they kept him from writhing in pain. Days bled together and he could barely find the willpower to stay conscious, blurring the lines between his dreams and reality.

Bucky didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what was going on, either. All he knew was agony, frustration, and a girl. His best girl, Little Lottie. The first time he’d seen her, he was sure that she was real. He had just undergone the first round of… whatever this was, and all of a sudden, she’d appeared before him, dressed just as she’d been when he last saw her— white uniform, thick stockings, and a heavy coat that seemed to swallow her whole.

He’d tried to yell at her, warn her about how dangerous this place was, but he could only muster a choked groan which had earned him a blow to the head. After that, she kept appearing— every time he was poked or prodded at, she stood in the corner of the room and watched over him with a smile on her lips. His head would loll to the side with exhaustion and their gazes would connect; it was the only glimmer of hope in the midst of his torture.

His Little Lottie would only speak to him in his dreams, but she wouldn’t speak, really. No, she’d do this thing he’d seen her do to Stevie hundreds of times when he was sick in bed. With gentle hands, she would smooth his hair away from his forehead, freeing the sweaty, bloodied strands that clung to his skin. She quieted his groans of pain with soft sounds and breathy hums of her favorite songs— mostly from the musicals they had gone to see in the thirties. Little Lottie was fondest of numbers by the Gershwin brothers, he’d noticed, as she was always humming one of their tunes in his dreams.

Any anger toward her was forgotten, but the fear remained. Fear for her safety devoured him from the inside out; if Hydra ever got their hands on her, there would be hell to pay.

Siano, the next day

“Y’know if you’re gonna make a habit of this, I might as well take your pillow for myself.”

Lottie blinked her eyes blearily, taking in the figure of Betty before her. Apparently, she’d fallen asleep outside. Again. The first time it had happened, they’d been camped out in Salerno and while her companions had gone to bed earlier, she’d attempted to calm her nerves with a midnight cigarette. Suffice to say, the cigarette had done its job, though she’d woken up with a terrible pain in her neck.

This time, the pain was located in Lottie’s lower back, probably due to the uneven ground she’d fallen asleep on.

“Believe me, Betty, I don’t intend to make this a habit,” Lottie gritted her teeth in pain as she attempted to maneuver herself off of the ground.

Betty sighed and grabbed her hands, heaving her up, “C’mon, we don’t have all day. Colonel Phillips wants the tents down as soon as possible.” She jerked her head in the direction of the other three nurses a few yards away, they were evidently having a difficult time with the canvas and poles of their tent.

The two of them rejoined their group and Gladys tossed a pack to her with a smile, “Your stuff’s all good to go. Figured you needed the extra sleep.” Lottie squeezed her shoulder in thanks and observed Nancy and Mary as they argued over the correct way to pack up their tent.

“First we need to disassemble the poles, then we wrap up the canvas and—”

“No, we need to take care of the canvas before we can—”

Agent Carter stalked toward them with a rather agitated look on her face; only she could look powerful crossing an uneven field in heels. Lottie bundled up some poles in her arms, trying to stow them away in a pack before they could be berated for being the last ones to finish.

“Ladies,” Agent Carter began, voice firm, “You did not go through a year of training just to be the last ones done packing up your tent. We need more speed from you five to reach the one hundred and seventh in time.”

Lottie nearly dropped the metal poles in her arms and choked out a gasp, “The one hundred and seventh?” That was the regiment with the POWs? The POWs that had fallen victim to Hydra? Her heart was suddenly beating a mile a minute, her stomach was all in knots.

Agent Carter furrowed her brow, likely confused by her reaction, “Yes, they were vastly overpowered in a recent battle. We’ve been summoned to provide medical care to the survivors as well as to assist in a reconnaissance mission for information regarding the whereabouts of the POWs.”

She was tempted to ask about Bucky, to see if she’d heard anything about their survivors, but she ultimately decided against it. It was unlikely that they already had extensive knowledge regarding those who had been saved or lost.

“We’ll be done in a jiffy, Agent Carter,” Nancy nodded, removing the poles from Lottie’s grasp.

After another minute or two, their tent was packed away, and each nurse was outfitted with a hefty pack that carried their belongings. Together, the nurses and the rest of the SSR agents began their trek through the Italian countryside, keeping close in their groupings. It would have been far easier to be transported by plane, but the agents had to take as much caution as possible with Hydra's threat level. If traveling by foot kept the lowest profile, then that was what needed to be done.

Lottie’s four companions broke out into quiet conversation to pass the time while fearful thoughts weaseled their way into her mind. What if Bucky really had been taken by Hydra? What would they do to him? Would they kill him? She’d heard of their horrors from Erskine, and she’d even seen their ruthlessness at his assassination. The dark thoughts that began to swim around in her head made her want to be sick. Lottie wanted to double over and retch, to alleviate the sick feeling that crept into her at the thought of Bucky in Hydra’s clutches.

“You alright there, Lottie? You’ve been awfully quiet,” Gladys sidled over to where she was walking, only a foot or two away from the rest.

“I don’t think so,” Lottie began, her voice strained, “I mean, with the one hundred and seventh and everything, I just, I don’t know how to—”

Gladys nodded, a sad look on her face, “I know, it’s a dreadful situation, isn’t it? I can’t imagine how those survivors must feel. Having your comrades stolen away from you in a bloody battle.”

“It’s not just that, it’s also—”

“Oh yes, definitely more than that. Not only the mental anguish but the physical, too. I mean, we’re here for a reason, we’ve got to be prepared for the worst when we get there. I’ve heard they’re in absolute shambles.”

Lottie fisted her hands in frustration, “Gladys. Bucky’s a member of the one hundred and seventh. That’s his damn regiment. And I haven’t a clue of whether he’s dead, alive, or barely holding on in some dingy cell, so I would really appreciate it if you would spare me the monologue about how terrible their situation is.”

Gladys stared at her, a look of shock painted on her face, “Lottie, I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I— gosh, I feel absolutely awful now, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lottie grabbed Gladys’ hand to squeeze it, their arms knocked together as they walked side by side, “I just need to think optimistically right now. If I start thinking about all the atrocities, I might go crazy.”

Gladys squeezed back, a faint smile growing on her lips, “You’re right. Think optimistically. I bet he got out of it just fine, with a few scratches though. But he’ll be waiting for us real patiently, waiting for the fine nurses of the SSR to patch him right up.”

She found comfort in Gladys’ words. It was much nicer to picture him that way, sitting in a medic tent cot, wounds scabbed over in blood, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Maybe he'd be cracking jokes with the other poor souls stuck in that tent, his eyes alight with humor and that lopsided grin threatening to send that cigarette straight to the ground. He would be a bit battered and bruised, but he’d be there waiting. Waiting for her.

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therealjammy · 3 years

Text

The Lady of Half-Death

Hi, hello, posting this here for the Tumblr crowd, in case you don’t feel like venturing to Ao3.

This work’s alternate title: “Lucky One”

Content Warnings: Very NSFW, a brief but graphic depiction of violence. (This work is meant for 18+ only!)

It’s also told in first person POV, the Forbidden Perspective, so sorry if that’s not your jam.... Thank you for reading xx

November, 1937

On a bitter November day, early in the morning, I was roused by the tinkling of the bell hanging beside my bed. Being Mother Miranda’s most competent servant, I was long used to a summons during the small hours of the dark. She was night’s creature, bent over her studies and her subjects until a bitter sun lit the sky, almost unaware of time’s passage, while her servants kept in perfect time with every striking hour. I splashed sleep from my features with bitterly cold water from the basin on my dresser and wrapped myself in my warmest robe. I lit a candelabra, savoring its small warmth as I donned my silver mask. It had frightened me at first, how the servants wore these metal things elongated into an elegantly startling bird’s beak, but when serving the Lady of Ravens, one had to know to whom they pledged their loyalty, both inside and outside the house’s grounds. Though the metal was light, it still made one’s head ache after only a few minutes of wear, and was a constant irritation after many hours. But like a pain that was more a nuisance than anything, it was easily set aside.

I walked quickly through dark hallways and creaking staircases, passing through rooms whose furniture was covered in sheets and rooms whose contents were not. Each was quiet as the long-dead.

The doors to the laboratory opened on soundless hinges. Inside, there was only a spotlight on the latest occupied table and the stoic figure of Mother Miranda leaning over it, her hands coated in deep crimson, her subject unmoving. Her face was drawn into a deep, displeasured frown.

“What may I bring you, ma’am?” I asked carefully.

“Tea, Trudy,” replied Mother Miranda. By the ancient tiredness in her voice, I knew the kind I ought to fetch.

Staying true to her grief, Mother Miranda had a fondness for black tea, steeped for five minutes to be strong, made stronger with a dollop of Sanguis Virginis, a sweet but robust red wine made by Lady Dimitrescu. She kept the largest bottle for herself, but sent a smaller one to Mother Miranda every winter. The bottle was red and adorned with golden flowers crawling up its sides.

By the time I brought the fresh tea to her, Mother Miranda’s hands were washed of blood, and the subject on the table was covered with a white sheet, slowly turning scarlet. I set the teacup and candelabra beside her and gave a professional distance.

“The nature of science,” Mother Miranda said, picking up the teacup, “is to fail again and again.” She held it delicately. There was rage underneath that delicacy. “Every vessel thus far has been unfit, even if it’s accepted the Cadou, and with each unfit one I feel as if I am losing her more.”

“You might feel like Tantalus, ma’am,” I said after a pause, “with your goals evading your grasp, but I rather think you must be like Orpheus.”

“Attempt until death,” she murmured. “Yes, child, I believe you’re right.” A long sip of tea. Underneath her golden mask, her pink lips turned a deep red. She set the cup gently in its saucer and rose from her chair, black robes shuffling quietly. “Come. Let us begin anew.”

I lifted the mutilated subject from the table, wrapping the sheet about her carefully, and carried her fresh limpness to the courtyard with the others. Her cooling blood seeped from the sheet and onto my robes, and it dripped onto the bricks and my feet, leaving a sticky trail. It was cloying, but it was a sweet perfume compared to the rich decay that wafted from the courtyard’s cold soil. In the dark, I saw there was already a space made for her. I lay her carefully in it. A good sacrifice deserved gentleness once the deed was done, after all. In that sense, I was more merciful than Mother Miranda. Once a body was no longer of use, she would carry it out herself and toss them hastily aside, for only one body mattered above the rest.

“In life and in death,” I said over the grave, “we give glory to Mother Miranda.”

I sprinkled a handful of dirt over the covered girl and left her to the bitter, near-winter air.

Inside again, I scrubbed the table twice with soapy water and dried it thoroughly. I lit more candles, placing them around the table’s edges, away from the notes that Mother Miranda spread across the surface. While she organized them, I brewed another pot of tea, bringing it and the gifted bottle of Sanguis Virginis with me. When I had poured my own cup, Mother Miranda gestured to the wine. Pour that in, too. I obeyed without question. Grey eyes watched me drink, unchanging even when I made no face at the taste of wine and blood mixing with strong black tea. I’d learned long ago that reactions caused reactions. I remained impassive, though my stomach still curdled and rebelled at the taste of the sinful wine. To the others—Mother Miranda and Lady Dimitrescu— the wine was a sweet and prized possession. If ever it was sold, it would be incredibly expensive.

I brought a chair and perched myself next to Mother Miranda. It was always a thrill to be at her side, to study her volumes of notes and drawings and glimpse the way her mind worked. But more than that, I cherished the nights like this, when it was only the two of us. I enjoyed her company. I desired more of it, because I desired her. At times I believed she knew this, but then she would dismiss me so easily, brush by without a care, and I’d question if she knew at all.

Attraction, I reminded myself, was a science, too, and like an experiment gone horribly wrong, it was best if one didn’t share the results.

I cleared my throat and straightened in my chair. “We should begin where this one failed,” I said. “Pinpoint a reason, compare it to the rest.”

We pored over notes for hours, comparing observations, Mother Miranda writing furiously in her looping scrawl underneath a page titled Quinn. The candles burned low, and the sky lightened outside the laboratory’s several windows, revealing a cold, white-filled dawn.

“The conclusion is painfully obvious,” Mother Miranda sighed at last, pushing her nearly empty teacup aside. It’d turned cold hours ago. “I must find a truly unique vessel. The village is rotting with diluted blood and therefore cannot be used again. Three of the Lords—those children!—were ones I found outside. Diluted in other ways, perhaps, but strong enough.”

“Yet you declared them all unfit,” I remarked.

“Because they were too much,” Mother Miranda said stiffly, “and the rest have been too little. They served their miserable purpose and now I must find yet another clean slate! And to think I’d chosen so carefully…” A hand curled into a fist, clenched improperly due to taloned fingertips.

“Send me to the field, Mother Miranda,” I said. “I will search for you.” But it was the wrong thing to say, for her other hand darted quickly out and knocked her teacup and saucer from the table. They shattered on the floor, black-red tea pooling around their remains.

“Do not be dim, child; it cannot be done by you. It must be me.” She paused for a long moment, coming back to herself with a single, sharp shake of her head. “Please,” Mother Miranda said around a breath, “forgive my outburst.” She moved smoothly to the shattered teacup just as I did. We knelt out of time but reached for the same piece, her gold-plated fingers brushing my bare ones, sending a brief, hot shock through my being that ended in my chest.

“You need never ask my forgiveness, Mother Miranda,” I said, slowly withdrawing my hand and reaching for a different piece. “A woman in grief doesn’t know her own actions.” And it was her grief, I thought then, that made my heart ache for her. That made everyone’s hearts ache for her. Mother lost a child, they’d say. No greater tragedy exists. We must be kind.

“Grief is some people’s undoing,” Mother Miranda said. She had stopped picking up shards of teacup, a few pieces cradled in a hand. Her gaze was on the puddle of bloody, wine-soaked tea. “It festers like a splinter left in too long, or a piece of metal unable to be dislodged, and it consumes, until its host perishes with it. I’ve known it for many stretches, but rather than give myself to despair, I have chosen determination; for the parasite cannot fully live while its host fights it. So fight I must.”

Her face was a pale reflection on the tea’s surface.

II.

The next morning, a snowy one, Mother Miranda went for a walk. In her absence, her rule passed to me, and then to the Head Housemaid Vera, a stout older woman who kept the other servants in strict line. I was, however, only consulted for advice or for orders. Other than that, I was blessedly alone, a spectre haunting the laboratory while I organized Mother Miranda’s notes and gave into my own musings, letting my mind take up the cluttered space. Many things ran through it: thoughts of my former life, of the people I’d once seen and never would again, and if I followed that line, I knew exactly how I’d come to be here. Sitting alone in a tepid laboratory, surrounded by paper, rotting with attraction.

It’d been there from the beginning, for there was always attraction to a leader, and many reasons behind it. People were attracted to safety and to comfort, to promises and protection, but highest of all, a deity that preached all the above. People backed off their words more often than they gave in to them, but a deity never would; their word was given and kept. It was learned, it was ingrained, and so like everyone else, I held that same attraction. I gazed upon the same likenesses of Mother Miranda and prayed for protection, for strength. I prayed to one day work for her—the highest blessing of all!—and that prayer was answered. She came to my door in all her godly glory and the paintings held no candle to her real beauty.

The attraction molted once I’d begun to work for her properly. She was aloof and cruel and methodical, but there was talent and beauty, too, and soon enough I began to realize there was a person underneath the deity. And it was the person whom I thought of, now, wondering where her walk was taking her, who she was talking to, what she was thinking. I imagined her underneath a cold white sky, ashy flakes of snow sticking to her black robes and veil, the harsh, mountainous landscape reflecting her own desolation back at her.

I thought, as I filed the last of the notes away, that I would make her return easier. Oftentimes her walks changed her mood; one never knew the sort she’d bear when she walked through the doors. It could be the silent sort of rage, during which she’d seal the doors of her laboratory shut and refuse to emerge for days, or the one where she’d return with a deadly ice in her eyes and drag the nearest servant by the wrist to her chambers. Sometimes they’d be alive and shuffle from the room with their clothes barely on; other times there was an unfortunate mess to clear away.

During my luncheon, I called Vera to me and ordered the most frequented rooms be given a thorough cleaning, excluding the laboratory and Mother Miranda’s bathroom.

“And her dinner?” asked Vera, once she’d given the orders to four maids. “Something comforting, I assume, as the latest loss is still ripe in the courtyard.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “A shepherd’s pie with marmite in the gravy, and the bottle of Sanguis Virginis.”

“Very good, Miss Bevan.” Vera bowed her head and left.

I went over the bathroom myself, being careful to put every object in its proper place. I drew a bath, the water unbearably hot, but by the time Mother Miranda returned, it would be perfect.

I loitered for a long while in the bathroom’s silence, sat on the chessboard floor, gazing out the window to the snow-covered hills, the occasional drip, drip of the tub’s taps serenading me into a trance, filled with visions of blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and impeccable hands.

I wasn’t the first to think of her in this light. Far from it. Worship came in many forms, after all, and many people fell to this one. Except mine was to the woman I knew, not to the idol emblazoned on a shrine dangling from a peeling wall.

Unable to think of nothing but the bathroom’s suddenly stifling heat and the absent Mother Miranda, I left, unaware of where I was going until I collapsed on the chair I’d occupied earlier, everything about me aching for someone who saw me only as a servant in high regard—but a servant nonetheless. The fact, I thought, unbuttoning my uniform enough to feel cool air caress my chest, made me desire her all the more.

I propped a shoed foot on the seat’s corner to give myself better access and began my pleasure gently, my head falling against the back of the chair once the rhythm was established, my free hand indecisive on where it wanted to stay—a breast, the chair’s edge, the table; at least until my mind offered me a vision of Mother Miranda ordering me, from between my thighs, to keep it planted firmly on the chair’s edge. There it stayed while my other moved, and behind my closed eyes I saw a skilled tongue working me up, teasing, licking slowly as if to claim ownership to even that part of me; I saw intense eyes meeting my own, telling me to give myself over; in my mind I whispered my glory to her. I twitched erratically, my movements almost clumsy; a few moments more and I’d be tumbling into the blissful void—or would have, had I not heard the door open and the familiar, near-silent movement of the woman living in my head.

The silence that beat between us lasted only a moment and yet it felt like centuries. Mother Miranda’s eyes narrowed to deadly slits, and before I could manage to stumble out an explanation, she strode to me in five heavy steps.

“You dare defile this space with your musings?” Mother Miranda hissed, her grip on my wrist vicelike. “Do you not know how ill I find this gesture? How ill it makes me to think you care naught for the meaning of this room?” Claws slashed at my cheek, the first sting of it only surprise at first; it burned when I realized she’d cut flesh. I felt blood welling, but I could not bring a hand up to staunch its flow. Nor could I staunch the fresh wave of heat that pooled in my core at Mother Miranda’s fury. Cold eyes darted from my still-wet hand to my face. Mother Miranda scoffed, roughly releasing my wrist. “Attraction is a damned wicked creature,” she said. “It morphs perspective and thought. It makes one act rashly, makes one believe they’re subtle. You think I’ve not seen your lingering gazes, child? How you bask in my company the way you would underneath the sun? How you are afraid of my rage but it arouses you all the same?” She chuckled lightly, dragging gold-tipped fingers over my cheek, the metal blessedly cool against my heated skin. Having spent so much time in close quarters with this woman, I was no longer terrified by the talons. Their scraping made the coil in my belly curl tighter, and if she were to slip bare fingers against me, she would find me all too ready for her. I met her eyes with a steely look of my own, hoping she wouldn’t see shame, but Mother Miranda was wise in ways I couldn’t fathom. She saw through people as if they were cheesecloth.

She hummed, fingers roving lower, tracing my pulse hammering in my throat. “Is there any shame about you, Trudy? I should think so, as you are not my equal.” Moving lower still, to the buttons I hadn’t undone, hovering like she wished to tear them—and perhaps she did, for her hand gave a small twitch. “I am higher than you will ever be, yet you stand here, gazing at me so defiantly, trembling with your want of me… Do you think it will make you rise to my level?”

Her words were fog clouding the forests of my brain. I could think of nothing but how I wanted to serve her, to fall to my knees and pledge fealty, even if it was sworn with her hand guiding my mouth between her thighs. I said, “No, Mother Miranda.”

“No, indeed. But,” a taloned thumb slid over my lower lip, “it’ll bring me pleasure to see you try.”

When she kissed me, it was with a slowness that one could believe was care, but I sensed the possession. I opened my mouth to it, leaned into it, every nerve alight at the thrill of kissing someone I had once dreamed of serving under. Her hands drew me close to her, splaying across my back, bunching up my uniform, and her kisses became rougher, filled with need. I met every one with a need of my own, my shaking fingers undoing the rest of the buttons down my front. The movement caught Mother Miranda’s eye; she pulled back, her gaze intense, the color high in her cheeks, watching intently as the top half of my uniform parted and revealed bare skin. She reached out, two fingers gliding smoothly over my collarbones, my sternum, tracing the swell of a breast; gooseflesh rose in the touches’ wake, and my breathing trembled.

“You are practically untouched,” Mother Miranda said quietly. There was, to her, no greater sin than a specimen that remained unstudied and uncatalogued.

“Only practically, Mother Miranda,” I returned.

She leaned down, burying her face against my bloodied neck. Lips pressed softly, tongue lapping slowly— tasting me. “Have you not known love?” she said. “Or devotion?”

“Fleetingly.” There was the blacksmith, Cristian, in whose strong arms I felt safe. There was Tatiana, who made me feel at peace even after our desperate acts. But with this life, they were fleeting. To serve one of the Lords or Mother Miranda herself, it was until death. “The only devotion I know,” I continued, my voice growing thinner the lower her mouth travelled, “is to you.”

Mother Miranda hummed against my chest. “You worshipped well, then, Trudy,” she said, rising, taking my chin between two fingers and tilting my face up to hers, “but what of now? How shall you prove your worth to me?”

I grasped her unoccupied hand and pressed it against my breast, holding it there. I wanted her to feel it, to feel my heart underneath it, to know she could reach in and take it because I offered it to her. “Take what you will,” I said.

What was left of her resolve crumbled. Mother Miranda swept me into her arms with a low growl, lifting me as easily as she would a child and setting me hastily onto the table we’d cleaned the night before. Impatient fingers worked the rest of my clothes away. She tossed them aside and pressed me into the cold wood, impossibly dark eyes drinking me in, lingering on my neck, my breasts, my thighs. Places I hoped she would kiss. Places she did, in that order, her mouth untamed, leaving harsh love-marks behind. Throughout that act, she didn’t once touch me; I was strung so tightly that even one finger tracing me would’ve been my undoing. It was a sort of torturous study, I realized, clamping my tongue between my teeth when it nearly made me beg for release; she was seeing me as a case, testing my own resolve. How long could she make me wait before I begged forgiveness? Time ceased to exist. I could not tell how long she made me hang.

When she finally did touch me, I was relieved. Instead of a sigh, a long whimper escaped my mouth. Mother Miranda groaned in response, her fingers twitching and pausing against me, surprised at the slick want they found. Her second touch was heavier, more confident. My hands couldn’t help but cling to the back of her neck, which was covered by a thick cotton veil. I realized I’d touched her without her consent, but when I made to pull away, her free hand came to rest over both of mine, and together we slid the veil from her head.

Blonde hair, a darker gold in the dim light of the laboratory, fanned around her face, gracing my bare forearms, soft as silk. Without the veil, it was tantamount to seeing her naked.

“Cling to me,” Mother Miranda breathed.

It was as much permission as I was going to receive.

I buried my hands in her hair and leaned up to kiss her. I accepted her tongue when it slipped between my teeth. I opened for her when, at last, she slid fingers inside me.

And when she truly took me, she devoured me, sprinkling evidence of her use across any expanse of skin she could reach, uncaring if teeth dug in too much, if my back was rubbed raw from the wooden table, if her golden talons left angry scratches. I clung harshly to her during my crisis, my cries only winding her further, for when I was barely limp, she withdrew entirely and carried me to her own chamber. Deposited on her bed, I watched through bliss-filled eyes as she undressed.

Black robes pooled at her feet. In the blue-white moonlight, she was harshly ethereal. Everything about her seemed to glow, including her eyes. And sprouting from her back were five pairs of midnight wings. I wanted to catalogue it as a dream, a delusion caused by a mind still recovering from an intense crisis, but the wings, like Mother Miranda’s arms and legs, were very much a part of her.

“Look while you can,” she said. “Commit it to memory, for true revelations are rarely given so freely.”

She stood for study, allowing me to take in every inch. My eyes lingered where hers had lingered on me.

“Do you reject me, Trudy?” she questioned softly.

“No, Mother Miranda,” I replied. I offered her my hand. “I’d fall to my knees in prayer if I were not otherwise occupied.”

She accepted my hand and leaned over me on her bed, naked and otherworldly, and in my long, exquisite worship of her, I met death eye to eye and thought there would never be another equal.

#resident evil #resident evil village #fanfic #mother miranda #mother miranda x oc #mother miranda x reader

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jean-does-not-have-a-horseface · 4 years

Note

hi can i please request one where levi's s/o is sort of like him in personality but just melts whenever theres a baby. like she'll see a baby in town and will go from silent and moody to the heart eyes emoji but a person, or she'll babysit her neice or nephew or cousin and will be just so loving and bubbly? like its obvious that she wants to be a mum but she never brings it up because she doesnt think he wants kids and eventually they get pregnant + his reaction? sorry if this is too much (1/2)

ΑΝΟΟΟΟΝ IM BLUSHING THANK YOU SO MUCH. I really loved this request and it inspired me so I pushed before others because I had to get it out of my system. I hope you like this. It's super duper long also👉👈

Warnings: uhh pregnancy, mentions of anxiety

Tags: fluff, domestic Levi, pregnancy, modern au

Pairing: Levi/ Reader

Baby Fever

Your heartbeat grew louder with each passing second as Mike abused the door with one too many knocks. You didn't know if you could talk, or breath or do anything other than vomiting though this time from the anxiety building at the pits of your stomach and not due to your very recent event of morning sickness.

"Are you alright in there?"

You choke on your own voice as you try to huff a single response. It's not really up to your judgement of you're alright or not but rather in the small white object's that rests between the thumbs and pointer fingers of each of your hands. You contemplate if there's a way to not raise any more suspicion to the blond male, you're at his house for all that matters. Nanaba called you to take care of their their twins and you happily complied to your half sister's pleas because Mike had a very important job interview. Life had taken a toll on him lately, they couldn't afford a babysitter and he was just recently fired due to his company having to cut down expenses thanks to the pandemic. Amidst this pandemonium he had to find a way to provide for his family and help Nanaba with at least a short monthly salary. So babysitting your beloved niece and nephew wasn't much of a problem. Not until now.

At first it hadn't bothered you that your period was late, you had accepted the pcos lifestyle the hard way ever since you first got it. You would track down your period in hopes you could ever predict when it would come again but it always seemed to surprise you. Sometimes it would come in a months notice only to take four months to do a full circle. At twenty three, this was the most positive outturn as a resolution to your problem. Levi was pushing you to eat healthy and exercise to get a better grip of your situation, even though you knew it was in vain. And thus, overall it didn't bother you that you hadn't had your period still, fatigue and breast inflammation were also common problems due to hormonal abnormalities so you chose not to pay any attention to those early signs either.

What had driven you to urge Levi to drop you off to the drugstore next to Nanaba's house though was that you've been having symptoms of morning sickness for almost a week now, that you had tried to push aside for Levi not to notice. He would quarantine you on your on your own and go stay with Erwin and Hange had he any suspicion of you being down with the stomach flu. The stomach flu though didn't feel like that and you knew, you had been through it one too many times, this was something different and yet you cursed at yourself for overthinking it. You had bought the pregnancy test as something that was supposed to turn out negative, as a positive resolution that you weren't pregnant and that you should quest for whatever it was that was making your stomach turn and twist every morning.

Upon finally opening the door in an attempt not to delay Mike who wanted to attend his interview, the blond male inspected your form with a harsh gaze. "You shouldn't push yourself if you're sick. We could call my mother to watch over Eli and Blaire."

"No." You pushed it off. "I'm fine Mike, it's probably that weird mushroom soup I ate yesterday, Levi insisted on not buying it but I didn't listen."

"I see." Mike said scrunching his nose at the process. Sometimes you hated that he knew you so well that he could even smell you lying, but he was Nanaba's childhood friend before her mother married your father and had you; you had practically grown up with the blond duo so for all you knew, even if he was certainly aware that you were lying he didn't push things further. He simply placed a hand on your shoulder, the brother like nature of his touch as assuring as one can be. "If you need anything call me, I'll answer as soon as possible, drink lots of water and don't wear yourself down."

You bore your eyes into his and nodded simply. Mike greeted the twins with reluctance and let out a sigh before fixing his suit perfectly on his shoulders. The small kids smiled bubbly in return and waved at their father enthusiastically. As soon as the door closed and their father got out of sight both children jumped on you with loud giggles. The act alone was enough to curl your lips into an upward position.

By noon you had fed and lulled the kids to sleep, earning some significant time to sink into the crevices of the feathery soft sofa before Nanaba came back from her shift. As tiring as Eli and Blaire were you enjoyed their teeny company. You didn't mind their lack of ability to form full understandable sentences yet, you loved how they didn't even try to spare a second thought on what they bubbled on about and you did your best to provoke them to speak correctly. They would open their arms for you, their tiny palms signaling you to take them into long affectionate hugs as they called a baby spoken version of your nickname and you would melt at it every single time. Everyone knew you much you loved the chubby cheeked sweethearts, as much as it contrasted with your usual demeanor. There was something that truly made you feel like the best version of yourself when you were around them.

Babies seemed to be a hot topic in your group of friends for a couple of months now, ever since you started helping Nanaba in the house before Mike got fired. Levi seemed very unbothered by the subject in a way that saddened you almost; sure, you might have talked about it in the past, being that he was a little older than you and he might have understood that you longed to be a mother one day, but that was as far as that one conversation had gone. He still had that bored, stoic gaze that slipped off of yours when you would encounter a baby in the street, whereas you would basically make heart eyes and weird grimaces to any infant he would just click his tongue and avert his gaze away, to any other direction as if he disapproved off your fondness.

That memory alone left you hollowing inside as you recalled of the two very much pink lines on the screen of the test this morning. Naturally you would check with a doctor before jumping to conclusions, there still was a chance that the test was at fault and you wanted to bet on simply that. If the case was that you were actually pregnant though things were more complicated than you wanted them to be. For instance you were still in University, for your last year at that, but you had excessive amounts of studying to get your hands on your degree and Levi was cornered and ready to be squished by his job for being a vice president, which was unfair as he worked for Erwin. You understood the situation though as Erwin was struggling to keep the company going especially through these rough rough times. There was also the fact that you were terrified of Levi asking you to put the baby down, with pcos wearing your system down you were panicking that you wouldn't have a chance to conceive a baby later on. What if this was your only chance? You've always longed to be a mother so it didn't matter that it came to you this early right?

The sound of the front door clicking open shook you off your thoughts immediately. For better or for worse it was Nanaba that had finally returned, eager to strip herself of her clothes and face mask and run to the bathroom. She offered you small greeting to which you only nodded, your tired mind ordering your eyes to find comfort at small shapes in the ceiling. You didn't know how long your sister took in the bathroom, but judging by the lack of giggling coming from the babies' room you supposed it wasn't for long.

"You want to wait for Levi to come pick you up or should I give you a ride home when Mike's back? He should be home soon!" She spoke as she poured water in a red metallic boiler.

"I'll just walk. I need some air."

Nanaba emitted a soft hum in response "Are you alright? You seem off."

"Oh no." You brushed her off "I was just thinking about what I should wear at Erwin and Hange's anniversary dinner next week, and what gift to buy Levi now that his birthday is coming."

"Good, I see, just don't stress alright?"

___

The way home was longer than you had initially remembered, whether it was for your inability to walk with a steady pace or mostly because it was already getting dark and cold. You wondered if Levi would be getting home by now as you neared the apartment complex the two of you resided in. By the looks of your illuminated window he was already home as expected of him this certain hour. It probably was one of those days when he didn't have a strict deadline to attend to, which, under normal circumstances, only meant more cuddles and kisses for you. Yet, tonight was different.

"Hey Levs" Your voice lingered in his brain the moment you stepped inside.

"Hey brat, welcome home." The kiss you left on his cheek as you hurriedly headed to the bathroom was different, off almost, and he picked up on it immediately. "Did Nanaba drop you off? I had asked Mike to come by tonight, he said he'd bring some tea leaves he bought for me."

He leaned at the frame of the door as he watched you wash every crevice of your face thoroughly, paying enough attention to the insides of your outer nasal cavity. He was pretty meticulous about hygiene and especially at times like these with a hole pandemic going on he wasn't taking any chances, you knew, plus you were kind of disgusted of germs lately yourself, you thought you finally understood where he was coming from. He took a few steps ahead, away from your body in search of a clean face towel to hand out to you when you were done. You have it to him, even if he seemed cold as stone that domestic lifestyle was mesmerizing to you.

"Thanks baby, you're the best." You half smiled.

"You good?"

At this point you wondered if you seriously we're so easy to read. You supposed you were off, but you were always off and unresponsive to many things so what exactly was it about today that made everyone know you had a conflict in your mind.

"Yeah I'm just tired, I walked here."

Levi clicked his tongue at that "Nanaba's home is very far away from here, have a shower and I'll rub your legs and feet." With eyes that never left yours Levi watched as your face lit up a little more, he gave you a tiny of a smile on return.

"You prooomise Levs?" You knew teasing with him could only lead to one thing, yet you did it shamelessly.

"Tch, of course, hurry up, I'm making pancakes with eggs and bacon."

Normally at the very sound of this particular food your eyes would water and your mouth would drool but the unresponsive nature of your expression only sent a new wave of worry through Levi's chest. As much as he had wanted to convince himself you were just tired, he couldn't, not after this reaction to your favorite snack. He decided not to push you into saying anything you didn't want to though. Maybe it was that enormous amount of notes you had to memorize for your next exams in addition to your fatigue and any hormonal altercations.

"Yeah" you trailed off "babe, about that, can we have cocktail shrimp? And maybe fried rice and fries? Pretty pretty please?"

Ah, there it was. Although it was a rare occasion for you not to be in the mood of his infamous pancakes, you could still have a few different cravings from time to time. Levi let out a sigh of relief as he proceeded your order trying to figure of where he should order from, last night's mushroom soup had messed your stomach up, that he knew, but you seemed to be fine now so in theory that should be enough to prevent him from whining out his concerns.

As he closed the door to the bathroom he hummed his favorite tune to himself, softly enough as not to disturb you with your bath. He picked up his phone from the kitchen table with ease before collapsing on the couch, there was a limit to what his body could take and he had surpassed that by far these past few months. Endless deadlines that took turns one after another and extra hours at the office had been killing him, mentally and physically, making him a little more grumpy than usual. In great addition his back ached, his fingers were sore and his mind felt like canned alphabet soup every single night. Perhaps, seeing him in this state was taking a toll on you as well; you were always so protective over him, almost like a mother to her child, despite being younger, and he if he had to, he'd admit he enjoyed it a little too much than he should have.

When you came out of the bathroom he gazed over you briefly, you were sitting before the end of the dresser, standing in front of the full body mirror, examining your form. He seemed to be puzzled by your demeanor once again. Normally, or up until yesterday, you would have immediately shot out to where he was seated at to plough into his arms with wet hair, only to slightly irritate him for getting him wet, not that he didn't enjoy to smell your fresh scent anyway, but it was a game of routine for you by now. It was almost as if you were seeking to be scolded at for not rushing to dry your hair. He always wanted you as healthy as ever.

You couldn't shake off your head how soft Levi's chest is. There probably wasn't a reason as to why he's sleeping shirtless tonight, your apartment was very warm, given that it was the start of December already, but you didn't complain. The feeling of creamy, milky soft skin, perfectly excused by any coarse hair was slowly putting you to sleep. You loved how Levi was so soft everywhere you touched, it was so unlike what the world perceived of him, maybe your baby's skin was going to be as smooth and perfect as his and not as dry and oily as yours. Of course the baby's skin was going to be soft, ugh and those little arms and legs, you couldn't lie to your self, deep down you were just a tad excited to have a baby, if it meant that it would look like Levi you wouldn't want to give up on it for the world.

"Levi, does Kenny keep baby pictures of you?"

"What?" The onyx haired male raised a brow at your inquiry but didn't give you enough time to repeat yourself before he answered. "My mother had so many pictures of me so I guess that it's natural that he has some and well there probably are a few pictures from after my mother's death, I'm not that sure."

In response, he only earned a hum.

"Tch, can I lay on your chest? I want you to play with my hair." His eyes pleaded with you in the darkness. Of course you could never say no to such thing, you loved it even more when he was the one sleeping on you. Another sentence left his lips, this time with a yawn as he shifted himself on you, cooing like a small child. "I'll call Kenny tomorrow, sleep now I know you need it."

____

Under any other circumstance you would have loved seeing everyone's dumbfounded faces stating at you as if they had seen the dead rise from their graves. You had to pinch your arms to remind yourself this was indeed serious and you shouldn't let out a single chuckle.

"Please tell me you're joking" Nanaba pleaded, placing her hand on yours in disbelief.

"I'm going to screeeeeam! Shorty can't even hold it in, ghaaaa!"

"Hange he will hear you through the restroom."

Hange blinked her eyes rapidly at the sound of that. "You haven't told him?" She immediately seemed to lose her enthusiasm, something you hadn't intended to happen, especially at such a night, but you knew you didn't have a say in other people's emotions.

"Hange he never seemed too fond of the idea, why would I complicated things for him?"

Mike's eyes widened in disbelief. There was no way in hell he was having this. You were practically his little sister, seeing you so tormented as you were in the moment when you spoke those words ravaged his last nerve, causing anger to clench his hands into fists. He watched as you took a small bite of your food giving the rest to Eli who was comfortably sitting on your lap, tapping his little hands on the rim of your plate. Other than the fact you broke out such news to him, Nanaba Hange and Erwin and had expressed your fears on informing your significant other, you seemed quite bubbly. Children really did bring out such a soft side of you, he knew that was for sure.

"Hange" you spoke, unphased as ever "Levi's coming please stop screaming at me, i love you but it's only making me dizzy."

It felt as if a thousand pairs of eyes were burning holes through his whole body, his head, and everywhere around his personal space bubble. Levi could feel his pulse tense just a tad, Hange's unnerving gaze and her crippling smile were fixated especially on him, making his nose itchy. There was something very different in the atmosphere around him; Nanaba wasn't eating anymore, she was more fixated on her daughter than anyone else, Erwin was nervously staring between him and you and you and Mike were trying to clean Eli's hands from the food he had just touched. When the scenery wasn't something irregular, none of you dared look eachother in the eyes, beat it that Hange was staring only at him.

"Oi, what the fuck is wrong-"

"Levi, shorty! Does Eli look like he's enjoying himself in (y/n)'s arms?" Hange turned her sweetened gaze on you, making you choke on your words, you shot her an atrociously strict glare. "Remember when Nanaba gave birth? What do you think about babies? Maybe you think they smell a lot? But what about ackerbabies?"

"Way to be discreet Han, thank you!" Your lips puckered in anger as you brought your arms to cross under your chest.

"Wait what's going on shitty glasses?"

"Yada Yada shorty, you're not getting a word from me, my lips are sealed" Hange spoke and shut her eyes to emphasize the significance of her words.

You sighed in a pathetic attempt to relieve some tention of your chest. A tight knot had formed due to anxiety, fog had clouded over your brain and you were feeling so faint and exhausted that you just wanted to get it over with. You didn't mind standing there like a fish out of water after breaking the news to him, the tention in the air was in fact what was making you suffocate in your seat. With wobbly hands you pushed Eli off your lap, not caring about the moan of disagreement he made and you shot up from your seat, announcing you had to take some fresh air. Levi had to stop Nanaba mid tracks to be able to come after you, fast enough to be there when you got out.

Naturally, you stood seated at a bench that neared the restaurant. Your hands were covering your face scratching softly through your hair, probably in attempts to calm your self down. He approached you without any second thought, this time determined to know what was it with you. Your behavior these past week had been unnerving and overly concerning to say the least. Carefully he sat himself down next to you, his right arm come around your frame comfortingly while the left one came to caress underneath your cheek.

"You should probably talk to me."

Your voice came muffled from between your palms as you still hadn't dared to look him in the eye. "Levi, I'm, I'm so sorry it's just... I'm very anxious."

"I think I figured that, brat." His voice was so soothing, it felt as if he was speaking to you in the comfort of your private room, not on a bench outside a semi fancy restaurant

"You know when Hange talked about ackerbabies she uhm, she might have had a particular baby in mind."

Levi blinked erratically for a single second before his mouth, unable to compel to his brain's orders, formed the shape of an oh. Of course, in the moment it was hard to click with any other even but he attributed that to his lack of knowledge over the situation. Had he any clue or suspicion that you could be pregnant he would have been able to realise that it wasn't that your stress had been messing with your stomach every morning and that your extreme fatigue couldn't possible align with the erratically swift rhythm of your palms. Of course, of course it wasn't a thermometer that you had disposed of in the toilet, he wanted to slap himself for being so naive as to believe that. He was strict with recycling rules, you wouldn't have just straight up there s thermometer in the trash. Fuck now's not the time to think about recycling.

With the soft, chaste kiss at the top of your hair you finally decided to turn your gaze to him. Watery eyes met with an adoring grey gaze, a gaze you've never seen at this extreme before. "I love you, you know." Another kiss meant your head got to lift a little more, just to get closer to him. "I don't say it often but you don't have to worry, I'll try to tell our kid more often."

Your eyes shimmered with adoration at his words, despite the cold weather you couldn't bring yourself to feel not even a little tingle, Levi was keeping you so warm with his words. "Really? You want this?"

"Tch why wouldn't I, you thought I'd ever let you go and leave me lonely? I've always thought you knew we're sharing the same future."

Your lips attacked his in fiery passion. It was a natural reaction to his words, an ice melting kiss, a promise for the future. There were many reasons as to why you lived Levi but maybe the fact that you would have a little stoic faced baby running around your feet made you love him a little bit more.

#aot #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #snk x reader #levi #aot x reader #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman #attack on titan #snk #Captain levi #modern au #levi x reader imagine #ahhhh brrr #wufff #daddy levi makes me go wuf #barkkk #eye-

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retrievablememories · 4 years

Text

the second time around | jaehyun

title: the second time around pairing: jaehyun x reader genre: fluff, some angst request: “Hi! Here’s a suggestion for a story or add-on to another story you wrote. I really liked moonlight w/ jaehyun! Could you do a follow up with him not seeing her for awhile and him (and her secretly) being pissed about it but wants to reconnect with her but outside of being a customer. Ty and keep up the good work with your writing.” word count: 2.9k warnings: a couple mentions of sex a/n: hmm...the sequel to moonlight...sequels are scary to write but here we are lol. this could’ve been posted last sunday really but i’ve been stalling oof

Despite getting Jaehyun’s number after that night at the strip club, you’ve seen and heard a lot less of him than you’d like. On his end, Jaehyun isn’t so pleased about losing touch either, but you wouldn’t know that with the lack of communication.

Both of you are ultimately busy with your own lives, and it’s not like he can just drop in whenever he wants to visit you. Not just because he’s busy, but also because of where you work. The men keep their visits to the club on a once-a-month basis for a reason—to avoid tipping off any stalkers who’d find out and leak their whereabouts.

You’ve texted each other a few times since your first meeting, and you enjoyed the conversations you got to have within that timespan, but the time between responses kept getting longer—on both of your ends—until things eventually dropped off.

You were unhappy about this, though you tried not to be so obvious about it to the other girls. Getting attached to customers was not a good look. Even if they were handsome and nice and had good dick.

However, Anya was the first to notice your slightly sour mood despite your best efforts to project an unphased demeanor. And, being her usual nosy self, she managed to pry it out of you before you could even think about denying it.

“Don’t stress about it,” she’d told you on the night you finally spilled the beans. She’d wrapped her arms around your shoulders and tipped your chin up, making you hold your head up higher and look at yourself in the mirror reflection facing you. “There will be many more men where he came from. And if you don’t wanna deal with any more men right now, that’s fine too. He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on, anyway.”

“I’m not stressing over it,” you’d argued, sighing. “We don’t stress over men who aren’t boyfriends, remember?”

Anya grinned then, though you could tell it was the kind of smile you give when a friend is doing something they shouldn’t be—or indulging in something they think is good for them when it’s not. “Duh. But you might wanna start following your own advice if you’re gonna be dishing it out!” And then she’d gone off to do her own thing, probably to finish getting ready for her set later that night or to go bother one of her favorite bartenders.

You’d looked at yourself in the mirror more closely, frowning at the truthfulness of her statement and wishing you had not been quite so easy to read. You’d had a show right after that, which allowed you to take your mind off the mess for at least a few hours. But in the small moments when you weren’t thinking about work or school or anything else you had to do, Jaehyun crept back into your mind like a specter, wanting you to acknowledge him even though you weren’t getting the same.

When you head out to the parking lot after a particularly long night, you slow your steps when you see a man leaning against his car, his cap pulled over his eyes and his head low. In any other scenario, you probably would’ve alerted one of the bouncers, thinking he was some creep waiting until after your stage to try to corner you in a shady area. However, you hold off on calling anybody because you can clearly recognize him even if he thinks he’s being inconspicuous—it’s Jaehyun.

He lifts his head when he hears your shoes on the ground, and his lips turn up into something of a smile.

“If you wanted another dance, you’re a bit late. We just closed,” you say jokingly, raising an eyebrow at him. Jaehyun shakes his head.

“Tempting idea, but that’s not what I came here for.” He turns to face you fully now, observing you in your casual, after-work clothes. In the back of your mind, you realize this is the first time he’s seen you outside the context of performing. Then he sighs. “It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”

“I know.” Your familiar irritation rises again. Sure, maybe him coming to see you or you going to see him more often isn’t feasible. A text or a call, though...would be decidedly less effort, and not difficult to do. You’re not sure whether to be more irritated with him or yourself about not trying to reach out again, though you decide to aim your annoyance at him just because you can.

Jaehyun nods to your agreement. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine,” you say. “Work is...work. It has its ups and downs. How are you? Busy with the idol life?”

Jaehyun sighs. “Yeah...it just gets…stressful sometimes.” He bites his lip and shakes his head, seeming bothered about whatever’s going on with his job but not wanting to say much more about it.

“I’m sure,” you respond, and you don’t really know what to say afterwards. It’s been a while since either of you talked, and it’s strangely hard to try to pick up where you left off as if nothing happened. Jaehyun realizes this, too, and appears distressed at not knowing how to keep the conversation going with you—and possibly wasting your time.

You nod to yourself and shift on your feet. “Well, the Uber will probably be here soon, so—”

“I don’t know what things will look like between us, but I don’t want us to fall out of contact again,” Jaehyun blurts out, then winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just...don’t want either of us to leave before we...sort this out, I guess.”

You think to yourself, wondering if this is really worth trying to pursue. You’ve yet to deal with a man with the level of fame that Jaehyun has, yet with such a strict image to keep, which makes things exponentially more complicated. But despite your apprehension, you still want to know where this could lead. After a moment, you say, “Well, if you’re willing...I’d like the same.”

Jaehyun nods and stands up a little straighter, like that response just gave him the energy he needed. “Do you wanna….go somewhere? Just to like, hang out.” His proposition is abrupt, and you didn’t expect it.

“Now?” You check your phone, and it’s 18 minutes past 2 a.m. There aren’t too many places that will still be open at this hour, other than establishments similar to your line of work, but you aren’t in the mood for any more of that tonight. Your driver, too, is only a few minutes away, but you already find yourself with your finger hovering over the Cancel button. “We could.”

Jaehyun goes around to the passenger side of the car and opens the door for you. You get into his car, noting its sleek interior. Once he gets in, he asks you what you want to hear, and you notice he’s looking through his Spotify. You shrug.

“I don’t know. Show me something you like,” you say. You cringe at sounding so disinterested, which makes you realize you might just be a little more upset about being ghosted than you thought you were. You almost want to curse at how this dude is taking you off your usual game. “I mean, I like hearing new music anyway, so…”

Jaehyun starts the car and grins slightly. “Alright, then let me show you the best of the best…” You both end up listening and vibing to a playlist he’s made, which is good. Not that you didn’t expect it to be, but you end up liking most of the songs he shows you, which usually doesn’t happen with other people’s playlists.

Jaehyun ends up taking you to an ice cream place that’s still open this late, to your surprise. The sitting area inside the store is closed, though they’ve kept the drive-thru open for late-night travelers like yourselves who want a quick treat. You don’t question it, though; you definitely won’t pass up a chance for some ice cream.

You end up eating the ice cream while sitting in his car and listening to the rest of his playlist. Neither of you say much other than commenting on the songs or talking about your favorite ice cream flavors or making other non-committal small talk. You kind of prefer it this way, at least for the moment—just listening to the music and watching the headlights and taillights of cars that pass by.

You and Jaehyun ride around the city for a while longer after finishing the ice cream, not intending to go anywhere in particular but just coasting on the highways. It might be an excuse to keep listening to this new playlist he’s put on, or maybe more reason to pretend that awkward period between you never happened. Acknowledging it in a way, but not speaking any life into it.

Eventually, though, it has to arise back to the surface. Jaehyun taps his fingers against the steering wheel at a red light, like he’s impatient to get somewhere, and you wonder what he’s feeling until he comes out and says,

“I think it was...ultimately my fault for not contacting you more. Or not trying to stay in contact.”

The words hang in the air for a moment. “Well, I won’t argue with that,” you finally respond.

“It’s just hard to get close to anyone and be an idol at the same time. Sometimes I sabotage myself when I shouldn’t, and…” He trails off, though you don’t know whether he’s searching for the words or has decided to leave his sentence at that.

“You’d rather not be embarrassed by dating a stripper, or something along those lines?” Your tone is nonchalant, though you’re a little bothered by saying it. He wouldn’t be the first or the last person to feel some type of way about your job, though you’ve mostly gotten used to the judgment at this point.

Jaehyun seems a bit startled by the statement. “If you like doing it, then I don’t care what you do. You should live your life however you want to.”

“I see,” you say slowly. “Most men I meet outside of the club are not receptive to it, so you ain’t gotta lie if you feel some other way about it, seriously...”

“I’m serious,” he insists. “You told me that day that you liked it, and I believed you. I just think...we should all be able to do things we enjoy without worrying about what others think of it.”

Jaehyun turns to look at you for a moment, and his features are lit up by the street light as it turns green. His face, which is simultaneously painted with shadows and glowing with light, appears to be just as genuine as he sounds. Or maybe this late-night atmosphere just has you feeling more receptive and sentimental than usual. Then he broaches the next subject carefully, steering you back to where the conversation began. “You didn’t text me anymore, either.”

“I figured you’d moved on or something, maybe started talking to someone else…” you reply. “And, you know, if that was the case...so be it. There wouldn’t be a point to chasing someone who wasn’t interested anymore.”

“I am interested.” Jaehyun rushes the words out, like he’s eager to dispel the uncertainty before you get the wrong idea; not that that hasn’t already happened, but still. It isn’t too late to change your mind. “I want to like, know you as a person...not just while being a customer at the club, or something like that.”

You nod, looking at your hands and considering his words. “We can do that...yeah, we can.” Then you hold your hand out to him, a grin playing on your lips. “Nice to meet you, then. I’m Y/N.”

He smiles too, and takes your hand in one of his. “I’m Jaehyun.”

The conversation after that seems to reach a turning point, like somehow you’ve broken the ice and can finally talk to each other on a deeper level without worrying about the issue that’s been lingering over your heads all night. You think you could talk to him like this for hours if you wanted to, if there was enough time in the world for it.

Unfortunately, though, you don’t have as much time as you’d like, and once it starts edging on 4 AM, you both decide it’s probably best to call it a night. Jaehyun takes you back to your apartment after you tell him where it is.

He parks in front of the apartment complex, and you’re prepared to thank him for the night and get out, but he insists on walking you up to your apartment—something about it being too dangerous for women to walk alone at night.

“It’s not that far.” You laugh, but you aren’t going to argue about it if it means getting a few more moments with him.

Jaehyun follows you up the steps after you both get out of the car. You walk a little slower to prolong the moment, but eventually you have to get up to your apartment door. You also take your time with taking your keys out of your bag and putting them in the lock. And maybe you’re not as slick as you thought, because Jaehyun notices. He laughs quietly behind you, but the sound isn’t low enough to escape your hearing.

You turn around to look at him, your hand on the doorknob. “Well, I guess that’s it. Thanks for the ride...and for the ice cream, you know.”

He nods, and one of his dimples pokes out. “You didn’t have to entertain me tonight, but I’m glad you did...so, thanks.”

Both of you linger in your doorway for a few more moments. Jaehyun wants to come in, and you know it, but you also know he probably won’t say it because he technically shouldn’t. His members are expecting him back at the dorm. He doesn’t want to impose, and he didn’t even bring any extra clothes. But you know he wants to come in, and you want it, too.

You tilt your head to the side. “Would it be bad if I asked you to stay?” you say tentatively.

A slow smile spreads on his face. “No, it wouldn’t.”

You open the door wider so he can step inside and take his shoes off at the entrance. You lead him to your living room by the hand. “What do you wanna do?” you ask, looking at him imploringly. You want to be sure you’re both on the same page concerning your intentions.

“Whatever you wanna do,” he echoes, holding your hand a bit tighter. You expect to see lust or some similar desire in his expression and had already figured you might end up having sex again tonight, but his eyes expect nothing from you. He only smiles in the dim light of your apartment and waits for you to make the next move.

You laugh, and it comes out as an airy chuckle. “Well, then...I want to lay down. It’s been a long day.” From your tone, Jaehyun understands that you really just want to lie down and not think about much of anything else right now. He follows you when you lead him into your bedroom and sits patiently on your bed while you go to the bathroom to change into your night clothes. You’re thankful you already took a shower at the club, because you’re not sure you’d have the energy to do all that now.

He’s taken his jeans off when you come back into the room, though he still keeps his shirt on. You get onto the bed and lean over him, hooking your finger into the collar of his shirt, and he looks up at you. “You can take this off if you want, I don’t care.”

“Is this you saying you want to see me shirtless?” He grins, though he readily takes the invitation and pulls his shirt off, placing it to the side along with his pants.

You shake your head good-naturedly, a smile on your face. “I promise it’s innocent…but the view never hurts.”

You peel the sheets back and you both climb underneath them, lying across from each other and looking at each other like you want to say something more but aren’t sure what. There isn’t much light in the room except for the street lights coming from your bedroom window, muted slightly by the blinds.

Jaehyun laughs suddenly, breaking the silence, and you do the same. You’re not sure why either of you are laughing, but you do so anyway, simply enjoying the moment for what it is. After your laughter dies down, he takes your hand from where it’s resting on the pillow and slips his pinky around yours. “I’ll try not to lose you this time.”

You lean a little closer to his face so you can plant a kiss on his lips—just a short and soft touch. He tastes like ice cream, and somehow you know there will be many more kisses like this in the future. “You better not.”

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x0401x · 3 years

Text

Jeweler Richard Fanbook Short Story #17

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Play of Color

Shaved ice.

A summer that everyone, from kids to adults, knew about. But how to say this in English? I’d never been taught that. Could I even say it to begin with?

The beautiful man responded clearly to my offhand doubts, “‘Shaved ice’. Other options such as ‘ice frost’ and ‘snow cone’ also go into the category, but if you are to to regard the context of ‘ice that was shaved’ as important, then I believe ‘shaved ice’ is appropriate.”

“I see, so it’s a direct translation for ‘ice that’s been shaved’. Got it... A-Aaah! Didn’t you put too much syrup? Ah—”

“I will add more ice.”

A rattling sound echoed through the jewelry shop, where there was nobody but the shopkeeper and his employee. Sitting on the tabletop was an ice shaving machine. As one would expect, we couldn’t commit the barbarianism of placing it directly on a glass table, so three cloths were stacked under the machine’s legs. It wasn’t the manual and nostalgic type but an electric one.

A customer had come over with a paper bag from a famous home appliances mass retailer and bought a glittering yellow diamond that they had reserved, but on this occasion, they ended up forgetting the bag from the electronics retail store. The shopkeeper immediately noticed it and contacted them by phone, but they were in the Narita Express, going straight to Bali for vacation. Apparently, they would only be coming back in the beginning of autumn. What luxury.

The customer who was heading to the southern island had casually said, “You can use it if you’d like—actually, please use it and tell me how it went”, then bid goodbye to Richard with a lighthearted voice and hung up. Inside the paper bag was a brand-new ice shaving machine. It also came with small syrup bags. Seven types of them. The mango, ramune, cola, lime and peach ones were a shock to me, as lived in a world of strawberry, melon and lemon ones. So people could enjoy even things like the pleasure of actually visiting stalls at home nowadays?

That was how we decided to choose at our own discretion a time on the following day when there were no reservations, and began holding a shaved ice party for just the two of us. However, when I said in a joking tone that I honestly never thought we’d really get to be the first ones to use something that a customer had forgotten, Mr. Richard Ranashinghe de Vulpian sighed grievously.

“After what happened yesterday, he contacted me to inform that he had arrived in Bali. He posted on social media, ‘I forgot my ice shaving machine, so I asked an acquaintance to try it out. I’m looking forward to it’, so it seems we need to take a video of the shaved ice as fast as possible. Think of this as also a kind of service.”

“There’s all sorts of jobs out there these days.”

Marketing that introduced new products on social media wasn’t something uncommon these days. But I heard that this sort of business was strict about many things, such as obligations and deadlines, so it might be serious stuff in its own way. I thought up until this point, but then my head whispered, “No, hold on” to me. If this was really the case, then bringing along an ice shaving machine immediately before going to Bali didn’t make any sense. Could it be...?

“Did that person leave this here on purpose? It’s clearly something that you can’t bring into an airplane and would get in the way during the trip.”

“That is possible. But it is not something for a single jeweler to judge. There is a possibility that they thought they would be able to enjoy shaved ice at a beach resort but were mistaken, and are now feeling down. Oh... oh, mgh...”

“Ah, the ice turned into water. Didn’t you put a tad too much syrup?”

“Nonsense. From the market price, it is obvious that the more syrup, the merrier.”

“You told that wholesaler who came to buy a ring with lots of decorative diamonds the other day that ‘more doesn’t equal better’, though.”

“Those are two different things,” he said in an eloquent, beautiful Japanese that sounded like it had been cut and trimmed, at which I prostrated myself with a “hahaa”.

Despite the force in his eyes being certain, he seemed to be having trouble putting an appropriate amount of syrup. When he put an abundant amount of the mango, ramune, cola, lime and peach ones all together, the ski slope-like white canvas turned into a color that looked like that of Shinjuku’s gutters during a downpour. Richard would surely call this shade of gray “smoky quartz” or something like that. The fluffy pile of ice was gone, leaving a sleet – or just plain water – in the glass bowl. It would’ve been fine if he had added them little by little, but on second thought, I was thinking this way because I was Japanese, so I was used to the way we added shaved ice syrup to some extent.

As the jeweler, not discouraged, put his bowl under the ice shaving machine, pressed the button and added more ice with crunchy noises, I called out to him, “Hey. Can you lend me that for a bit?”

“I do not mind.”

I took the bowl of water in my hands, adding the syrups of each type little by little. I felt like the jeweler was staring fixedly at me, like, “You’ll only use that tiny little bit of them? Seriously?” but I ignored him. As they said, the last drop makes the cup run over.

The result was...

“Tadaaah.”

A snowy mountain had changed its form into a richly colored shaved ice. I thought it was pretty good, if I could say so myself.

His eyelashes fluttering as he blinked for a moment, the gorgeous jeweler whispered, “Hoo. Excellent. Beautiful.”

“Well, being told that by someone who’s like an incarnation of the concept of beauty is flattering.”

“Ahem. Anyway, this color is extremely tasteful. It bears a close remembrance to ammolite.”

“‘Ammo... nite’?”

“Not ‘ni’, ‘li’. ‘Ammolite’. Ammolite is a gemstone that derivates from living creatures, of which the components obtain an iridescent effect during the many years of fossilization.” Saying this, Richard opened a video on his phone and handed it over to me. I exchanged it for the bowl of shaved ice as if it were an assembly-line system.

What appeared on-screen was a cross-section view of the ammonite. It was split vertically like a CT image taken at a hospital. The contents were a rainbow-colored stone that sparkled brightly. A gradation of red, green and yellow. It changed depending on what angle you looked at it. A while ago, when I heard about the opal, it was revealed to me that this kind of effect was called “play of color”. Still, to think that the inside of a shell could go through such a transition. There was too much depth to the things that happened in nature, and they were immeasurable.

“So can this be called... a stone too...?”

“This would be something that happened about forty years ago, but it was classified as a ‘gemstone’ by the Gemological Society of America. Of course, I do not think it should be pushed through, even if the costumer themselves happen to say that ‘this is a fossil’.”

It apparently depended on how you thought of it. Thinking back, this applied even to the general idea of gemstones.

I flicked the phone’s screen, head-over-heels for the prism-like shells that showed up one after another. Some people used them as pendants or brooches by processing the glittering part with gold.

“How pretty. Hey, do we also have ammolites here in Etrang... eh?”

“There is a possibility that we will one day. Something the matter?”

The beautiful jeweler had been scooping the shaved ice with a tiny spoon and eating it. He wasn’t eating it in a rushed way at all, but half of the iceberg was already gone. With perfect moderation, so that the proportion of the colors of the syrups that I had added one by one wouldn’t crumble.

“D-Did you like it that much?”

“I have never eaten shaved ice at Japanese stalls. Having a frozen desert in a refreshing place like this has a nostalgic air to it.”

He had never waged shaved ice at a stall. Did that mean he had eaten shaved ice at some fashionable shop? Probably not, I thought. A normal Japanese person wouldn’t eat shaved ice at that pace. The reason went without saying. This pace was – how should I put it? – dangerous.

“Richard, hey, listen well. Shaved ice is—”

“Why are you coming close?”

“I’m telling you something important. You have to eat shaved ice at a high pace.”

“But why are you shortening the distance between us? You are too close.”

“Don’t get hung up on minor stuff. More importantly, you already ate a lot of this shaved ice, right? Aren’t you tired of it? I can eat the rest.”

“It is terribly disconcerting to hear this from the father of this work of art, but I do not see any reason for that whatsoever, thus I humbly decline.”

“Aah! Don’t gulp it down! I said don’t gulp it down!”

“I am not. I do not eat that way.”

“Like I said, that’s not what I’m talking about...”

“It is impolite for me to eat by myself. Hurry and make yours to eat as well.”

“Whatever happens got nothing to do with me...”

Glancing backwards at the jeweler as he gave me an aloof nod, I began making my own shaved ice.

Later on, after Richard pleased the customer by sending them pictures of the shaved ice, he reported back to me. He probably reported because the pictures he had sent to the customer was of the shaved ice that I had made for myself, on which the colors were scattered in the form of a whirlwind. I smiled back, replying that I was glad, and not saying anything else. I also didn’t tell him that, by the time he remembered we had to do a photo shoot of it, the beautiful jeweler was making a face that looked like a boy having a worrisome migraine due to some anguish towards the meaning of life and death.

Summer was not yet over. We also didn’t know yet whether or not the customer in Bali would come to retrieve the ice shaving machine. Etranger wasn’t that big, so Richard was probably troubled that it was left there. But if they didn’t come to get it, I might be able to enjoy eating shaved ice with Richard in the summer every year for a while, I thought. And each of these times, I’d be sure to make a shiny mountain of ice in the colors of a rainbow, just like an ammolite. Just like the sparkly smile that Richard showed, I thought that it’d be great if such a summer came around and was looking forward to it.

#housekishou richard shi no nazo kantei #housekishou richard #jeweler richard #the case files of jeweler richard #nakata seigi #richard ranashinghe de vulpian #richard ranashinha de vulpian #jr short story collection #tsujimura nanako #yukihiro utako #novel #my translation #richard

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hellishhin · 3 years

Text

Unfamiliar Servitude

Length: ~3,100 words

Content warnings: Very mild servant/master interactions

Post themes: High fantasy, found family, friendship tension, unkind master, new friends, frustration at being ordered around, homesickness, devout friendship loyalty

Summary: Tensions are high after Sadie pledged her servitude to the cold and unforgiving Taerand Calentavar. Kireen is angry and believes her sacrifice was unnecessary but Brimir is grateful she saved his life. Sadie has a soft moment with K'lai'a'la and makes a promise she won't do anything stupid to get in trouble with Taerand but her first day on the job makes that difficult. His vague instructions and barking orders gets on her nerves and she finds herself scolded regularly. It's only the first day and she's already struggling to hold her tongue but she must do it to fulfil her promise to her beloved friend.

Intro with links to all previous posts

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The eyes of the entire room felt like pinpricks across their skin while three guards escorted them briskly out the front door. By that time, the remains of the vase were nowhere to be found and the party had not quite returned to its previous vigor. Once they were free of their escort and well away from the manor, Kireen let it out. “What in the nine hells, Sadie! Did you really just turn yourself into a slave to save someone we don’t even know?!” by this point she had stopped walking, towering over Sadie and glaring down at her. This was matched by an equally fierce glare from the halfling, fierce enough that their size difference did not seem to matter quite as much.

“I know him well enough to know he doesn’t deserve to die. Also, are you forgetting that K’lai’a’la’s neck was on the line too? I don’t care if he decided to not execute her, she could have been flogged and that’s way worse.”

“That part hadn’t even been decided yet and now you-”

“Stop,” once again K’lai’a’la’s soft voice cut through the tension like butter. “Do not yell. I do not like yelling.”

Sadie’s face flashed through a range of emotion starting at annoyance and ending at tight-lipped resignation. “She’s right, it’s already done. I will move to his manor in the morning.”

Brimir then dropped to a knee and pulled Sadie into a tight hug, “thank you, Sadie. You are a true hero,” then he began to sniffle, drunken emotions taken over as even the threat of death had not sobered him up sufficiently.

“You’re welcome, Brimir. I’d do anything for a friend,” she said soothingly then looked up at Kireen from behind his back and gave her a sour face. Kireen just narrowed her golden eyes at her.

“Then to make it up to the rest of us you’re going to help us with the favor we still have to do for Taerand,” Kireen said to the back of Brimir’s head then reached down to pry him off of Sadie who was sagging under his drunken weight. When he stood, he looked at Kireen through tearstained, blood-shot eyes.

“Anything. I will do anything. I owe it to all of you,” he sniffed and wiped his nose across the back of his hand, smearing snot unattractively over his face. “I just froze. That man is… well he’s scary. I shouldn’t have snuck in.”

“Yes thank you for stating the obvious, too bad you couldn’t have had those thoughts earlier today and none of us would be in this situation,” Kireen’s face was still taut but she was slowly coming to terms with the fact that there was no changing the situation now and it ended better than it might have otherwise. She turned and led the way as they continued toward the Stag in awkward silence.

Once they turned onto the street and saw the warm firelit windows of their home, K’lai’a’la touched Sadie gently on the shoulder, bending down to do so.

“I come in to get dress off. Then I go to my tree.”

Sadie nodded and looked up at Kireen who did not look back. Instead, she entered the Stag and made right for the stairs. Sadie turned to Brimir who was swaying on his feet and sighed. From the bosom of her dress she procured a key and handed it to K’lai’a’la.

“Go upstairs and wait for me, I’ll be right up,” then she approached the bar where Dwinain was wiping the counter off. “Did ye have a good time Blaze?” he asked jovially and glanced to Brimir who was following Sadie like a sad, lost puppy.

“It’s a long story but before I tell it I need you to know I’m moving out in the morning,” the rag froze in place.

“But where’ll ya go?” behind his beard he looked quite perplexed.

“I am going to live with Ser Calentavar. I work for him now. But not right now Dwinain I have an elf in a dress who wants out of it and I need to get a room for my friend here,” she rubbed a hand across her face while the other hand gestured in the vague direction of Brimir. Sadie had seen Dwinain’s face contort in a frown before but not quite to this degree. His eyebrows and moustache almost touched.

“Number seven then. But we are going to speak of this before you go,” he hopped off his platform and brought a key out to them. Wordlessly, Sadie gestured for Brimir to take it and then he was stumbling up the stairs toward his bed.

“I’ll give you the money for his-” but Dwinain clasped her hands in his before she could continue.

“The night is on me. I know ye can take care of yerself but that won’t stop me from saying be careful,” he pulled her in for a tight but brief hug and Sadie returned it, melting slightly into the embrace. But then it was over.

“Thanks Dwinain, I’ll explain before I go. Promise,” he nodded and wordlessly went back behind the bar.

K’lai’a’la was waiting awkwardly in the center of her room when she entered and was surprisingly quiet even as Sadie removed the pins from her hair. It wasn’t until she was back in her normal mossy clothing that she finally spoke.

“You should not have done that,” K’lai’a’la has never been truly angry around Sadie but the slight furrow between her brows showed she was nearing upset.

“Can you please just drop it? I feel like I did what was best and I want to go to sleep now,” her tired features really showed her age and the candles seemed to shine extra off the silver streaks in her hair.

“No. Do not leave tomorrow. Stay here.”

Sadie hopped off of the chair and pushed it back in its place then started to undress herself, keeping her back turned to her friend.

“I can’t. I already made the promise and I can’t break it. Why do you two even hate him so much anyway? He only tried to…” She trailed off as she pulled a few pins from her hair.

“He try to kill me. He try to kill storyman. He try to kill you,” she said with a little more heat than Sadie was expecting which made her turn to her friend and look up at her.

“Hey, tonight was just a couple mistakes and he’s really strict. He wasn’t going to kill you in the end so I will be fine. I can’t break my promise to him but I can make one to you that I won’t make any mistakes while I’m there, ok?” she smiled and held her hand up, palm facing outward. K’lai’a’la knelt down and sighed but put her palm against Sadie’s and their fingers interlocked, sealing the promise. Sadie gave an extra squeeze.

“You can stay here tonight if you want,” but that made K’lai’a’la shake her head. “I go to tree but be back at sunrise.”

“How about… sometime after sunrise?” That made K’lai’a’la frown. “Ok fine I’ll leave the door unlocked.” The elf nodded and quietly left Sadie alone with her thoughts.

She haphazardly tossed some of her clothes and trinkets into her trunk but wasn’t fully finished before she fell into a fitful sleep.

***

When dawn broke with her rosy fingers, the click of the door opening pulled Sadie from her light sleep. K’lai’a’la looked quite awake but quietly watched and waited as Sadie began the process of getting out of bed. There were not many words to be had as she finished her packing. When she went downstairs there was a modest breakfast for her that she only poked at. Kireen was finishing her plate already and also didn’t have much to say.

“Can you all not act like I’m walking to the gallows? I’m literally getting a job as a servant, something a lot of people actually wish they could do,” the early morning made her extra bitter.

“You have a point,” Kireen actually sounded sincere “but when he treats you poorly and you complain about it to us, I get to say I told you.”

Sadie rolled her eyes and was going to respond when the door opened and Taerand’s majordomo entered with two other male servants in tow. He approached and gave her a polite nod. “Good morning, Miss McRimmik. I have come to collect you. Where might my assistants find your things?”

“Room four. It’s unlocked,” something churned in her stomach as she set the key on the counter where Dwinain put his hand over hers for just a moment before taking the key. The two servants went upstairs and the majordomo procured two letters from his tunic and handed one to Kireen, the other to K’lai’a’la who did not take it. Kireen took it instead.

“Ser Calentavar would like to meet in two days' time, once Miss Sadie is settled in.”

“About time,” Kireen grumbled and just tucked the letters away without opening them. The majordomo nodded at Sadie and she hopped off her stool and made for her new home.

***

The manor had a different air about it than the night before. It was a lot more subdued and seemed less lived-in, almost. But soon Sadie was back in front of Taerand and his large desk that was starting to seem more like a judge’s bench than a desk. With a nod, the majordomo left, leaving only her and Taerand. He was sitting, shuffling through parchment on his desk while she stood there. Finally he looked up.

“Take this to the kitchen and give it to Jordo,” he handed her a folded piece of parchment. She slowly took it, looking more than a little baffled.

“Okay… who is Jordo?”

“I do not have time to introduce you to every one of my staff,” then he went back to looking at the papers on his desk. Sadie just stood there for long enough that he looked back up at her.

“If I was not clear before, you are to leave now to deliver that message to the kitchen. Go.”

Remembering her promise to K’lai’a’la, she silently left the room with the parchment in her hand. She hadn’t been told what to do with such authority since she was a child and Ethna was ordering her about. Even then it got on her nerves. Once she reminded herself that this was only temporary, she focused on finding someone to ask, ignoring the glaring question of just *how* temporary this would be.

An older woman was carrying a basket of laundry toward the main staircase and she approached, clearing her throat.

“Excuse me, I’m new here. Can you tell me where I can find Jordo? I have a message from Taerand.”

The woman pursed her lips “you have a message from Master Calentavar, child,” she corrected “the kitchens are down the far hall, last door on the right,” and she continued up the stairs with her basket.

“Thank you! I’m Sadie by the way and I’m not a child, I’m a halfling,” but the mistake didn’t actually bother her.

“Sigrun,” was all the woman responded with. Sadie followed her instructions and did indeed find the kitchen and could probably have found it on her own had she caught a whiff of the delicious smells which seemed to be dying down after breakfast. The kitchen was spacious with a large wooden counter in the center of the room. An oversized oven took up one corner which was next to a large cookfire. Shelves of more kinds of food than she could identify lined one wall. From the ceiling hung pots and pans of so many different sizes and shapes she couldn’t begin to fathom what one could need with such a variety. Even just the sight of the pans had her halfling stomach rumbling. Peeling her eyes away from the vast culinary expanse, she saw a fairly large man with his back to her. He was dressed in a well-worn but clean linen shirt with an apron tied around his waist. Sadie cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, are you Jordo?”

“I should think you wouldn’t have to ask if you’re in this kitchen,” he said coolly and when he turned around, his eyes were centered three feet above her head. It took him a moment before he looked down and realized she was there. “Well hello there, my apologies, I didn’t see you. I suppose we haven’t met, have we. You have the right man. I’d shake your hand but I’ve got raw lamb all over,” he gestured behind him to a beautiful rack of lamb he had been rubbing seasonings and butter all over, presumably to let it age. Her mouth started watering.

“I’m Sadie. I’m new here, just started this morning.”

“Well then it’s nice to meet you. Set the letter just there if you don’t mind,” he gestured next to him, between the lamb and a plate of biscuits. He turned back around to continue his work and when she set the letter where he asked, she eyed the biscuits long enough that Jordo chuckled and bumped one on top of the pile off with his elbow. “Oops, look out below,” the biscuit bounced off the counter and Sadie managed to catch it. “That one was burnt anyway, wouldn’t do to be served.” It was, in fact, very slightly darkened along one edge as though it were too close to the wall of the oven.

“Thank you,” she bit into it and even though it was a simple biscuit it was the best she’d ever had. Jordo chuckled at the noises of pleasure emanating from the small halfling.

“I’d finish that here if I were you. Nothing wrong with havin’ it just don’t want to get crumbs on the carpets.”

“Thank you for the advice and the biscuit. Do you like working here? Is Taerand nice to you?”

“Master Calentavar? He pays me well and I get to cook, can’t go wrong with that I don’t think,” his tone was genuine enough that she believed him but he wouldn’t be the last person she asked today. She was going to be cautious since Kireen and K’lai’a’la were so worried.

“Do you cook for the servants too? Is food included?” She asked after another bite of biscuit.

“I do and it is but there’s a budget for it. We don’t get lamb that’s for sure. Well, I get to taste it but I don’t get my own portion at least,” he didn’t seem too bothered by that.

She chewed and nodded, “so what do I do now? I did the job I was asked to do.” This time he turned to look over his shoulder, his thinning hair slipping into his eyes.

“If you were not given a second task you better get back and ask him what he wants next. He’s probably expecting you to return to him once you deliver my message.”

“Oh. Okay. What does the message say?” she asked, not picking up on his advice.

“Just a meal list for a private dinner in two nights,” he didn’t seem concerned that his advice wasn’t heeded. Sadie just did not want to leave the kitchen. To her it was one of the most magical places she’s experienced. But it finally sunk in that he had a point.

“I’ll go now, thanks for the biscuit Jordo. It was nice to meet you!” She stuffed the rest of her biscuit in her mouth and he just chuckled as she left.

She returned and entered Taerand’s study, finding his icy gaze upon her. Only when the door was shut behind her did he speak.

“I did not realize my kitchen had moved across Stawold,” he said flatly.

“Well you didn’t tell me where it was so I had to ask,” she did not like how upset he seemed, she knew she hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes and that wasn’t long at all.

“Five minutes is far too long for a message to be delivered within my own manor. Do you understand?” Sadie had no idea why he was so stern and why that message was so critical. Jordo didn’t make it sound critical.

“I’m… sorry?” Once again, she found herself baffled and it wasn’t even midmorning yet.

“Two more rules you have disobeyed that I shall correct just this once. You will always knock before you enter a room and you shall address me as Master Calentavar. I will ask again, do you understand?” The hint of threat in his tone gave her pause and Kireen’s voice was in her head I told you so.

“I understand, Master Calentavar. I apologize.” She also had a promise to K’lai’a’la to uphold.

His frigid demeanor warmed up slightly. “Good. Now deliver this to my page.”

***

The day was long and by the end of it, Sadie was tired and her feet sore but she barely noticed. He had her running around the manor all day and listening to him barking commands at her was starting to wear down the filter between her mind and her mouth. Luckily, she was dismissed to her room before it broke fully and it helped when she found out she was given a private room. Maybe he was just testing to see how she did under pressure. Maybe she could put up with this, but the weight of that maybe would get significantly heavier if the next day was anything like the last.

The more she thought about how many times the word ‘master’ came out of her mouth over the course of the day, the more disgusted she became until she was just throwing the clothes from her trunk into random drawers. She was Blaze, the hero of Stawold, the best performer in the whole town and she was calling someone else master? Her blood started to run hotter in her veins and she felt it burning her cheeks. What’s worse is she never kept her promise to tell Dwinain what happened and he hadn’t said anything to remind her. Not to mention, she missed her bed at the Stag, she missed the sound of drunken laughter floating through the walls; there was no laughter here. Only obedient silence. A knock at the door caught her before she started knocking candlesticks off of surfaces.

“Yes?” The door opened and a younger servant girl peered in. Sadie recognized her but if she had asked her name, she promptly forgot it.

“Master Calentavar would like you to sing while he has his supper.”

Her promise to K’lai’a’la was the only thing that had her snatching up her dulcimer and attempting to plaster something resembling a polite look on her face. She is the great performer of Stawold, after all.

Taglist: (adds/removes always open!) @betwixtofficial @taerandcalentavar @talesfromaurea @faelanvance @definitelyquestionit @drippingmoon @dontcrywrite @a-wild-bloog

#oc #d&d #writeblr #original work #sadieblaze #kireen #k'lai'a'la #taerand #brimir #post 32 #overall can I get a vibe check on my pacing?#am I moving things too slowly?#You can be honest!#I hope you like it!#I'm hella proud of this #I'm hella proud of all my work lately #and you all are gonna know it.

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flying-nightwing · 4 years

Text

Damn Him

Hi, this is average af but I needed to post something. You’ll probably be disappointed lmao. Anyway, enjoy some Dick Grayson content!

More on my masterlist, pinned as a top post!

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader

Word count: 4798

Warnings: None

Summary: Dick Grayson never seems to say the right thing around you, and it’s not quite for the reason you initially thought

You looked up from your book when your cellphone vibrated on your desk beside you. You were in the midst of studying for your last exam of the semester, so you had your phone on a strict do not disturb schedule, which meant it remained on 24/7. Your notifications were blocked for any social media, text or calls you might receive, well, except for your one emergency contact: Bruce Wayne. He knew he was supposed to contact you only if he had no other choice but ask for your help, and never had he even used that card ever since you knew him. Reluctantly, you put down you book and marker to switch them for your phone. Turning on the screen, you ignored the various hidden notifications, focusing only on the single line that stared back at you.

Call me when you can - B.

Sighing, you unlocked your phone and pressed the contact name, then the phone icon next to it. It rang twice before Bruce picked up.

"(Y/N), how are you?"

"A bit stressed out, but it could be worse" You replied truthfully. "What's up?"

"I hope you know I wouldn't do this if I had any other solution" He began. "But I need your help on a recon mission, almost all my effective got busted last night"

"Oh my, are they okay?" You frowned with concern, even if he couldn't see you.

"Yes, don't worry" He said, "I'll explain in person, that is if you agree to come. I'd understand if you refused, though"

You rubbed the bridge of your nose and closed your eyes for a second. You owed a lot to Bruce, and since it was a simple recon stakeout, you could take one or two nights off to help him out. You were already ahead of schedule in your studying and confident in your knowledge of the material.

"Yeah, sure, I'll be there" You finally answered. "What time do you want me over?"

"As soon as you can"

"Aight, see ya"

You hung up the phone and put it back on your desk, observing it for a second. It had been gifted to you by Bruce after you began going on missions more regularly with the batlings, he said that way he knew for sure all communications would be secure and sheltered from hacking or government surveillance. You had to admit, having an encrypted phone was pretty neat, as it ran entirely on Wayne Enterprises servers and networks. The simple thought of not having to suffer through youtube ads was satisfactory enough on its own to justify the need for it, even if you didn't join missions as much as you used to.

You finally stood up and went to change from your yoga pants and loose tank top to black jeans and a sweater, then jumped in your car and drove to the manor. You punched in your code at the gate and took the right to the garages, where you entered a second code to open the doors. Your car was several notches under those parked there, but you had to have something less flashy as not to attract too much attention. Still, it was more than a majority of college students even had. You had to thank Bruce for that too. He wasn't your adopted father per say, since he found you a few days before your eighteenth birthday, but he still acted like a guardian and mentor for you.

You jogged down to the batcave, where you instantly spotted a chatty blonde sprawled in a seat, making wild gesture. She sprung up straight at the sound of you coming in and her face split in a wide grin. She jumped on her feet and skipped toward you.

"Hey giiiiirl" She drawled out excitedly. "Long time no see!"

"Hey Steph" You chuckled, going for the hug. "Sorry I didn't call, I have no excuses"

"Don't worry about it" She waved off with an airy laugh. She knew how busy school kept you, and how you kind of wanted to separate yourself fromthe vigilante life. "I'm just glad you're here"

"So am I" Bruce called from the computers. He gave you a subtle smile, and you nodded back to him. "It seems like we're in a bit of an impasse here"

You didn't miss the quick glare he sent to Tim and Steph, who sheepishly avoided looking back at him. It didn't seem too serious though, or the air would have drastically changed.

"Before he says anything, know it wasn't our fault" Steph hurried to say.

"We were totally ambushed by Vicky Vale" Tim nodded along."No idea what she did there, but she was, and she saw right through our disguises.We had to bolt before she exposed us"

You frowned in confusion. "Okay can someone tell me what is going on here?"

"Tim and Steph were supposed to go undercover and cozy up with the high leaders of what I have suspicions on good authority are transiting premium grade opium into the US and Europe, and are close partners to Count Vertigo" Bruce began, already exhausted. "But as they said, Vicky Vale was somehow invited to the banquet and singled them out immediately before they could get even near the big guys"

"My magnificent blond mane attracts way too much attention, I'm afraid" Steph sighed sadly, making you chuckle. "It's a curse, babes. I tell ya"

"Keep telling yourself that, Stephi" A new voice came from the top of the stairs. You both wanted suddenly to go back to your books as a big part of why you barely tag along on missions anymore skipped down the stairs. Damn Dick Grayson, damn him. "We all know covert missions are not your strong point"

"I'm gonna kill you in your sleep, Grayson" She smiled sweetly at him.

"No, because you suck at being subtle" He returned the grin, just as sweetly if not more. He ruffled her hair as he passed by. "What's up Timbo"

He hummed something unintelligible, flipping his brother off. Dick laughed, then almost added something when he finally noticed you. His laughter died down and his eyes widened, and suddenly he looked uncomfortable. "Oh, you're here"

"So it seems" You replied as flatly as he spoke. It wasn't new, you had never known how to act around each other. Did you hate him? Of course not, you had absolutely no reason to. Did you consider him your friend? Hard to say. All you knew was that any and every encounter you had with Dick Grayson was awkward. You got along with Tim just fine, and even Jason when he was still around. You loved Cass and Duke, and you even managed to get on Dami's good side, or most of the time anyway. But Dick remained a mystery to you, one that had eluded you for years now. You didn't understand a single thing about that boy, and you doubted you ever would. You've had conversations before, loads of them, and you had no doubt he would make an amazing friend, but you couldn't seem to get past the stage of acquaintances.

Which was frankly disappointing, because you had been instantly attracted by his charms and easygoing nature when you first met. You had been drawn to him, and you couldn't try and pretend you hadn't pinned after him for the longest time. But you hit a wall when his behaviour began changing wildly around you, right around the time you slipped flirts every now and then to let him know that you were into him. Right now, you were just really over his poor attempts at pretending he never noticed it happen.

"So" Bruce spoke up, breaking the tension that had suddenly arisen in the cave. "Tomorrow night we'll have a new opening to try and get to them, hopefully without interruption this time. I've taken a look at the list, and no reporter was on it. We should be good"

"But Tim and Steph already got busted" You pointed out. "They'll know something is up if they show up again"

"That's why they will be seen at the Gotham Charity Auction at the museum" He explained, meeting your eyes. "That's why I called you up. You'll be going undercover with Dick as husband and wife"

"What?" Dick coughed almost immediately. "We're not–" He laughed nervously. "Us? As a married couple? This is ridiculous"

Your head turned sharply toward him, your eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Wow, thanks a lot for the vote of confidence" You snapped. "I didn't know being my fake husband was such a terrible perspective"

"No– Wait– That's not–" He stuttered, his eyes wide. "I didn't mean it that way"

"Sure" You rolled your eyes, before turning to Bruce again. He had an unreadable expression on his face, more unreadable than usually anyway. Tim and Steph stood there in stunned silence, not daring to speak up. "What's the briefing?"

Bruce glanced in between you and Dick, before looking back at you again. "Félix Lachance and Stella Gustavsson, they're the one you need to befriend. Since you're not known to the public, it'll be easier for Dick to pass under the radar and not cause an incident like last time"

"We get it, B" Tim muttered under his breath as Bruce passed you the files with the pictures.

"I need you to retrieve any information you can" He continued, ignoring Tim's comment. "Names of business partners, location of transactions, dates, anything, you know the gig. Your occupation and alias if you want one will be at your discretion, I trust you can deal with that. As always you need to be extremely careful as not to alert them, because this is our last chance to get the critical Intel we need to take this down. So I'll need you at your A game, both of you"

This was a warning and you knew it. He let you know more or less subtly to put aside whatever was happening between you and behave like adults. You straightened your back and took a deep breath, getting your head in the right mindset.

"Alright, I'll be ready for tomorrow night" You nodded as you gathered the files. "Can I stay over tonight? There is no point in trying to study now"

"You don't need to ask, (Y/N), you're always welcome here" Bruce said, a hint of fondness in his voice. He always liked having you around, he said your presence tamed the boys. You nodded and made your way upstairs, finding the room you claimed as your own for about a year, and the same you always came back to when you stayed the night.

You went to the drawers, fishing out old training clothes you had left behind. You weren't sure all those were yours, they were probably mixed with pieces you stole from Steph and Cass. In return, they probably did also steal from your drawer occasionally, balancing it all out. You were about to change into something comfy for bed when a soft knock at your door caught your attention. You walked to it and tentatively opening the door, your expression flattening when you saw how it was.

"Yes?"

"Hey um" Dick scratched the back of his neck. "I just wanted to say, I'm sorry it came out that way. I just meant that it would be, you know, weird"

You stared at him blankly. "You're not helping your case here, Dick"

"Shit, that's not what I mean either!" He hurried to say, realizing his mistake. But you were already closing the door. "Please (Y/N)–"

"Get some rest Dick" You said as you pushed the door closed. You sighed and shook your head before adding in a whisper, "God knows we'll need it"

------

You had done covert missions before, but this was the first time you were operating in such conditions. You finished retouching your hair, staring at yourself in the mirror, wondering whether or not it was more expensive than your total life income. The floor length champagne coloured dress was stunning, tailored to your form and just sparkly enough to let you shine through the design. You suspected the shoes were made especially to fit with the dress, as they resembled its lace and belt colour. You were sporting on top of that a heavy diamond necklace with matching earrings, proving the general high cost of the outfit. Your comm was carefully tucked in your ear, functional and well hidden.

"Oh my my" Steph whistled lowly. "If I wasn't dating Timbers I would date you"

You laughed. "This is the outfit talking. You haven't seen me tired and puffy in sweatpants just yet"

"Grump, just take the damn compliment" She playfully poked your exposed shoulder.

"Alright alright, thanks" You rolled your eyes. "Since it's gonna be the only one coming from this household anyway"

Steph wiggled her eyebrows. "Wouldn't be so sure about that" She said in a sing-song voice. "Your fake boyfriend may have some thoughts too"

"Ha" You snorted, walking out of your room with her following at your side. "It's good, that you're wishful thinking. The boy can't seem to talk to me without insulting me lately"

"Trust me, he won't be able to resist to this bombshell" She gestured at your form. "Dick's a people pleaser, and looking like a whole five course meal like that, you sure are easy to please if you want my opinion"

You shook your head, a small grin on your face. Steph had always been your favourite for a reason. She knew how you felt about Dick, but she never meddled. Well, not more than she typically would anyway, and not enough to cross your boundaries. And even then, she had no explanation either for his behaviour. You finally reached the foyer, where Bruce was dressed casually, sleeves rolled up and without a tie, talking to an all dressed up Dick, his hair now dark red and with almost black contact lenses. Your heels clicking on the stairs was what snapped their attention to you; Bruce nodding at his choice of dress for you, and Dick, his mouth slightly agape. You felt Steph gently but excitedly elbowing your ribs.

"Ah, (Y/N), there you are" Bruce said. "I'm glad to see the dress fits well"

"Yeah" Dick tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "You look okay"

You blinked in disbelief as you heard Steph's facepalm behind you. You closed your eyes and exhaled through your nose, while Bruce shook his head slightly at his son.

"Yikes" Tim made his presence known. You shared this one word mood immensely right about now. "Way to go D"

Dick cleared his throat, trying to push back the embarrassment blush creeping up his cheeks. "Uh, shall we go?"

"That would be preferable, yes" Bruce replied, making Steph choke and cover he laughter with a cough. The way he said it was clearly meant to be a jab to his son's tactless attitude. "Be careful"

"Of course" You smiled tightly and all but dragged Dick outside. You'd take one of Bruce's luxury car to get there, and it was already waiting in the driveway. Dick pressed the door button and slowly, they lifted up to let you in. You slid in the passenger seat without waiting for Dick's help and you kept your eyes on the windshield in from of you as he began to drive. The ride was silent until he decided to speak again, tentatively.

"It's nice to see you all dressed up, for once" He said, still clearly not thinking of his choice of words more carefully. "It's different. A good different!"

For once? Was he serious?

You audibly sighed. "I'm begging you to just stop talking"

"What?" He objected, confused. "What did I say wrong this time– Oh"

"Yeah" You replied, your tone clipped and dry.

"I'm an idiot" He mumbled under his breath. That you could agree on, but you didn't voice it out loud.

He couldn't pull into the driveway fast enough. You slipped on your fake engagement ring as Dick stopped in front of the awaiting valet, doing himself the same thing. You both had a recording device slipped in your clothes, and the ring allowed you to turn it on and off at will, as well as the comm in your ear. You turned both off for the awaiting scan at the entrance, as not to emit detectable frequencies.

"Ready?" He asked, and you gave him a firm nod. He got out first and rounded the car, opening your door for you as he would be expected to by this particular crowd. You took his offered hand to climb out and linked your arm to his as he gave the keys to the valet in exchange for a ticket. He left a tip before you walked inside, registering to the guest list. You passed the security checkpoint without a hassle and found yourself in the hall where the auction was held. You turned on your comm and recording device again.

"Recon first, then regroup?" You suggested in a mutter as you were both visually scanning the room.

"Yep" He replied shortly. "B, copy?"

"Crystal clear"

"Good. Let's go"

While Dick headed to the bar, you opted for the art collection on display, pretending to scout for potential pieces to bid on. But your eyes weren't on the expensive paintings and statues, but moved around the room to spot some VIP lounge or area where the big shots might hang out at. There was a room where attendees came and went, but you shrugged it off as there wasn't enough security for the profile you were searching for. You paused your recon for small talk here and there, and you were in the middle of a casual chat about painted landscapes with an older gentleman when Dick rejoined your side, handing you a drink.

"There you are honey" He smiled sweetly, his unusually dark brown eyes reflecting the light from the chandelier.

"Joey, my love, allow me to introduce you to Sir Fernand Bretworth of Essex" His alias flew out of your mouth naturally, then you took a small sip of your drink. Non alcoholic, nice thinking. "We were discussing impressionism and its influence on modern art"

You wanted to smirk at the clueless look Dick gave you. He was a prodigy in a lot of things, but art wasn't one. It was more Damian's thing, or Tim's if he tried hard enough, but definitely not Dick's. Take that now.

"Ah, yes..." He replied slowly. "Fascinating indeed"

"Alright" You let out a small, cover up laugh as your hand rested on his bicep. "My husband has little interest in art, my apologies"

"No offence taken" He chuckled. "I'll leave you two, my wife must be looking for me. An old fool like me gets easily distracted!"

You laughed along with him until he was out of earshot. Then you dropped your hand and turned to him. "Noticed anything?"

"Yeah, there is a guarded room with special access" He said as you walked deeper into the crowd not to look suspicious. "Only owned of a special pass can go in, and the guards are very thorough"

"Great" You breathed. "Now let's hope out lovebirds will come out to mingle"

"As it turns out..." He trailed off, and instinctively, you began turning your head toward where his gaze lead. He immediately redirected your head back to him with a firm, but gentle touch on your cheek. His hand remained there for about three seconds longer than necessary, until he realized what he did and retracted his arm. You could have almost enjoyed it if he didn't look like he was touched by literal fire. "Don't look"

"Sorry" You mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

"... They got out, they're talking to people" He informed you, ignoring what just went down. "You go for Stella, I'll take Felix. Remember, friendly but not suspicious. Sweet talk your way into spilling the beans"

"I know" You bit back, your voice low. "Not my first mission, remember? I know what to do"

"I was just reminding you"

"Yeah, I got that" You scoffed. "If you don't trust me, just say so, it'll save you trouble of babying me"

"Come on, that's not–"

He began arguing, but you walked away before you could slip up and say his real name. It would give him one more reason to come down on you like you were a beginner in need of guidance. You were rusty, not stupid. You didn't need him insulting your undercover talents as well. You stopped in front of a beautiful emerald necklace that had a start bid of ten millions dollars and took a long sip of your drink, now kind of bummed it was non alcoholic. But that very detail was probably why you felt a presence approaching you from behind, giving you a few seconds to compose yourself and sweep your frustration under the rug.

"Trouble in paradise?"

You turned around, surprised. It looked like the voice made you jump, when it was in fact the nature of the question that threw you off, as well as the person who had spoken. Before you could ask, the Stella Gustavsson smiled warmly and nodded to where Dick had been seconds earlier.

"I saw what happened" She began, and your heart skipped a beat, hoping she hadn't overheard. "Those frustrated hands gesture are all too familiar. What did he do?"

You relaxed slightly, for now. "We've been having trouble lately, well, more than usually" You explained with a little complicit cock of your head. She seemed to get it. You, on the other hand, knew Dick was hearing everything on his comm, so you decided to go for it. "He's acting... Weird. Can't seem to talk to me without irritating me, whether on purpose or not. I'm sorry, I'm venting to a stranger, I can't imagine how it must look look like.

"Don't worry about it dear, I asked" She winked, extending her hand. "I'm Stella"

"Aleka" You shook her hand.

"Your dress is stunning, by the way!" She exclaimed. "Which designer?”

You froze for a second before shrugging. "No idea, my designer got it for me" You brushed off. "As long as it looks good, I don't care where it comes from"

"Amen" She said, taking a sip of her champagne. "Although, I need to know the name of your designer. They have amazing taste, and I'm looking for a new one for myself"

Oh shit.

"It's B" You replied instantly.

"Bee?"

"Yeah" You nodded, and she looked at you incredulously. "I mean, that's what we all call him. I'm sure he has a name, but I pay him to dress me, not to know his personal life"

"Harsh, (Y/N)" Bruce said in your ear, and you remembered he had been listening to everything. "But nice save"

She laughed, unaware of the comments from Batman himself. "That is very true. How have I not met you before? I feel we have a lot in common"

"I sincerely have no idea" You replied, adding a little gasp of disbelief.

"You're different from this crowd, I can feel it" She kept going on as you started walking side by side in the exposition room. "Everyone here only cares about petty, trivial things. You have a head on your shoulders, you're smart. Too bad your man can't seem to see what's in front of him"

You sighed in agreement to hide the fist pump of victory that threatened to come up. Just like that, you had won Stella over. "I don't know what to do about it. I've tried to talk to him, but it just makes it worse"

"But have you tried to make him jealous?" She suggested with a perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. "There are plenty of young men around, or older bachelors if you're into that. Flirt with them, make sure he sees you, he'll come running, take my word"

"It won't work, he's not–" Even my boyfriend, you were about to say, but you saved your fall just on time. Still, you could practically see Dick's glare in the back of your head at the almost slip up. "Jealous. He's not a jealous man, he's very confident and secure"

"What a shame" She drawled out, going for her champagne again. "Here's what you can do then. Go to him, take him by the neck and french kiss him like there is no tomorrow”

You choked on your saliva as she watched you with a mischievous grin. "Excuse me?"

"It's guaranteed to work, darling" She lifted her shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Then you hold him off. You'll thank me later tonight when you're back at home, just wait and see"

You were about to argue some more, but her insisting stare told you she wasn't just going to let it go. So you scanned the crowd for Dick, spotting him casually excusing himself from a conversation group, going for a refill at the bar. You reached him and grabbed him by the elbow, bringing him face to face with you. You made sure your back was to Stella before beginning to explain the situation.

"I heard" He told you in a mutter, making sure his lips were unreadable under Stella's stare from the distance.

"Then you know what she expects" You sighed, slipping your hands behind his neck. "It doesn't have to be deep, just convincing. Can you do this without grimacing?"

You thought he would stumble into some weak apology, or say something clever. He did neither, instead dived straight for your lips so quickly it was you who was taken by surprise. Naturally, all you could do is kiss him back and try to keep up with him. At some point you thought he would break off, but you weren't prepared for him to actually deepen the kiss. He wasn't letting you go, and it made you dizzy in all the best ways. Let's say you were thankful for his arm around your waist right about now. Finally, you still had to breathe, so you parted reluctantly.

"What was that for?" You asked, your eyes still dazed.

"An apology for irritating you unintentionally" He grinned boyishly, for probably the first time ever directed at you. "I'm an idiot"

"Can confirm" You replied, bringing him down on your lips again. This time, it was a bit shorter, but the spark was still very much present. "You should have done this a long time ago"

"I know" He nodded, his head slightly down and his puppy dog eyes shining even underneath the dark contact lenses. "You're a bit intimidating, I didn't know how to act"

You let out a loud laugh at his confession. "You're kidding"

He pouted.

"Me?" You repeated. "But you're– You're you!"

"Well, duh" He chuckled. "You've got me all tangled in here," He pointed at his chest. "Made me nervous all the time"

You melted just a little bit at his little display, before remembering doing this was a specialty of his. You were just not used to be on the receiving end of it. "You're lucky you're cute, and that I'm already sold on you"

The bright grin returned.

"As heartwarming as this moment is, please focus on the task at hand" Bruce's stern voice echoed in your head, and you were suddenly reminded your conversation had been integrally transmitted to him.

"Right, sorry" Dick apologized sheepishly.

"See, I told you"

This time, you were taken by surprise by Stella walking on you. Even Bruce's intervention hadn't quite brought you back to reality. Damn Dick Grayson, damn him. You turned around, trying to hide your flustered state and instead focusing on the tall gentleman at her side. Must be Felix Lachance, you thought.

"It works every time" She added, sipping from a new glass of champagne.

"You were right" You let out an airy laugh. "Stella, this is my husband Joey Moore. Joey, this is my new friend Stella"

They shook hands before she introduced her husband to the both of you. You already knew his name, but you both pretended you didn't for the sake of your covers.

"Nice to meet you two" Félix smiled politely.

"Hey, would you like to go for a drink after this?" Stella asked. "I sure would like to get to know you two better"

Dick and you exchanged a glance, knowing you had locked the target. Acquiring intel from now on would only be a piece of cake, the base was laid for further actions. You smiled, returning your glance to Stella.

"That would be absolutely lovely"

#dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson imagine #nightwing #nightwing x reader #nightwing imagine #dc #dcu #dc universe #dc imagine #dcu imagine #dc universe imagine #batfam #batfam imagine #imagine #nightwing x you #dick grayson x you

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soliloquiums · 4 years

Text

You find him under a bench in Berlin, more skeleton than man. It is 1955. It is winter. It is the post war era. Behind every dingy, squalid corridor you're bound to find a hundred of them, the left over almost-corpses that god just wasn't kind enough to kill. Haunted by a memory of a Germany that just doesn't exist anymore with charcoal padded under their eyes, limbs trebling from one two many needles. You're sure that if you pulled that ratty, dark blue coat sleeve you'd find his similarly pockmarked with cowardice. Still, something draws you in closer, a shiver, something about him seems heavier, denser, like his very body extends with gravity. A planetary mass. His neck snaps up in a lightening motion and he smiles, his mouth a crooked line that resembled a mountain you swear you've seen in the horizon, somewhere in the east. Beggars aren't allowed to be this beautiful. You shudder. And you take him home.

To your surprise, his skin is deceptively smooth. Like untouched snow after a blizzard- and you search him thoroughly, almost desperately, during your intimate moments, for some sort of mark, some sort of human imperfection. He allows you, absently, as if he’s been through this before, and strokes your hair as his mind wanders into places you know you will never reach. But that comes after, first, you seat him on the rim of your bathtub. He is listless, almost bored, as you wipe the river of blood off his shoulder. There’s no entrance wound, exit wound, no highway crossing where it could come from and after 20 minutes of frantic scrubbing, his hand grips yours. “It’s not mine,” he tells you gently, with that same crocked smile, eyes a circle of glowing blue like the hottest kind of fire, and you pretend not to notice as a very, very fresh red droplet runs down your porcelain bathtub and streaks red onto the tile. There’s not enough of him and there’s too much. After a week, his presence on the couch, skeleton hands gripping a book or remote seems commonplace. His place at your dinner table, the second pair of shoes thrown carelessly next to your orderly ones. The permanent, watery brown stain on your granite countertop where he'd spilled tea and that neither of you bothered to clean up. He is an indelible and yet insignificant mark. Most days, it's nice, quaint, the gentle buzz from the television every time you come back home, his coarse laugh punctuating a mediocre sitcom joke, the way he threatens bodily violence on inanimate objects for refusing to bend to his will. Other times, he is something just north of uncanny valley. He is wearing human skin. Sometimes, at night, he doesn't seem to be breathing and every few weeks, for a second at a time, you'd swear his eyes flashed a macabre red. Two months in and he still doesn’t have his own clothes. Doesn’t have his own closet. You offer to take him shopping, to empty out another shelf but he only shakes his head gently, pityingly, “I don’t own things.” You’re not sure if he’s crazy or if he’s one of those communist philosophy types. You’re not sure if you’d care if he was. You press your lips together. Don’t say anything about how his old clothes seemed to have vanished from the laundry altogether. Three months in and you don’t know his last name. You ask once, casually, assuming that a man abandoned to the snow wouldn’t care much for family anyways. (You can relate, your strict, catholic mother and even stricter pastor father are tucked far away somewhere in a mountain village in Saarland. Out of sight and out of mind.) But he says nothing, or smiles in that whimsically gentle way of his, or stares blankly as if he isn’t sure what a last name is. Sometimes he carefully grasps your hands and kisses you as a distraction and in those moments you’re sure you could live without knowing. Sometimes, you see his gaze catch on the window and you know he is somewhere else. Doesn’t feel like he was ever here in the first place, a ghost boy that floats around your apartment and gives you frigid smiles in place of actual conversation. Once, he lays awake in bed with you and asks if you will remember him on your deathbed with an earnest that makes you want to climb out of bed and vomit. His eyes flash blood and pin you to the bed. Yes, you say, without really understanding why, yes even when you are gone I will remember you always even in the smallest things even when there is nothing more to remember. His eyes go back to blue and you drift off into dreams about an achingly vast field with no horizon and crooked mountains shaped like a smile All at once you are disastrously, cripplingly in love. Falling from a cliff. You try every method in the book to ground him. You bring him flowers in the middle of winter, you buy him books, watches, a cell phone, wine, chocolates, a car. You clean up your act, work out, pen him love letters in the candle light when you think he’s sleeping, insist on cooking the food you think he likes. You drive her to parks. A cottage by the sea, take him to every pretty place in Germany that might even slightly interest him. Cologne, Dresden, Munich, Heidelberg, Watzmann, Brocken. You He dismissed every material gift with an apologetic shake of the head, almost disappointed you don’t understand. His fingers wrap around your wrist and you can feel the cold from his skin drip into yours as he pulls you close, whispering gently, a reminder, “I do not own things.” And I cannot be owned, without saying. The places, however, slaps him out of despondency. He puts a hand to an oak tree in a park in Heidelberg and tells you, absently, his voice drenched in memories, “Someone I loved is buried here.” He sees things you do not. He stares at abandoned buildings with a remorse and vindication you do not understand. There is a tragedy under the bridges, in every lake, that he seems intimate with. In cologne, he strikes a match and lights up a car at 9:43 pm. The pretentious, red thing goes up in smoke a carcass of metal and charred leather seats. He is seething with rage and you don’t touch him because you know he’d burn you if you did but you watch. In rapture and fear. He seems to consider doing the same to the house, but doesn’t. It feels empty, the motion, like the brace before firing a gun. Except there’s no bullets. You watch as the dancing flames reflect on his face, still perfect as soot begins to gather like dark butterflies. “Why?” You ask, sacrilegiously. Breaking the silence of that distinctly consecrated night. Even the stars seem to be holding their breath. “Personal despair could never be desperate enough," he tells you, watching as the smoke gathered and swirled off into the open night sky. A translation of pain, “When tragedy happens, it needs to pass down the line, like a disease. There is an innate sin in the blood of some people.” Like most things, this escapes your comprehension entirely, and all you can focus on, even when the police sirens start blaring, is how beautifully the red reflects off his irises. He gives you a wayward grin. Like he’s done this before- and he has, you know he had- as he grasps your hand with a grip that for once feels real and solid as he darts the other way, dragging you along behind him in this mad dash. He laughs, the sound beautiful and loud and perfect, like church bells or sermon. Something holy, pure. You’re just sane enough to stop your ethereal, cackling lover from veering into oncoming traffic. He looks at you were a eerie intensity that makes you stammer an apology, an apology that he quickly cuts off as he pushes you against exposed brick and crushes his lips to yours. Your tongue flooding with the taste of him, a musky wilderness. There’s a sigh, somewhere, and even though you’ve had sex this feels like the most heart trending thing you’ve ever done in your life. You tremble. Your arms slip around his waist, pulling him closer, as if forevermore. As if drinking god. It’s enough to make you forget that it’s the 50s and that you’re both boys and that if any police officer caught the way his fingers were tenderly, tenderly brushing against your cheek, both of you would be carted off to jail for a decade but you don't care, really you don't, for the first time you feel as if you know him. Gilbert. Your Gilbert. - When the story ends, you're on the floor and the coolness of his skin seems to finally have crawled inside you, making a home amongst your other fragile, human organs. He stands above you with his red eyes, disappointed but not surprised. He mumbled something about this before, in the beginning, about what it would be like once you knew, what the pain would feel like. A sigh from him and you know without looking that all the stars outside the glass have blinked out, that every single other person in the apartment besides you and Him have gone still, paused or maybe dead. Maybe it was the whole street, the country, a few million bodies and still, how can it said to have mattered? "Ignorance isn't safety," He quietly tells your quaking form, in some something that could've been kindness, "Tell me, how many poor weeds have you stepped on, unthinkingly, in your lifetime?" The clock doesn't tick but you can feel the universe moving, entropy. You can feel the vastness of it, remember those dreams with out any horizons in sight and the knowledge weighs down on you like a million bowling balls. "You promised to remember me," He reminds you, his voice still quiet but brimming with an emotion that hasn't quiet come to a boil, "We had more than this." All of Germany shifts slightly, as if moving in its sleep, and the stars blink back, your breath releases. "If I've hurt you," he begins, but shakes his head, stumbling over words that he knows you won't ever really understand, won't forgive him if he lets you know. Resignation, tinged: resentment, "You'll go on living just fine." You look up at him once, I love you, your look says, but he does not look back. The door closes. There are no footsteps down the hall.

#aph #prussia #x reader #hws prussia #prussia x reader #mine #hetalia #long post #mlm #male!reader #50s #internalised homophobia #exestential crisis #??? idk bro #i wrote this at 4 am dont @ me

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 3 years

Text

Riding the Lightning: Part Two

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill, fluff and angst

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there is any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated.

Feedback is gold, and it’s the only currency I take

The couple’s house hasn’t been treated well. It has so much graffiti and damage that the city had to put a chain-link fence around the place to keep trespassers away. However, if more came, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. The place is so badly damaged, you’re shocked it’s still standing. This place holds a lot of memories, and none of them are good.

This used to be a good house--you can see it. Years of ignored care left it in the state it’s in. The outside walls used to be bright white but now are a dirty color. The wood is falling apart at the base of the house. The windows are smashed and shattered, so to keep people out of the house, they board it up haphazardly.

“Jacob's workshop is out the back,” Derek says.

“I don’t know about this place, Derek. I have a really bad feeling,” you say with an uneasy feeling.

Derek leads you onto the property and towards the back. The closer you get to the place where his workshop used to be, the more the uneasy feeling comes back. All that’s left back there is just dirt, but you can clearly see the workshop as if it were standing right now. Everything is perfectly clear as to what used to be here.

“He claimed that Sarah Jean would lure the victims from mall parking lots. She'd invite them to smoke pot in her truck. They'd find Jacob but no pot. They’d bring them here.”

“This is where the workshop stood,” you state, looking around as if it were actually here.

“What do you see?”

“It’s a lot smaller than I thought it was going to be. It’s big enough to not warrant concerns from anyone else but small enough to hide away from the street’s view. It looks homey like a guest house, but not too scary to throw off any of the people who passed by the house on a daily basis. There are high cabinets with a ton of tools inside like a mechanic would have. There are some tools hanging on the far wall, a few desks around, and a big bench saw,” you whisper fearfully when you see what’s on it.

Right on the blade is red liquid, and you know it’s blood.

“The blade has a ton of blood on it. He used it to cut up his victims,” you say.

As you get out the last word, you see a mystified version of Jacob standing by the saw with one of his faceless victims on the table. She is squirming, but he cuts her up anyway. Sarah Jean is nowhere to be found, but you have a feeling that she didn’t know he did this to these poor girls. Killing, maybe, but killing them this way, absolutely not. Sarah Jean was a victim herself--and she still is.

“I can’t look at this anymore,” you whisper and look away from the crime scene that’s no longer there.

“We know that Jacob was abused as a child. What about Sarah Jean?” Derek asks.

“Her mother refused to give any testimony in her defense. She never talked to anybody,” you state.

When you look back at Derek, the workshop had disappeared. Your mind is focused on something else, so it doesn’t have the energy to conjure up what was, but instead, focuses on what is.

“Maybe she's willing to talk now. Let's go pay Sarah Jean's mother a visit.”

“Despite what happened, she doesn’t live far. It’s within walking distance.”

“I wonder why she didn’t move halfway around the world.”

“She’s a mother, Derek. A Mother doesn’t abandon her children,” you say with sadness.

“You say that like you know that. Do you have children?”

“No.”

You don’t say anything more on the matter, not like you would if you could. Your past promised to stay in the past, so there is no use in digging up things that have been locked away for almost a decade now. You two quickly head over to Sarah Jean’s mother’s house to see if she’ll talk to you now.

Her house is still standing, but it looks like there is a lot of work still left to be done. Its as if she wants to repaint and redo the house to give it a new start so she can somehow move on from all this. No matter how much work is done on the house, you can still sense the sadness within the foundations. Right by the door is ‘Rot in Hell Sarah Jean’ spray-painted loud for anyone who walks by. You ignore it and knock on the door, looking at Derek when she doesn’t answer.

“She’s sad, Derek--in more pain than anyone I’ve seen in a while,” you sigh.

“Hello? Anybody? Hello! Mrs. Mason?” Derek yells, knowing she is home.

The door opens and Sarah’s mother, Deborah Mason, stands there with a small teacup in her hands.

“Yeah?”

“Are you Sarah Jean Dawes’ mother?” you ask.

“Who the hell are you?”

“FBI. We are from the behavior analysis unit,” you state and flash her your badge.

“My daughter and her son of a bitch husband buried a thirteen-year-old girl under my floor. What more do you need to know?”

“Ma'am, Sarah Jean has agreed to meet with our colleges to talk about why they killed those girls. We'd like some background information if you don't mind,” Derek says gently.

She has nothing to lose by letting you two in and talking, so she just shrugs and lets the door open as she heads back inside. The inside looks the same as the outside, but with more work. Plastic covers virtually everything as she gets ready to repaint the house. There are some parts torn up from the floor, so you’re careful as you walk inside to where Deborah is in the kitchen. This is an open floor plan, and you can see into the dining room on the other end of the kitchen right through an arched entryway. Almost every doorway is an arch.

“Extensive remodeling. Jacob built the original extension?” you ask and point to the arch separating the kitchen and the dining room. “I see he liked arches.”

“Teenage girls, agent, that's what he liked.”

“How was Sarah Jean growing up?”

“Fine, until she met Jacob. She was shy, quiet, and also smart.”

She picks up a bottle of vodka and adds more to her small teacup, and you exchange silent glances with Derek.

“What about her relationship with her father?” you wonder. “Was Sarah ever abused?”

“He was strict. He was a military man. They didn't always see eye to eye. That's all history. He's dead. She's about to die,” she sighs and drinks from the cup.

“Mrs. Mason, if we better understand the dynamics of her relationships, we can get a better idea of why and what actually happened,” Derek says.

“Dynamics?” she scoffs and moves away from the kitchen to the living room where her purse is.

“Well, it might answer why Jacob never killed Sarah Jean. They shared something.”

“They shared pain.”

“How strict was your husband? How did he discipline Sarah Jean? Was he physical with her?” you pry.

“He was a mean bastard, but he only hurt me… never her.”

“Why didn’t you leave with her?”

“Because we had no place to go,” her voice falters as she takes another sip.

“An anonymous caller tipped the police off about Jacob, was it you?” you ask.

“No, but I know who it was,” she says and pulls out a letter from her purse. She hands it to you, and you take it gently from her hands. “This came this morning.”

You open the letter, and your mouth hangs open just a bit when you read exactly what it is.

“What does it say?” Derek asks.

“It’s a statement of innocence,” you reveal. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to call Gideon about this.”

You quickly head outside and dial Penelope so she can patch you through to the older agent.

“Garcia,” she says once she answers.

“Hey, it’s Y/N. I need Gideon please.”

“Yeah, I'll pass you through,” she puts you on a brief hold until she can get the older agent on the line for you.

“What?” Gideon mutters quietly.

“We're at the mother's house, and she gave me a letter. A statement of innocence. I want to read to you.”

“Read the letter, Y/N.”

“Mom, I know how difficult this must be. Things between us were never what they should be between a mother and a daughter. I want you to know that the best part of me, the most important part of me, is now in a better place than you and I will ever be. I'm responsible for the death of those girls. I neglected my duties as a woman and as a mother.”

There is more to it, but you can hear Sarah Jean get upset over the line. You don’t know what is happening, but you feel like you need to get over there right now. Screw prisons and your fear of them. You need to help this woman, and it sounds like you can, based on what you hear over the phone.

“I’m coming over there. I’ll be there soon,” you say to whoever is listening before hanging up. Derek exits the house, and you put your phone away and hand him the letter. “I’m going back to prison. You’ll be okay here? I can send Elle to help you.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll see if I can’t get anything else out of Deborah.”

“Okay, stay safe.”

“And stay sane,” he quips back as you head to the car.

When you get to the prison, Gideon and Spencer are done talking to Sarah Jean. She didn’t know you would be reading her private letter, so she needed to clear her head before you go and talk to her. If she is truly innocent, then why is she fighting so hard to stay here? Why not fight to get out and separate herself fro Jacob? She is scared of something… or she’s trying to protect someone. You sent Elle to go to Derek when you arrived, and the team gathers where Penelope is to watch the tapes of the interviews to see if they can’t spot anything that they might have missed.

“They died as a result of my neglect,” Sarah Jean whispers regretfully.

“This letter suggests to me that an innocent woman is about to be executed for a crime she did not commit.”

“I could tell you right now, it's not enough to get a stay,” Sam Shapiro sighs.

“Well, facts. Reid,” Gideon says.

“Human sexuality is a complex dynamic of three components: biological, physiological, and emotional. Jacob's needs were informed by the emotional, sexual abuse that he received at the hand of his mother. Long term appetitive abuse informed the template of his love map. Something we refer to as a signature. Jacob was an only child, so he was alone when the abuse occurred. So, in order for him to fulfill his fantasy he has got to be alone with his victims.”

You look from the tape of Sarah Jean to the one with Jacob, and you just narrow our eyes in anger for him. He’s not a good person at all, and you refuse to even be in within sight of him. There is no way you’ll survive talking to him about anything.

“If I told you that what would I have left for myself?” Jacob says over the tape.

“He said ‘myself’. If Sarah Jean was present, it would have destroyed his fantasy,” you note.

“She confessed to killing her son,” the warden, Charles Diehl, states.

“Yes, true, but we are also convinced that she is the anonymous caller that made the phone call that nailed Jacob. In fact, I know she is.”

“Guilt-ridden and filled with remorse, she called the police. It's not the profile of a woman who would then kill a child,” Gideon sighs.

“What else do you need?” you ask the attorney.

“Evidence.”

“So, if we prove Jacob killed Riley, would that get a stay?”

“Absolutely.”

“She protects the painting, she protects the boy,” Gideon mutters.

“What?” you ask.

“Paintings are her statement. We need to figure out what they say.”

“Get me into her room, and I’ll find that out. I have to be alone though. I can’t have her influence on this.”

“You’ll get it,” Gideon confirms with a single nod.

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stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale · 4 years

Text

with you [chapter 7]

Summary: Clementine pops the question, Louis has nightmares, Violet can’t let go of the past, Mitch doesn’t know how to handle gross feelings, Ruby’s a goddamn sweetheart, Willy doesn’t ever remember to knock, Aasim can’t dance, and James is here, too.

Nothing like a wedding to bring this family together.

Note: Apparently one o’clock in the morning is when my brain wants to write and actually do stuff now. Hooray.

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7

Read on: AO3

---

The window's open.

Louis slips in and out of darkness, stuck between a dreamless calm and a waking reality. Cool air drifts in through the cracked window, brushing against the bare skin of his arm. A grumble bubbles up his throat as he pulls the blanket closer to his chin.

It's not the morning chill or the golden glow flowing in through the parted curtains that wakes him up, though.

A gentle hand shakes his shoulder.

A familiar presence looms over-- he can feel it even in his drowsy state.

Nothing dangerous, of course. Otherwise, he'd be bolting out of bed in a blind search for Chairles.

He rolls over onto his side, eyes too heavy to open.

"Louis?"

The hand grasps his shoulder again, this time shaking a little harder. His grogginess worsens. It’s as if someone poured wet cement into his bones. He reaches out over the empty spot next to him in search of Clementine’s warmth, inhaling the morning air and letting it out with a groan.

The hand shakes him again, harder this time, so he grabs and holds it.

"U-uh-"

Louis buries his face in his pillow, his voice coming out muffled, groggy, "Darling, come back to bed."

"Louis!"

His nose smashes against the mattress.

"Ow! Hey!"

He's ready to complain about such a rude awakening until he realizes whose hand he's still holding.

The room is awkwardly silent until Louis mumbles, "You're not Clementine."

"No," Aasim pulls free and hits Louis with the pillow, "no, I'm not."

Louis snatches the pillow back, fluffing and tucking it under his head with a heavy sigh. "How long have you been watching me sleep?" he yawns. "I didn't take you for the creeper type."

"I wasn't watching you sleep," Aasim rolls his eyes. "I came to wake you up. We're going hunting."

"Hunting?"

Well, that’s the first he's heard of this.

He and Aasim usually go hunting every few days, and they just went the day before. Louis props himself on his elbows to peer up at him with a dull expression. Another yawn builds in his throat.

"You must have your days mixed up," he says. "Mitch and Willy go today. We're not supposed to go ‘til tomorrow, so we can all go back to bed now. Goodnight."

"No, it’s our turn," Aasim says quickly. "We gotta go now. James was out there earlier and he saw a deer."

A...

A what?

"A deer?" Louis perks a brow. "Sure it wasn't just a big possum? Or a walker on all fours? Maybe even a bunch of bunnies standing on each other's shoulders?"

"He's pretty damn sure it was a deer," Aasim insists, spreading the window curtains farther apart. More light floods in, causing Louis to wince as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. He yanks the blanket fully over his head, curling up.

"He's already out there tracking it,” Aasim grabs Louis’ coat from off the desk chair and tosses it to him, “so we gotta move fast if we want any chance of hunting it. We also have to check the traps and make sure the fishing shack is still secure."

"A deer?" Louis presses again from beneath the blanket. "Like, a real deer? Like Bambi?”

“Bambi was a cartoon.”

Aasim jerks the blanket off, dropping it to the floor far from Louis’s reach.

“You know what I mean,” Louis sighs, squinting back up at him. “We've never seen a deer out there, like, ever. Not even at the beginning."

"Well, James just saw one, so... Get up and get ready. We're leaving soon.”

Aasim scratches at his chin, turning to gaze about the room, searching for something.

Louis swings his legs over the side of the bed and stretches out his arms, groaning in satisfaction as the muscles loosen.

“How soon is ‘soon’?”

“As soon as you put your boots on.”

Louis lets out an exaggerated groan.

This definitely isn’t what he had planned for this morning.

He planned on waking up to Clementine sleeping peacefully beside him, happier and more content than she was last night.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen her so physically upset.

He knows Clementine well enough by now. He knows that she still holds in most of those awful feelings. Whenever something upsets her, or even after she has a nightmare of her own, her face defaults to a stoic expression. Whether she does it out of habit, or because she doesn’t want him or anyone else to worry, or some concoction of both, he’s not entirely sure.

She has enough room within her to bottle it up. She has the strength to hold it in.

Hee wishes he was more like that.

Sometimes, he felt he was bursting at the seams.

And there she always was, trying to sew him back together.

Seeing her like that… shit, it’s one of the most hopeless feelings when all you can do is hold someone without the power to heal their pain.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, biting the inside of his cheek.

“I talked to Violet…”

Violet.

Shit, what could’ve possibly brought that on?

He hadn’t asked, even though he wanted to. God, he really wanted to. He’s so desperate to know... why now? Did it just happen, or has it been weighing heavier in her mind again? What was it about? Why didn’t she tell him?

He didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was, though, so he left it alone. She would tell him when she was ready.

And, Violet…

He can’t imagine how she must be feeling right now.

He watches Aasim as he paces over to AJ’s desk, stopping to look over the several drawings hanging on the wall.

Louis really doesn’t want to go hunting.

He already had his morning planned out.

First, he’d wake up and kiss Clementine before her watch. Or, if she already left, go find her and then kiss her.

It’s sort of a rule he has. While Louis was never one for strict rules or planning, he does have certain things that have to be done. Kissing Clementine every day is one of those rules.

Okay, maybe it’s not considered a rule, per se.

But, he made sure to kiss her every morning, and whenever one of them left to go hunting or scavenging or on watch without the other, and every night before bed. It didn’t have to be a crazy, passionate kiss. Sometimes, just a little peck on the cheek was enough.

It made him feel better, even if he knows it’s his subconscious telling him, “Kiss her! It might be your last chance! Death is always watching you, Louis!”

A lovely thought, as usual.

After he kissed her, he’d ask her if she was feeling any better, or if she wanted to talk about it. Whether she would or not, he didn’t know.

Next, he’d grab two plates of breakfast and head over to Violet’s room. If she answered, they’d eat together. If she didn’t answer or let him in, she’d at least have food waiting for her. Then, he’d find Tenn to keep an eye on her, make sure she ate.

However, it seems that Aasim’s determined to foil those plans all in the name of some deer James supposedly saw.

Seriously, a deer?

Louis tries to rub the drowsiness from his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. Aasim might as well have said, “Hey! Leprechauns are frolicking in the woods! Quick! Let’s go get their gold!”

Well, okay, maybe a deer is more plausible than a leprechaun.

But, still.

When Aasim notices Louis’s lack of movement and vacant stare, he crosses his arms and shoots him a stern look.

“Now, dude.”

Louis scratches the back of his neck as he hangs his head. “Do you really need me to go?” he asks. “I mean, it’s not like we need three people tracking a deer that may or may not be a figment of James’ imagination.”

“It’s not a figment of his imagination,” Aasim insists. “Will you just put your boots on? We’re wasting daylight.”

“You’re awfully pushy this morning.”

“No, I just-” Aasim stops, looking away. "I want that deer, okay?"

Louis studies him for a moment as he pulls on his jacket, trying to understand the stress prominent in his features.

"Dude, if you're so worried about the deer, just go without me-"

"No! No, you- I-uh, " Aasim presses his mouth into a thin line. His eyes dart around at the floor. He wears a taut expression that Louis recognizes. It's one that Aasim usually has when he's jotting down the day's events and he can't figure out how to word something.

Louis gets off the bed, hands on his hips and head cocked curiously.

"You okay?"

"You have to come with me," Aasim says slowly. He scratches at his scruffy chin and looks towards to door, saying, “We need three people to carry it back when we get it.”

“I doubt it. Two people’s enough.”

“No, three people are needed to safely carry it.”

“James’ strong. Honestly, the dude could probably drag it back here himself. You don’t need me there.”

Then, Aasim blurts out, "I-I don't want to be alone with James.”

Louis almost laughs.

"What?"

"Uh-” Aasim stutters, “Yeah, he makes me nervous, okay? You guys are friends. If you go, he'll have someone to talk to and I won't have to worry about him."

“Are you serious? I thought you two got along. You talk to him every time he’s here. Hell, don’t you always eat together, too?”

“That- that doesn’t mean anything. Will you just put your damn boots on, already?” Aasim finds his boots on the floor and kicks them towards him. “Why do you always have to be so damn difficult? Just once, can you do what I ask with no questions asked?”

Louis opens his mouth to speak, but then promptly shuts it.

Something’s weird.

Aasim’s being weird.

He never argues this much. Usually, by now he would’ve thrown his hands up, stomped out and left him behind, grumbling about what a pain in the ass he is.

But, there Aasim stood, moving about the room impatiently, still waiting for him.

Louis slips on his boots, keeping an eye on the other boy, and begins slowly lacing them up.

Aasim picks up the small venus fly trap on the desk and pokes it, causing it to steadily close its mouth. He’s so forcefully fixated on the plant that Louis is convinced something’s up.

Louis has known him for a long time, and he knows that Aasim avoids eye contact and becomes defensive due to three things: when someone brings up the delta, when he’s lying about something, or when someone confronts him about his crush on-

Louis’ mouth falls agape.

Oh.

“He makes you nervous, huh?” Louis asks, hopping to his feet.

Aasim almost drops the plant, but luckily, he catches it. “Yeah, so what?”

“Why?”

“Uh?”

“Why does he make you nervous?” Louis repeats, drawing out each word. “I mean, aside from the whole wearing another dude’s face and hanging out with his walker friends.”

Aasim’s lips part as though he’s ready to speak, but it seems he’s stuck. He moves his hands about as if somehow that’ll help him articulate the words he’s looking for. In the end, he gives an agitated sigh and heads towards the exit, saying, “Just drop it and let’s go.”

However, Louis is quick to stride ahead and shut the door, pressing his back against it and raising his brow suggestively at him.

“Not so fast!”

“Dude, really?”

Louis smirks.

“I see you, Aasim.”

“What?” Aasim scowls. “Get out of the way. Clem’s gonna be pissed we haven’t left yet.”

Louis grins brightly. He ignores Aasim’s protests, reaching out to grasp his shoulder, saying, “It’s finally happened. Our poor Aasim, the fool forever trapped within the realms of unrequited love-”

“Uh, what?”

“-has finally moved on from dear, sweet Ruby-”

“No-”

“-and onto the ever so mysterious-”

“No, no-”

“-handsome James!”

“Oh my god…” Aasim rubs his eyes, fingers curling over his face in irritation. “Oh my god, you’re so stupid.”

“Ah, James,” Louis disregards the insult, continuing, “Gotta say, I did not see that one coming. Never thought I’d see the day you give up on sweet Ruby. She’ll be devastated. Oh Ruby, don’t know what you got until it’s gone. ”

“I don’t have a crush on James, you idiot.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I never had a crush on Ruby.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t-didn’t!”

“Uh-huh.”

Aasim inhales sharply through his nose. “I swear, it’s like you strive to piss me off!”

Louis holds his hands up defensively, saying, “No, I hear you, dude. I just don’t believe you. You can’t look me in the eye and say with a straight face that you never had a crush on Ruby.”

Aasim rubs his palms over his jacket before crossing his arms, not saying a word.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Louis continues, “Ruby’s a sweet girl- well, sweet until pushed otherwise. And James is really cool underneath that walker getup. In fact, I dare say you two would be pretty damn adorable--”

Aasim holds up his hand inches away from Louis’ face. “I’m gonna stop you right there before you say any more stupid shit,” he says sternly. “I don’t like James.”

“If that’s true, then why’re you being so weird?” asks Louis. “Hmmm?”

“Look,” Aasim sighs. “We could stand here all day arguing about this stupid shit, but the longer we do that, the farther that deer gets, and the longer James is stuck out there waiting for us by himself. Clementine is counting on both of us to go out there and track it, so can you please just take this seriously for once?”

“Who says I’m not being serious?”

Aasim shoots him a look.

“Okay, fine,” he sighs. He pushes away from the door. “You really believe he saw a deer out there?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“And so does Clem?”

“Why else would she send me to wake your ass up?” Aasim asks, glancing back down at the floor.

Well, so much for morning plans. He’d have to shorten his list and make it quick.

“Just answer me this last question,” Louis says with a wide grin. “How long have you liked James?”

“I’m not playing this game with you.”

“What game? You wanted me to be serious, so here I am! Being serious! How long? Details, my friend!”

“I don’t-” Aasim groans, rubbing his hands harshly over his face and through his hair.

Alright, that’s enough teasing, he thinks. Louis would ask him about it again later when Aasim isn’t so flustered or preoccupied with thoughts of a prancing deer.

“Okay, okay, let’s go get Bambi. But before that, can I at least do my morning business first?” he asks. “Or am I gonna have to hold it the whole time?”

“Fine,” Aasim sighs, relieved, “just hurry up. Meet you at the gates.”

And with that, Aasim rushes out the door.

Louis shakes his head with a small smile. What an interesting development, he thinks. Aasim and James… Louis frowns. Now that he thinks about it, that might make things complicated if his theory about Mitch and James is-- … It’s probably nothing. He’s thinking about it too much.

With Chairles in his possession and a set determination, Louis leaves the bedroom, ready to complete his morning plans in the short amount of time given.

---

From down the hall, Louis can hear the sound of glass shards scraping against the wooden floors. His gut tightens.

Violet’s door is wide open.

Uneasy, apprehensive to continue, he comes to a stop.

Violet never leaves her door open, not even a crack. Whether she’s alone or not, she always makes sure her door is shut and locked. There’s been plenty of times where he’d gone to see her and after she let him in, she’d almost push him out of the way to slam the lock shut.

He’d asked her about it the first time it happened. She hadn’t answered him. She was too ashamed to, so she pretended not to hear the question.

He didn’t say any more about it. If it made her feel better- safer, more secure- then he wouldn’t argue. He’s gotten in the habit of locking it himself every time he comes to visit just so she doesn’t panic.

Eventually, he does peek into the room.

But, he doesn’t find Violet.

No, he’s alarmed to find Mitch bent down on the floor with a dustpan and a small, broken broom, cautiously sweeping up shattered glass bits. There’s a small bag next to him with a wooden frame protruding from it. Clear concentration knits his brows and his lips move as if silently mumbling to himself.

Louis’ eyes narrow. He tries to wrap his head around just what he’s seeing.

Think of the devil, and the devil will appear... Or something to that effect.

When he moves closer, right into the door frame, Mitch doesn’t seem to notice, even when he clears his throat.

So, he speaks.

“Hey, Mitch,” he says, loud and flat.

Mitch jerks back, losing his balance, hissing out, “Jesus motherfucking-!” He drops the dustpan to help steady himself, letting glass slip out onto the floor again. He scrambles to his feet, cheeks flushing a furious red, but his glare dies when he sees it’s Louis standing there. He grows tense, unmoving, with eyes wide like a small child just caught sneaking around where they weren’t supposed to.

The two stare at each other for many seconds before Mitch points at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Funny,” Louis scoffs, pushing his jacket back to place his hands on his hips firmly, “I was about to say the same thing.”

“I, uh-” Mitch straightens out, looking down at the broom in his hand and the glass on the floor before peering back up at him. “Shouldn’t you be out hunting?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Louis frowns. He approaches the other boy, asking, “What are you doing here? Where’s Vi?”

“She’s with Tenn,” Mitch says. “Spent the night in his room after she, uh,” he motions down to the broken glass, “flipped out.”

Concern tightens in his throat. The panic must be clear on his face, because Mitch shakes his head and explains, “She did it after their talk.” He kneels back down and starts sweeping again. “Clem told’ja about that, I assume?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “And, how do you know about it, exactly?”

“I was keeping watch. Made sure Violet didn’t do anything.” Mitch dumps the glass bits into the small bag before motioning towards the desk. “She didn’t, at least not while Clem was here. She smashed this after we were leaving. I left the picture over there.”

Louis hesitates, but steps around Mitch, wary of the remaining glass bits. As he approaches the desk, he notices that her water bottle is tipped over onto its side, empty. What’s worse, is he can see it’s completely dry, like it hasn’t been used in a long time. He stands it up, moving it right next to her journal.

He remembers when Aasim gave that to her. It wasn’t bound like a real book, but Aasim had gathered some thicker paper from the basement and had Ruby sew it together into a makeshift book. It even had a cover, drawn by Tenn.

Aasim gave it to her after the delta, said that writing was easier than talking. He gave her a bunch of pencils and pens, too, but he can’t spot any lying around. Louis doesn’t know if she really writes in it, though he hopes she does. Anything to help, anything to release a little bit of that pain.

Louis considered it once. But trying to write down his feelings only frustrated him. Instead, he turned to Clementine and music for solace.

He glances away from the journal and to the photo laying at the bottom corner of the desk.

Violet, Minerva, and Sophie, all together, all smiling.

He can’t help but grin, even if there’s no joy in it.

The photo’s covered in scratches, from the glass, no doubt. But, the faces are still clear.

Minerva.

The real Minnie.

Not the husk that pointed her crossbow at him, who tried to kill Clementine and take them all away to that sick hellhole.

As he stares at her face, her long hair and sincere eyes, he wishes that’s the only way he could remember her; happy, radiant, beautiful.

Fuck, he couldn’t even remember her laugh, or how charming her singing was.

She used to always laugh at his stupid jokes, at his silly voices and silly songs. Even when no one else would, she’d take pity on him and laugh.

They’d sing together in their downtime, too. They’d sing until Violet threw her head back, groaning out that he was ruining the song. So, he’d shut up and just play the piano, and Minerva would sing.

Louis thinks that’s when it happened.

When Violet first fell in love.

That’s why she always told him to shut up. Something in Minerva’s voice brought her comfort, gave her some sense of purpose.

He can remember Violet sitting there, watching both of them, and when Minerva sang to her, it was like he didn’t exist anymore. He was just there for background noise, a mere puppet to set the mood and a witness to what was blossoming.

It was beautiful.

Violet was beautiful.

He’d told her that shortly after she and Minerva became official, told her how happy he was for her. She punched him in the shoulder and called him stupid.

Minerva had agreed with him, though.

God, the way they looked at each other.

“I killed her.”

But, the memories of her glazed over expression, her washed out, gaunt face overshadow those fond times now.

Minerva...

“I killed her.”

Sophie.

“I killed her.”

Poor, poor Sophie.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut and bite his lip to stop his quivering chin. He’s not about to cry here, especially not in front of Mitch. He swallows the lump forming in his throat and breathes in, and out. He places the picture in the desk drawer.

“She wasn’t hurt, right?” Louis asks, attempting to hide the tremble in his voice. “By the glass?”

“Not that I could see. Didn’t see any blood anywhere.”

Well, at least she’s physically still intact. That doesn’t make him any less worried, though.

Mitch’s eyes dart all around the floor, looking for any shards he might’ve missed. He turns on his heels to grab his bag again.

“Clem told you?” Louis asks. “That she was gonna talk to her?”

“Yeah.”

Louis knows Clementine and Mitch had some sort of understanding with each other, but of all the people he thought she would’ve turned to when it came to talking to Violet, he didn’t put Mitch too high on the list.

“Why?”

“Uh,” Mitch stops sweeping. “Why what?”

“Why’d she tell you?” Louis asks. “She could’ve come to me.”

Mitch tenses. “I-I don’t fucking know, dude!” he exclaims far too loudly. As he continues, his speech becomes quicker, more defensive, “She just said it and I told her it was a shit idea but no, she just had to come and poke the bear right in the fucking eye and when you do that you get your hand bitten off and so I said I’d come with her and make sure her hand doesn’t get bitten off- shit I didn’t actually say it like that but I said, ‘don’t do it,’ and she was all, ‘I’m doing it,’ and-”

“Okay, okay,” Louis interrupts, overwhelmed by the outburst. “I get the idea. But why are you here now?”

Straightens himself out again, leaving the broom and dustpan on the floor to tie up the bag. “She wasn’t gonna clean it up,” he mumbles. “Hey, shouldn’t you be hunting? Aasim’s gonna kick your ass if you don’t get moving. We need that deer.”

Again, with the hunting thing.

“Yeah, yeah, the deer,” he sighs. “I’m going. I just wanted to check up on Vi first.”

“Doubt she wants to see anybody. Better off going straight to Aasim. Like right now.”

“I will,” Louis crosses his arms, “as soon as I see you out.”

Mitch eyes him questioningly before it dawns on him.

“Oh, right. Fair enough.”

He leaves the broken broom and dustpan in the corner of the room and scopes out the floor one last time. “Tell her not to break any glass shit next time. It’s a pain in the ass to clean up.”

Louis doesn’t bother responding. Mitch is already out the door anyway, leaving him alone in the emptiness of Violet’s room.

---

It’s chillier this morning. While the sun is still bright in the sky, there are more clouds floating about, all various shades of gray. Maybe not dark enough to worry about rain at the moment, but they still pass over the sun and bring a coolness over the school.

Louis tugs on the collar of his jacket, covering up a bit. Upon looking around, he’s a little surprised to only see Tenn sitting at his usual table, holding a board with a piece of paper taped on it in his lap, and Aasim pacing in front of the gates. He can faintly see Clementine and AJ up on watch.

No Ruby, no Willy, no Omar.

Even Rosie isn’t outside.

Odd.

But, he shrugs it off. He didn’t think he was late enough to miss breakfast, but that does bring up another concern.

Ignoring Aasim for a moment, figuring he can wait just a little bit longer, Louis makes his way towards Tenn.

There’s a line up of old bottles, some broken, some filled with a gross looking grey liquid. The board rests comfortably in Tenn’s lap. He’s focused on his drawing, his eyes constantly darting up to stare at the bottles before going back to copy it onto paper.

“Hey, Tenn,” Louis greets.

The boy looks back at him, eyes wide and blinking rapidly. “Oh, hi, Louis,” he says.

“What’cha drawing today?” Louis asks enthusiastically, peering over his shoulder.

Tenn sheepishly sets the board on the table, careful not to knock anything over. Several drawings of bottles fill up the page, all a little wobbly or disproportionate.

“James said I need practice drawing from life more, but,” Tenn sighs, “bottles are hard.”

“Yeah, but it looks like you’re getting the hang of it.” Louis points to a sketch in the right corner. “I like this one. It looks real enough to drink out of!”

A small, timid smile spreads across the young boy’s face. “Really?”

“Totally,” Louis gives an encouraging grin. “Wait until James sees these. He’s gonna be floored at how good you’re getting. Oh!” Louis pats his shoulder. “By the way, that one you did of me looks amazing on our wall.”

“You-you hung it up?”

“Of course I did!”

Tenn looks away to hide his diffident smile. “Thanks, Louis…”

“Of course,” Louis grins. He moves around and takes a seat next to him with a sigh, his usual grin replaced with a more serious look. “Hey,” he lowers his voice, “how’s Vi doing?”

Tenn sets his pencil down, keeping his eyes locked on his hands. “She’s okay. She slept in my room last night.”

“I heard,” Louis scratches at his chin thoughtfully, “but, she’s okay? Well, as okay as she can be?”

“I think so,” Tenn says. “She-...she cried a lot, but she’s stopped, so...”

Shit.

“Did she get any sleep?”

“A little. She’s still in bed. She told me I didn’t have to wait for her.”

“Did she eat anything?”

“I brought her some breakfast,” he nods, “and she ate a little.”

Relief washes over him.

“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Keep an eye on her, okay? I would go check on her myself but it seems I’m needed elsewhere.”

Tenn goes back to his drawing, pulling the board back into his lap, saying, “Uhm, aren’t you and Aasim-”

“Going hunting, yes, to capture that magical deer prancing in the woods.” Louis stands up again, giving Tenn one last pat on the back. “Her water bottle’s in her room. When you take a break, would you fill it up and bring it to her?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Louis smiles warmly. “Keep up the good work.”

He waves good-bye to the young boy, but still strays away from the gates. He knows Aasim can see him, and it’s only a matter of time before he stomps over and drags him out by his ear.

There’s just one more thing he has to do.

Approaching the post where they take turns on watch, Louis calls up, “Clementine?”

At first, he doesn’t get a response. Then, AJ leans over and smiles down at him, excitedly waving. “Hi, Louis!”

“Hey, little man!” he laughs. “Clem up there?”

“Yeah!”

Clementine appears beside him, giving AJ a set of binoculars. Louis steps back, watching her climb down.

He’s pleased to see her smiling.

In fact, he dare say she’s glowing this morning.

She hurries over to him and slips into his open arms. Her cold nose brushes his skin when she leans up and pecks him on the lips.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he grins. He opens his jacket up more, pulling her close and wrapping it around her as much as possible. “You’re freezing.”

“Been out here a few hours,” she sighs, melting into his touch, soaking up his warmth. “I expected to see you a lot sooner. Aasim’s been waiting.”

“Ah, yes, so we can hunt this famous deer everyone’s so obsessed with,” he says, “He was ready to drag me out of bed by my feet this morning. I think I can actually feel him glaring at us right now.” He peeks over Clementine’s head nonchalantly, and sure enough, Aasim is staring at the couple, exasperated.

“Believe me, I heard all about it,” Clementine pulls back with a stern look. “You shouldn’t give him such a hard time.”

“Yeah, I know. He just makes it too easy sometimes. Anyway,” Louis leans forward to kiss her cheek. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay before I took off.”

She hums against his chest, mumbling, “I’m a lot better, actually. All things considered. It’s… a good day.”

“It’s a cold day.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“Your nose is about to fall off.”

“So dramatic.”

Louis chuckles, pulling back to rub warmth into her arms before stopping to hold her hands.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Later,” she says. “You have a deer to hunt.”

“I’d happily cancel to make time for you.”

“Nice try, but no.”

“Ugh.”

He’s getting pretty tired of hearing about this deer.

“Don’t pout. Think about how much a whole deer could feed us.”

“Not much, because I’m, like, eighty percent sure Bambi doesn’t really exist.”

“Louis.”

“Okay, ninety percent.”

She shakes her head, trying to hide her smile. She playfully smacks his chest. “Just go. You two have kept James waiting long enough. We’ll talk later, okay? I promise.”

Louis doesn’t let her hands go.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He studies her face for any sign of unease but finds that she’s still smiling up at him.

When she notices his hesitation, she tugs on his hand.

“Are you okay?”

He’s quiet as he says, “I went to check on her. She wasn’t in her room.”

Clementine doesn’t say anything, but her grip on his hands tightens.

“I did find Mitch cleaning up glass. That was pretty weird.”

Her eyes flutter shut as she lowers her head. “The picture…”

“Yeah,” he nods, “Tenn promised to keep an eye on her today. Try not to think about it too much. And if she does come out, well... ”

“I know.”

He doesn’t say any more about it. Her promise to talk about it when he gets back is enough assurance for him.

“Louis!” Aasim calls from the gates. “Let’s go!”

Louis shakes his head and forces a cheerful smile. “Best not keep poor Aasim waiting. He’s gonna need a shoulder to cry on when we don’t find that deer.”

Clementine rolls his eyes. “And here I thought you were the optimist.”

“Optimist, sure. Delusional? Not as much as you’d think.”

“Just don’t give Aasim such a hard time,” she says, quirking a knowing brow. “I hear he’s had a rough morning already.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “I have a feeling that he won’t hesitate to shoot at me today if I push the wrong button.”

Clementine’s fingers brush against his cheek before she pulls him down. Their lips press comfortably together as a pleased sigh escapes her. They savor the moment, reluctant to pull away. It takes him a second to recover, a second before he can open his eyes again.

God, she is glowing today.

And he’s just standing there, smiling and chuckling like a fool.

She turns away to hide the pretty blush blossoming on her cheeks, hitting his chest again.

“Go.”

“Fine.”

Louis goes to the gates, turning to wave good-bye to her. He’s still grinning when he meets Aasim, who shakes his head and gives an exaggerated eye roll before pushing through the gates.

Louis isn’t too far behind.

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