#ignore my melodramatic attempt at writing

[shukakumoodboard]

then ghost of tsushima au👉👈

@rkaln oh my god, i just realised i fecking forgot to answer your asks (and you too anon!) hkdskghdfkg. i swear i didn’t ignore you, im just a moron

so as an apology, this one is gonna be LONG. buckle up bro-mies. under the cut!

welcome to kels one sole attempt at a True Longfic. and when i say longfic, this one—if i can ever pull it off—i mean 200k+ to fit everything i want in it. JRR tolkien whomst?

anyway. this fic is yet untitled, though the favoured contender is bushidō. that being said, im not… sold on it? for some reason? but lets get onto the fic itself.

the fic plan is a heavily modified spin on the plot of the videogame ghost of tsushima, which follows the tale of a samurai named jin, adopted son of the jito of the island of tsushima, and his descent into dishonour in pursuit of saving his home during the mongol invasion of 1274. it’s, in my humble opinion, one of the best games ever made. when i say there were moments in this game that had me sobbing, with tears dripping onto hands clenched so tight to my controller i nearly broke it, i am not being dramatic in the slightest. aside from the truly brilliant plot, it has jaw dropping graphics and my favourite play mechanics of any game ever. everything in this game is awe-inspiring.

also you can pet foxes. just saying.

in this fic, lee takes the place of jin as adopted ward of the jito (hiashi) where he is effectively the ��lesser” second son of the jito. first son, ofc, is neji :) to take you very briefly through the beginning, konoha (which takes the form of tsushima island in this universe) is invaded, though the invaders are, in this case, suna, led by rasa ofc. (งツ)ว

what i intend to follow is a long winded story of lee battling to save his captive family from suna, and what lengths he must go to in order to accomplish such a monumental feat, even if it costs him his honour. of course, the entire cast of thousands have roles to play—tenten, an assassin; kakashi and gai, former samurai with a painful understanding of the choices lee must make; naruto, hidden son of the former shogun, leading a band of ronin and desperately trying to bring his wayward friend sasuke home. sakura, a healer who wants to be a samurai in a time where gender roles work against her, inoshikacho working through the temples to secretly subvert the will of suna, and of course, the sand siblings, beleaguered children of a mad conqueror who work to subjugate konoha island… until, perhaps… an unlikely partnership forms. i hope it will come to no surprise that this fic is not safe for sasuke huehuueheuheuheuheeHUEUEUUHEUHUE

not only is this meant to be a long fic but its also meant to span years in time as well — so im really excited to build a universe this big. however, i wouldnt expect this to appear anytime soon. im not going to do anything public until i have a solid outline built for all my character arcs and at least a list of general scenes for chapters, and thats not going to be soon. i have three things i ABSOLUTELY want done in 2025 before i even turn my head towards this, and when i do, it will be a slow crawl of a process, especially because right now i’m also in my final 1.5 years of my doctorate, and that means all my writing juice is going towards academia lol. but one day, so help me, i will bring this fic out of my brain and onto paper!

of course, i won’t talk about a fic without sharing at least some bits, so here’s some snips from my longer-than-some-fics idea sheet! two scenes i have planned and the drafted words to a really melodramatic confession god gaara get yourself together thats ur enemy winkwonk

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for being frustrated about my current campaign?

I (Minor) am in a longform TTRPG storyline where me and my friends (mostly adults) run campaigns mostly related to our OCs and storylines.

I have ran the previous two to a pretty decent audience, but this current one ran by the people (mainly 1 guy and 1 girl) who ran the very first campaign is... rubbing me the wrong way.

see, they basically only do dialogue, and there are next to no narration and techniquye, which is awkward for a discord text ran campaign. I am an aspiring writer, and have noticed they use no technique, style or clear tone in any sort of implied (rather said, in recent times that a sccene of dialogue was set awhile in the past rather than saying so in narration, they clarified ooc to say).

it's all tell, and not show, which is awkward for a campaign thats meant to be comedy but implied the absolute opposite.

the TTRPG world we've all built has established mind alteration and control as horror. they used this in a comedy way, and got veyr passive agressive when I had my character who has been traumatised (and gone through therapy about it too) over prior events, react accordingly.

the setting is a cold, dark underground and the antagonists come of sadistic and cruel forcing the characters through their trial for... no reaosn (it is clear what they are thanks to one dm's player character being of the same altered species which is why they're here - investigating weird sightings; the answer's solved) as they are unknown and omnipotent speaking through loudspeakers.

they want us to do slapstick with this. and dialogue. and half assed descriptions of "It's... completely empty. Anything that was supposed to be docked here is gone. Just empty space in front of empty docks. You're gonna have to roll real low if you wanna make this place livable."

similarly, one of the DMs on another note has asked me to tone down my explicitly more fun light character, who toys with words and needlessly quotes shakespeare and is melodramatic, who plays with puns, and has complained that they "always win the argument." when, they never really get into arguments?

furthermore, the runners of the campaign have dropped off managing the campaign for months at a time without notice, leaving me and other people just. unable to use our characters.

i have longform character arcs planned and they're acticely hindering my enjoyment and participation by a sheer lack of effort, style or attempt at guiding us on their intended path and instead railroading.

so, tumblr, am I being an irrational, hormonal kid (barely), or am I just pretentious with my writing style of wanting to describe the setting and imply mood?

TLDR: current campaign is at a snails pace, wants to be comedy but is really saying otherwise with what little we're given as readers to their written discord dialogue, and DMs have ignored characterisation and history of said characters.

What are these acronyms?

[gardensnakie]

Who's better at poetry, Stranger or Sunny?

I automatically assume that Sunny would lean more onto the drawing side of art rather than writing, let alone poetry. I think it depends on how people see the character because based on Canon occurrences, Sunny takes a lot of inspiration from the outside world, like from comic books and movies when he dreams. He creates new adventures and scenarios that would lead most to assume that he would be a good writer if he practiced. In addition to his more darker thoughts, and his sad poem skill, it seems possible he'd be good at it. But the thing is, Sunny has trouble identifying how he feels, that includes speaking and even writing those feelings down. If he were to attempt to journal anything for those 4 years that he was stuck in the house, that would ruin the world he created for himself where mari didn't die. With how much he was repressing his feelings, trying to organize them into words would be a long shot. That's why Sunny turns to drawing, in can be incoherent as he wants without directly including the thing he wants to ignore. (And sunnys drawings are cool, I'm a sucker for violent, surrealism art) Even after the truth, I think sunnys poetry would be good and cool to read (I'm not sure, I'm no critic but I'd like to think sunnys poetry would be very vivid, sometimes incoherent) His poetry would be for his eyes only, I don't think he'd actively try to get better at it but use it as a way to be less stressed.

With rare access to pen and paper, Stranger has a lot to say but speaks in a cryptic way as a way to hold back. Of maybe it's because Omori/Sunny refuses to hear anything of the truth that Stranger is simply cursed to never say it out loud. Or maybe Stranger doesn't want to frighten them away and chooses his words carefully in order to keep him from retreating further into repression. I like to think about the second possibility. Stranger is capable of altering his words in a vague, but concise way to lead, question, or warn The Dreamer. He also has access to the Lost Library and practically most of the horrors residing in Blackspace. Every idea is different down there, it changes constantly, the abstract rooms and delusions is a gold mine for inspiration. Horrible inspiration, actually. (Kinda reminds me how most artists are troubled in some way, "thank you for the trauma, I need it for my art" kinda way)

Stranger had been down there longer since Sunny avoided blackspace as much as he could. Who knows? During that time, Stranger must've talked to himself a lot. He may speak strangely, not really using the words 'I feel' because spiraling is far too easy in a quiet place like that. He can't really draw. With personified fears and ideas from The Dreamer in all those rooms, Stranger doesn't want to draw them again as a mean to express his own feelings. How can you express the hell in your head when there is hell all around you? So melodramatic. At least Sunny sat in denial, surrounded by color. Stranger reminds me of someone doodle silly things, at least draw something where he hoped to be instead of living in darkness. Though, it'd probably make him more sad, so he'd abandon it somewhere. If he could, Stranger would write a lot. His thoughts could be like a little rule book to keep himself sane. Anger, guilt, shame, vile thoughts, disgusting actions, Stranger would make sure certain mistakes don't happen twice. He'd remember his purpose, helping Sunny remember. Certainly making him feel less worthless. If all this writing was possible, Stranger would be the one with tons of poems.

Ramble. Ramble. Ramble. Jeez, that was a lot of crap. Sorry if you were expecting a yes or no with a few sentences of reasoning, I wanted to reinforce a lot. It gave me a few ideas in the process, but all of it is pretty loose and theorizable (i didnt read check this, so sorry if certain sentences of explanation are a little awkward). But yeah, whaddya think?

[macncherries]

Full grown white man typing an essay over why he's not racist. Jesus Christ

You are white. You are not a person of color. Please listen to brown and black people instead of talking over them.

Hello again! I assume this is the same Anon as before (i apologize if not.) Sorry for any confusion, i was not writing "an essay" on why i was not racist. I was outlining the new and old terminology i have used for clarification purposes! I thought you had made an innocent mistake. I understand that There is an answer under the cut. I do not feel it fair to subject my followers to an Anon consistently clinging to my ask-box, on a concept they do not care to understand, in motivation purely to perpetuate irrelevant, melodramatic conversations.

For everyone else, thank you for sticking around! I know its been mostly text posts from me lately >_< theres more Labru art on the way!! Im also planning on doing kinktober for Labru!!! please stay tuned!

I actually did not even know you were even attempting to call me racist. I thought you were confused on the difference between "race science" and anthropology. I assume you are young, or uneducated about more niche sciences (which is okay) but i dont think its right to call someone racist for having a special interest in something you do not understand. And for something you likely did not fully read. It is not appropriate for you to lightly throw around accusations like that. Especially without proper commitment, research, or evidence Considering youre calling it "an essay" at a measly 544 words, i can safely assume you also did not bother to read the full thread(s) of reblogs your comment originates from. 544 words is not even considered an essay in college. Im required to write that much for a discussion post. Regardless, I can also assume this to be the case because the person who originates that thread (whom i outwardly agreed with, amplified, and was newly informed by) is POC. I dont feel comfortable depending on that aspect any further though, because i dont know OP personally, and wouldnt feel comfortable roping them into anything.

And i am white, im not hiding that fact, so im not sure why youre using it as a "gotcha" moment. I am a person who cares deeply about ethnically accurate features, cultural implications, skeletal anatomy, and anthropology. I care about being accurate to characters ethnic backgrounds, whether canon or implied. White people can do that. Its better for white people to do that, rather than be racially ignorant.

And, by extension, I am listening to people of all ethnicities. Especially POC. I am not speaking over anyone, and am only adding my own commentary. More importantly; no one else, not white, not POC, has spoken against it. So i physically am unable to speak over anyone.

More importantly though, i have talked to, and received input from POC already. Thank you for your concern. I have received input that what information i put out there did help people. People from everywhere. It was so very beautiful to hear. I saw multiple people both here and elsewhere appreciate the research i did. That was so heartening. And so despite this whole text post, i also want to thank anyone who contributed, reblogged, liked, just appreciated, or talked to me in reference to those original posts.

All contributions to the reblog thread had an overarching theme, and since you didnt read it all, i dont blame you for not knowing. That is; assessing the best, most accurate, possible way to portray Kabru and Thistles ethnic ambiguity. I go very much in depth as to how achieve that, as well as where i specifically find Kabru to most likely originate from in comparison to our own worlds culture and geography. I use anthropological and facial-anatomical evidence to support that. The evidence i use is not related to "race science" or anything similarly grotesque. The implication that "race science" is at all similar to anthropology is a disservice to everyone who studies it, professionally or otherwise. Anthropology inherently acknowledges that each ethnicity is different, and that those differences should be demystified and honoured. For the purpose of integration, ethnic appreciation, and antidiscrimination.

You are of the opinion that commemoration and study of different ethnicities is racism. Why you believe that is beyond me, but nonetheless, what you are insinuating is the equivalent of saying "i dont see race". I hope i do not have to point out the issue there...

You will also likely not read the entirety of this, either. It is unfortunately 820 words, which is beyond your limit. That is okay. Im here to tell everyone else that your background and culture is deeply appreciated. If it were within my capabilities, i would love to speak to every one of you and represent you within someone you hold dearly. That is my goal. I hope to continue upholding that with my art. I hope to continue doing thorough research to help aid peoples solidarity and interest in characters.

[lavelled]

feeling twenty-two. (I take gummies and two naps a day.)

The Twin Brothels:

The impact-with-a-horse Princess Child Bride story wasn’t factual. But it had your entry-level threats. With rapt attention, the whole world read the equestrian publicity and confirmed that it’s you who causes suffering and tragedy. On a daily basis. Bad things happen because of you.

Dull weekend?

Oh look. The Britannica brothers can Google. Slightly curious: do you have formal duties, debutante balls, any responsibilities that faithfully serve the crown or do you waste a large chunk of the day crafting fake press releases about a one-way deal with an underage peasant girl?

I take Gatcombe Park to mean Catacombs. It also rhymes with hurting Matt R. over a coined sexual experience you tell yourself you’ll get. I can see how your instincts were to squarely threaten me and Matt R. with concussed head injuries, ignoring the direct line between you and numerous untimely deaths. You’ve been unconcerned with my happiness, why should you care about humanity?

Best to avoid all athletes at the ESPY Awards.

There’s a quote of “swift recovery” because Will had fun with his dadly duties. Is this about the fraudulent cancer storyline? Oh no. So dadly. Your mate still doesn’t have cancer. Rather than belittling patients, you should be on a gilded quest to finding solutions to end homelessness; getting residents back on their feet; and helping the overburdened shelter system. Sure. Your housing development project is a cover for you believing you have a vice grip on a v-shaped cottage.

Ever wonder why advisors, known as my team, chose Rose Hanbury to be the ex-girlfriend to invent mistress newspaper headlines? It’s pronounced bury you. Interesting she married a gentleman with Marquess in his title.

Harpy: This is you getting me to partake in epistolary warfare. As crypto-influencer in your secret spot, you were a blocker where I often attempted to write, yet you were turned on by the alphabetized vocabulary of a little girl’s prison literature.

It’s a conflicting job.

Come to think of it, shouldn’t you be abusing royal protocol to assemble a Botswana crowd for your race-based platitudes as you covet the jar preservatives of rapey kidnapped fruit? I thought you’d be too busy to read, what, with your choreographed paparazzi walks near horse manure fertilizer where you get quick child updates from a payroll wife you still don’t live with.

Your press mentioned Thomas, Rachel’s dad.

The disproportionate hatred for Tom Cruise needs examination. Nowhere is this more evident than choosing Thomas for an in-law. Taking liberties with the truth, you’ve pushed this crackpot, flawed story in which Tom Cruise somehow stole a pen-pal from you when you were 0-years-old. What a unique way of telling the world your father got caught being a pedophile. You didn’t know me. Tom knew me. Probably because he was unsteady with newfound fame and he thought I was a melodramatic, wise-ass kid in Nike gear. I was also funny. I don’t believe he wanted me locked away from the world. That serves no purpose. If you considered someone a life-force or a source of light, you wouldn’t shut them out. Your royal family stole me because Tom was far cooler. And I was too goddamn young. You swooped in and stole a little girl’s adulthood to try to save the monarchy from being perceived as a tribe of baby-fuckers.

We all know how you pay the rent: as master of an anti-social contract with those who grew up alongside me, offering up fairytale childlessness and solitude, and then having the nerve to car pool with my industry husbands.

I wonder why Daniel Cleaver, who plays you in a movie, started a HackedOff Campaign; uses a Twit account imbued with choppiness; and follows your information-gathering lawsuit claims in London? He’s also known as William Thacker from Notting Hill. That totals a lot of butchering.

Your loveless contract only symbolizes inside assault.

I meant to include Real World castmembers in the public eye who shouldn’t hurt themselves—we lost one recently—I read about the surfer shark attack and the Dagestan capital and I have a suspicion it’s about him—don’t leave.

K

[myk-arielle]

my first writing on this blog !! I wrote this about an experience I had while meeting my partner's extended family for the first time. In this, I hoped to capture not only the akwardness of meeting new people but also the anxiety I feel in social situations. I also talk about the shared experience of being looked down on for making a career in creative fields. Here is a small snippet of my nonfiction essay "Drum Kit." If you're interested, click the link to read the rest.

Until next time <3

My excerpt:

"Well, I'll let her tell you what she does. It's far too complicated for me to say." my mother in law says and suddenly, eyes fall like pinpricks on the top of my head.

I take a deep breath, hoping it can hold back my rioting heart as it threatens to leap into my throat.  Heat flickers through my neck and cheeks. I feel my tongue go dead and all my thoughts shrivel. Internally, I am cringing at this response to such a small question. Shame sits like a stone in my stomach. These signs, I have come to know all too well, are embarrassment. I shift in my chair, swallow the thought that my melodramatic response to things like this make me absolutely insufferable, and attempt to ignore how my every muscle tenses when I force my head to rise from the wood grain. 

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1w_DAWxRB7ikms-L1gENmVWIMvo7q9BDD/view?usp=drivesdk

[piperholmes]

Ash

piperholmes

(Spoiler speculation—more like fantasy 😂—for 3x08)

“Anne!”

“Anne!”

The sound of her name broke through the mad, frantic fear roaring within her. She looked around, everyone had stopped.

“What are you doing?!” She screamed. “Keep going!”

She reached for another bucket of water, but Gilbert stepped in her way.

“Move!” She demanded.

“Anne! It’s too late,” he shouted back, the cracking and groaning of the enflamed schoolhouse nearly drowning out his words.

Her heart had dropped when she’s awoken to the terrible clanging of the bells. She’d only just managed to slip into slumber, the excitement and tragedy of the day warring inside her, leaving her exhausted.

Still, the thought of some beloved neighbors home burning had spurned Anne our of bed and downstairs where she’d met Marilla and Matthew already quick at work.

“Gilbert just came by,” Marilla had said by way of greeting. “It’s the school house.”

Anne felt as if she’d missed the final step on the staircase. Her mind and body out of harmony as she waited to hit the ground.

“The schoolhouse?” She whispered.

“Anne, we have to get back,” Gilbert insisted, reaching for her hand. “It’s going to collapse!”

Anne looked about her. She’d seen Diana’s sparkling, heartbroken eyes in the crowd when she’d first arrived, she’d seen the hesitation and confusion glittering with firelight as their eyes met, before Diana turned away, burying her sadness against her mother’s neck. Mrs. Berry now stood with her weeping daughters, their backs to the flames.

Ms. Stacy, with black soot smeared across her cheek, stood huddled between Rachel and Marilla, loss and grief etched in each track of tears that forded down her cheek.

Josie and Ruby huddled together with the other students, shock and sadness reaching across the awkward, adolescent uncertainty, as hands interlinked.

Anne couldn’t bear the thought of her beloved schoolhouse being devoured, ravishedly consumed by heat and smoke and char. She’d gained a voice within that small building, and she felt as if a hand was sliding over her mouth.

It wasn’t fair.

It was all too much. The victory from earlier today suddenly felt hollow and worthless. No schoolhouse, no bosom friend, no romantical kindred spirit—

She shook her head. She refused to accept this. There must be something she could do. She wouldn’t fail them.

“We mustn’t give up!” She cried, yanking her hand free from his, trying to keep the line going. The heat of the flames seared into her skin, but still she made to dash around Gilbert.

He turned towards her, his hands sliding about her waist, and Anne felt her world shift as he spun her up and away from the fire.

A deafening crack sounded as the roof gave way. Screams erupting from the crowd, but Anne’s own cry was buried, as Gilbert tucked her more fully against him, shielding her from the destruction.

All the heartache, fear, anger, disappointment, frustration, exhaustion, and grief of the last few days fell in on her. Anne didn’t even realize she was crying at first, not until she felt Gilbert’s hold on her tighten, his hands cradling her close, her own fingers gripping tightly to his coat. The smell of smoke clung to him, to them.

She felt more than heard Gilbert’s words, a deep rumbling in his chest where her ear pressed, but it didn’t matter what he was saying. She knew he was there. She couldn’t stop the tears, the hard shell of embarassment and humiliation that she’d used to perfect herself burned away—at least for now.

She was raw and red.

And, in his arms, she felt safe.

[jj-5656]

Too Soon With; James Potter (ATJ)

A/N: Hello, again? I’m really surprised with myself. Two stories in two days, haven’t had that motivation since quarantine. I’ve been sick lately and couldn’t get this idea out of my mind. Was gonna make it short but one thing led to another and here we are. This is technically a sequel to my first James writing which you can read here, but it’s not entirely necessary. Anyways, please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoy, truly makes a huge difference. <3

Summary: The one where James is definitely not sick, and you make an acute slip up of words.

TW: None, this time around. :)

 “I’m here, what happened?” You practically burst into the marauders dormitory, knapsack half-zipped with textbooks and quills threatening to spill over. Remus sits atop the counter in shock, toast hanging from his mouth as he shrugs.

“The note, from, from the owl,” you attempt to catch your breath as you explain, “said there was an emergency.” Remus rolls his eyes, shooting a pointed look to Sirius who waltzes into the room, taking a moment to read your disheveled appearance. Guilt, and a hint of fear, overcomes his pleased expression at seeing you.

“Oh, sorry. That was me, we have a...Situation.” Sirius flinches as you approach him, having taken the newspaper from Remus’ hand to roll it up and whack the raven-haired boy on the head. 

“I-thought-one-of-you-were-hurt!” You accentuate every piece of the sentence with another whack of the newsletter. Handing it back to a very amused Remus. 

“Awe, love. You hear that Moons? She loves us, cares about us!” 

“And she’s about to castrate you, what on Earth is so emergent that I’ve run all the way from the library?” You push the misplaced strands of hair from your face with an exasperated sigh. 

“James is sick, some sort of respiratory thing I think, or maybe strep. Not entirely sure.” Remus explains. pulling your sack from your shoulder and organizing it’s contents. Holding up a crumpled pouch of cookies from the bottom with a disciplinary glare. You ignore his doting, despite the blush of your cheeks. 

“Alright, so he should go to the infirmary.” You note simply, albeit concerned for your boyfriend. 

“See, that’s the issue, love.” Sirius replies, exchanging a knowing look with Remus who shakes his head. You look between them, utterly confused until said boyfriend shuffles into the dorm, looking positively miserable. 

There’s a frightening, completely out of character hunch to James’ shoulders. He enters the dormitory with a hoarse cough and small sniffle. A tuft of spare tissues peeking from his robes’ pocket. He looks up and beams at the sight of you, watery eyes, red nose and all. Absolutely pleased with your presence. “Hey, dove. What are you doing here? I thought you were doing homework with Lill’s?” He sets his things down with another cough, head quirking in confusion when you clutch your necklace, brows taught with concern. 

“Oh, James.” You mutter, walking toward him to hold his head in your hands, a short intake of breath when the skin of his cheeks is scolding to the touch. 

“What’s gotten into you?” He laughs, though a little hesitant as he takes your wrists in his hold, a flash of hurt slashing his kind smile when you dodge his kiss in greeting. 

“You can’t. You’re ill, James.” The taller boy laughs, shaking his head with a relieved sigh. 

“Dove, of course I’m not ill. Just a bit of allergies, that’s all.” You turn to look at Remus and Sirius, who echo a chorus of melodramatic groans. A clear sign they’re familiar with the boy’s stubborn denial. “I swear it! Look, look at this!” His hands slither to your underarms, lifting you into the air a couple times and gently setting you down. “Lads, this body is an absolute temple, quidditch season is about to commence and I’m in the best shape possible.” This time, you all groan, having to force your eyes to not completely swivel to the back of your skull at his blinding ego. 

“James, you spent the entirety of last night coughing. You barely slept.” Remus chimes in, running a clean dish towel under cool water and passing it to you. James grabs your wrist once more, cringing away from your attempt to place it on his forehead. 

“Alright, if you’re such a beacon of health, you wouldn’t mind taking a quick trip to the infirmary? This way we can all be sure?” Sirius holds back a grin at his own words. James falters, squirming past you and into the kitchen, grabbing an apple from the bowl from the counter on his way and taking a large bite. Superstitions heavy on his mind as he vehemently shakes his head. 

“Absolutely not, no infirmary.” 

You cross your arms, wry smile overcoming your features. “I didn’t know you were afraid of doctors, Potter.” 

“Am not!” James refuses again, pouting through a mouthful of apple. 

“And so it begins.” Sirius hops over the back of the couch so that he can lay down, arm draping over his eyes in exhaustion.

*******

“Just let me hold you, I’m dying.” James whines, grabbing at air. He’s an absolute mess, feverish and sweaty with juxtaposing chills. You’ve given him some of Remus’ healing potions, but they only relieve the symptoms temporarily. And, like most medicines, can only be taken in dosages. 

“I’m sorry, love. You know I can’t.” It takes everything in you to ignore his requests, heart aching at his suffering. He groans, rolling over and coughing in the mess that is his sheets. 

Sirius forces a gag, looking for support from Remus who only ignores his immaturity. “I almost miss when they hated each other, Rem. I mean seriously. He’s so lovesick it’s actually unbearable.” 

“Eat-” James falls into a coughing fit, taking a deep breath before croaking out “slugs.” 

“What was that, mate? Couldn’t hear you over the hacking up a lung.” 

“Sirius, not helping.” You scold, waving the teasing boy away. “We have to compromise, James. If you won’t go to the infirmary then you’re on bed rest.” You chide, offering a soft smile when he begins to soften his hazel eyes in hopes you might give in. 

“I’ll be behind in all my classes!” He tries, attempting to rise from his sheets. 

“Exactly why we’ll all be taking notes for you. Make-up homework and all.” Remus adds, waving his quill in hand for emphasis. James settles as you run your hand over his shoulders, frame tense from all the coughing and shivering. 

“And don’t worry, Prongs,” Sirius starts, mischief prevalent in his tone. “Y/n and I will get the group project in transfigurations started. I think we’ll make a pretty good pair in your absence.” He throws an arm over your shoulder, boisterous laugh echoing throughout the bedroom once James lunges, his smug friend shooting him a suggestive wink. You’re in front of him immediately, hands at his chest to cease his attack, rolling your eyes when Sirius jumps behind Remus to hide. 

“He’s only teasing, James. Relax.”

“Not fair! This isn’t fair.” He’s a six foot something child, weak charges finally settling when you press a kiss to each one of his cheeks and then his forehead. He goes for your lips, biting his own when you shake your head. throwing himself onto the mattress in a melodramatic, slightly dazed, tantrum.

“Just leave me, the lot of you.” 

“We’ll be back soon Prongs, promise.” Theres only a defeated grunt muffled by a pillow in response, the three of you slinking out of the dormitory as quietly as possible. You’re the last one headed out the door, prepared to lock it behind you when something catches your eye. Potter leans against the doorway with a deep frown, pitifully clutching a throw blanket around him as he watches you leave. You’re pretty sure your heart breaks in two, because in a second you’re dropping your bags and fitting yourself into his heavy arms. 

“I’m sorry you can’t come, love. We really won’t be long.”

“You’ll update me on everything that happens?”

“Definitely.”

“Even if it’s something small, like Pads spilling his ink or Mcgonagall calling on him when he clearly isn’t paying attention?”

“I promise, Potter. Now please, get some rest. There’s a kettle on the stove if you want any tea later on. And I’ll bring up some broth for you when I come back.” You run a thumb over one of his unkempt brows, tussled from sleep. He takes your hand in his, kissing it’s palm. A deep sigh escaping his lips when you hear the boys calling for you in the distance. You turn to leave, throat tightening at how miserable he looks before halting. His hand tugging on your robes to pull you into his chest. He presses a soft kiss to your neck, long enough to have you melting in his hold. Of course, he’s absolutely aware of what he’s doing. Convincing, but not enough to make you miss any classes.  

“Thank you, so much. For taking care of me. I know I’ve given you a hard time.” He pulls away, running a thumb over your lips as he cradles your jaw, full of sincerity.

“James, you don’t ever have to feel like you need to earn my love.” His brows raise, teasing evident in his expression as you flush. You’ve used the word much too early. And it’s your cue to press a quick peck to his jaw and hurry out the door without another word. 

*********

“So, you really said it?” Sirius nudges your foot as he whispers, finding way too much amusement in your horror. 

“This is why I shouldn’t confide in you, Pads.” You mutter through clenched teeth, the pair of you smiling at a scornful Mcgonagall, quick to look busy for the configurations professor. 

“What did he say?” 

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I sort of, rushed out the door before he could reply.” You slink into your seat, wanting to hide underneath your robes as Sirius beams. 

“Brilliant.”

“Brilliant? Siri, I’m an idiot!” You’re bewildered at his ecstatic nature, forcing a hushed tone despite your passion. 

“In case you haven’t notice, my love, Prongs is head over heels. Your accidental confession will have him up and at it in no time. With quidditch practices approaching, Gryffindor needs him at his best.” Your jaw drops, astonished with the boy you dare to call your good friend. 

“You can’t seriously be thinking about quidditch right now.”

“I would hope not,” your sharp-faced professor interrupts, tapping the beginnings of a group project in front of you with her wand, “seeing as there’s an assignment that needs to be worked on.”

“Sorry, Professor.” You and Sirius chide weakly, putting your heads down as she continues down the rows of desks. 

**********

“Honey, we’re home!” Sirius shouts as you enter the dormitory, Remus setting the broth saved from lunch hour on the counter. James exits the bedroom, hair tussled with sleep, but an undeniable grin on his face. He yawns, stretching so tall the hem of his shirt exposes the skin of his stomach. You take a moment to admire the revealed muscle, head ripping away when you see you’ve been caught. 

“Looks like you got some much needed rest.” Remus points out, gathering your shared notes from the day’s classes in one binder. 

“I did,” James starts, hazel eyes trailing over to you with a wry smirk “had a good dream, I guess.” Seems only you pick up on his suggestive tone, as the two other boys snap their heads at you when you choke on your own saliva. 

“Hope you’re not catching what he has, love.” Remus feels your forehead, lips taught in confusion when you feel completely fine.

 “Poor thing does look a little flushed, doesn’t she?” James adds, maneuvering his head to try and meet your eyes. Sheepish expression driving him mad with adoration. 

“Fine, thanks.” Is all you say, surveying the room for nothing in particular before letting out a contented sigh. “Alright, well if you’re feeling better I should probably head over to the library. I gave Lily a raincheck last time, considering I had to leave so unexpectedly.” You throw a look to Sirius, voice drawn in accusation. He ignores this, looking between you and very self-satisfied James inquisitively, sure he’s missed something in this conversation. 

“Leaving so soon, love? Thought you’d stay with me for a bit longer.” Potter sniffles, but you’re sure it’s not as sincere as the symptoms from before. Cheeky bastard. 

“I’ve overstayed my welcome long enough. Lilly will be waiting, anyway.”

“You’re never a bother, you know that,” Remus glares, almost offended at the notion. “Besides, we have potions homework you said you needed help with.”

“Right, so you should definitely meet us there! See you all later.” And with that, you’re out the door as quick as you came. 

*********

“Merlin, and what did he say back?”

“Nothing, Lills’. I rushed out straight away.” The red-head hums, tapping the feather of her quill to her chin in contemplation. 

“It’s fine, y/n. Potter is totally smitten over you.” Marlene reassures, finishing a potions problem with a satisfied breath. 

“That’s what Sirius said.”

“So, what’s the issue then?”

“It’s still too soon, Lilly. He’s going to think I’m crazy. I’ll scare him off. Besides, I’m not even sure I’m ready to be at that stage with him. This just confuses things.” You frown, brows drawn with stress as the girls nod knowingly. Despite the reassurance of your friends, it’s no doubt this situation complicates things. 

Yet another owl swoops above you, dropping a letter into your lap and landing in the empty chair beside you. Cooing as you run the hook of your finger over the feathers of it’s chest. 

“Oh great, not again.” Lilly jokes, having to muffle her own laugh when a Ravenclaw across the room glares at the lot of your hushed whispers. 

You’re halfway through opening it’s contents before stopping, quirking your head at a beaming Marlene. 

“What has you so smiley?”

“That isn’t Sirius’ owl.” She grins further, looking down and continuing her work instead of elaborating. You chew your bottom lip in thought, finishing with the envelope and gasping as it flutters into the air. In a whimsical, absolutely mortifying display. A mixture of red and pink paper hearts erupt into the air. Fluttering around you and then dissipating. You cover your face with the sleeves of your robes, absolutely flushed. Despite your mortification at the public display of affection, something Potter is well aware you’re not too keen of, your heart flutters. 

Around you, practically every one of your peers swoons. Well aware the charmed love letter is coming from the infamous Gryffindor chaser. All except, of course, the dignified Ravenclaw, who gathers his books in an aggravated stupor and heads to a different section of the library.

“How lovely!” Lily clasps her hands together in pure joy as Marlene beside her, blowing on the remnants of ashes from the over the top display. 

“I’m going to kill him.” Is all you manage, finally looking down at the familiar calligraphy to read it’s contents. 

“If you’re completely flushed, curling in on yourself after opening this, I believe I’ve done my job. Thank you again, for taking care of me. I could live a million lifetimes and not deserve your heart. Love always, James.”

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

OOOOH what a good fic ask game concept!!! I may just have to... steal it... this weekend when I have some free time.... 👀👀 anyway I am going to ask about the Year of the OTP zombie series fic, and I shall enable you to write whatever your heart so desires as far as vibes go--angsty or fluffy, your choice! go forth and write the emotions *you* most want to inflict!

one of the prompts for the Year of the OTP challenge is "no, I'm not dating your brother" which is just generally hilarious but SPECIFICALLY in this context, to me personally ajfjfsknf. so. Steph & Cass bestieism and mild Steph pining. hopefully you'll still enjoy this even though it's not your fandom!

"Are you," Cassandra says knowingly, "dating him?"

Stephanie stills, one hand in the guts of a car she's trying to hotwire and the other pre-emptively on the grip of the gun that she definitely hadn't been given by one(1) melodramatic theatre kid vigilante (she's lying). She shoots Cass what is hopefully very clear as one of the most confused, unprepared looks she's ever given. "Who?"

Cass is sitting in the passenger seat of the SUV, keeping watch. She very visibly does not have a gun, still refuses to use them even on the already (un)dead. Steph is fine with this. Cass is also giving her a look that says she's extremely unimpressed by Steph's attempt to play dumb. It's bordering on genuinely frustrated, or maybe bitter — true though it may be that Cass doesn't have to finish many of her sentences to be understood, Steph will never have the body language reading ability of her friend.

But she knows Cass decidedly doesn't like Jason, so. Steph sits up, leans forward over the steering wheel as the car's engine growls to life. She gives a self-satisfied smirk for a second, then sighs. "No," she says matter-of-factly. "I am not dating your brother." It's the truth. She ignores the weight of the gun at her hip that he'd given her.

"Not my brother," Cass grumbles, and there is is, that old rivalry that, at this point, is honestly just petty. Everyone kills these days, not just the Red Hood.

Steph rolls her eyes to make her point. "Not dating him either way," she replies. "There's literally a zombie apocalypse happening, I'm not dating anyone." Probably won't, either, she thinks, a little bitter herself now. She definitely is not thinking about anyone in particular (she's definitely still lying).

Cass squints at her, exaggerated so she can see it. Steph shrugs. It's a standoff. And then they drive off.

[minasmind]

fair trade - the invite

pairing: eddie munson x black! alternative! fem! reader

summary: reader makes eddie come to their band’s show in exchange for a surprise.

warnings: none?

author’s note: this is my first time writing on here and i have no clue what i’m doing. this is kind of a short story moment so it’s split into, like, four parts. THIS IS PART ONE. here is part two and part three. hope you like it!

there’s something about you that took eddie munson’s breath away. maybe it was the way you walked into rooms like you owned them. maybe it was the way you always dressed like everyday would be your last. maybe it was those entrancing eyes of yours. whatever it may be, eddie genuinely believes that it is the sole reason he couldn’t manage to get you out of his head.

i mean, just last night as he was attempting to plan out the next hellfire campaign, you’d managed to creep your way into his mind, practically making it impossible for him to focus on anything that wasn’t you.

you.

you and your annoyingly kind tendencies. you and your goofy little smile that he swears can make his heart skip several beats. you and your ability to just steal his heart and lock it away without even knowing, without even trying.

he could only hope you wouldn’t somehow notice the way he started to internally freak as you hugged him from behind, a few of your braids falling over his shoulder as you did so.

you flashed a soft smile at the rest of the boys sat at the designated lunch table, actively choosing to ignore the prying looks you were receiving from half of the student body.

it was no secret that you were a very affectionate person. every member in the hellfire club has found themselves wrapped in your arms at some point in time. rather it be to celebrate the end of a good campaign, for comfort, or just because you felt awkward standing so close to them without having your arm wrapped around them.

despite being known for your touchy ways, hugging eddie munson in front of the entire cafeteria was bold. it was a move that would for sure cause some whispers among the scarily large population of students who were completely, utterly brainwashed into caring more for upholding cliques than actual, logical thinking.

did the melodramatic, impending doom of having the student body of hawkin’s high prying into your personal life bother you? absolutely, yes, 100%. was that going to stop you from behaving as you normally would with your friends? absolutely not, never in a thousand years.

“hey, munson,” you mutter into his ear, glossy lips nearly meeting skin.

“to what do i owe the pleasure, lady y/l/n?” he asks, resting his hands on your arms in attempts to return the affection. 

you pulled out of the hug, keeping a hand rested on his shoulder as you silently ask dustin to move over a seat. the boy, still gobsmacked by your very public display of affection, moves aside, muttering out a “sure” that seemed almost a little too enthusiastic. you pat him on the back in appreciation, moving to sit at eddie’s side.

slyly, you move your hand from his shoulder to hold his hand, caressing at his index finger with your thumb. eddie could only stare down at your hands, wondering what it is you were playing at. 

“i have a proposition for you,” you sang.

“you hear that, boys?” eddie says, eyes glued to you despite his words being directed to the entire table. “little miss sunshine has a proposition.”

you playfully rolled your eyes at eddie’s antics, a laugh passing your lips when dustin bumped at your shoulder.

“pray tell,” he continues, pulling out of your hold so he could rest his chin on his hands, now giving you his undivided attention.

“i want you to come to my show.”

there’s a shift in tension between you two. eddie breaks eye contact with you, giving gareth and jeff a look that you couldn’t quite understand.

“what…your show?”

“well, uh, yeah,” you pause, looking over at everyone at the table before looking back to him and saying: “death bed’s performing in the town over. it’s gonna be…a lot of my friends are gonna be there. it’s gonna be kind of a big deal. i really want you to be there.”

“y/n,” mike cuts in. “do you even know what proposition means? that’s not even-“

“michael, i will literally end you,” you sang out, only half joking.

you and mike have a real love-hate relationship. he constantly goes out of his way to annoy you, you constantly threaten his livelihood. it’s a cute little dynamic you two got going on. 

“anyway,” you smile, looking back to eddie. “a lot of us are going all out. it’s gonna be fucking awesome. you should come. you have to come.”

“and if i don’t?”

“well,” you start to get up from your seat. “i guess i’ll just have to keep this amazing, cool, totally soul shattering surprise to myself.”

just as you’re about to begin walking away, eddie grabs you by the hand, gently pulling you to sit back down. your eyes land on your joined hands, biting back a smile at the way he intertwined your fingers with his.

“aw, come on, sweetheart,” he pouts. “you know how i feel about surprises.”

“well, sorry but this surprise is exclusive for attendees and attendees only,” you say, not really feeling bad at all.

you and eddie then proceeded to commence a small staring contest.

you trying (and struggling) to stick to your word because of how excited you were to reveal eddie’s surprise. eddie wondering if he stared hard enough, you’d just give up and show him the surprise now. i mean, it wasn’t like the leverage was really necessary in the first place and you’re the least secretive person he knows so naturally, his curiosity piqued.

after a moment, eddie broke.

“well, if you’re forcing me to go,” he trails off, sighing dramatically as if this invite wasn’t something he’d been dying to have.

you playfully roll your eyes at him, a smile-the one that never seems to leave your face when in his presence- finds its way onto your face.

(for context, you and eddie talk about music often and in turn, you two wind up talking about your bands often. eddie invites you to every single show-every single one- so, your tuesday nights are almost always occupied by corroded coffin. in turn, you’ve given eddie merch and you’ve shown him polaroids from shows but you never technically invited him to a show. admittedly, when he found out he was the only one out of all your friends that had never been to a show, his feelings were hurt. despite feeling left out, eddie didn’t want to ask for an invite, he didn’t want to impose.

so, yeah, in conclusion, this invite was kind of a really big freaking deal to him.)

“where’s it gonna be?” he asks.

you rush to grab a poster from your bag, a sudden giddiness completely taking over you. as organized as ever, you pull out a sticker covered folder. an amused smirk falling on eddie’s lips at the sight of some of the obviously homemade “stickers” that decorated the folder.

you dramatically place the poster in front of him as if it were gold, once again getting ready to get up because this time you actually had to leave.

“it’s gonna be awesome. we rented out this empty store type thing for the night and there’s gonna be, like, five other bands performing. we’re all friends so it’s gonna be super safe and inclusive,” you look over at dustin and mike (who had so obviously been eavesdropping). “i mean not safe enough for teeny tiny, little freshmen babies who like to eavesdrop but…yeah. sorry about that guys.”

“shit,” dustin mutters under his breath, going back to talking to mike about whatever it is they were talking about.

you watch as eddie folds the poster and puts it on his lunchbox, eyebrows raised with the anticipation of hearing his response.

“lady y/l/n, i,” eddie paused and rose from his chair, always one for dramatics. “would be honored to attend your show.”

with that giddy feeling reaching its peak, you couldn’t help it as you jumped out of your seat, pulling him into a hug. despite the fact that he was still kind of shocked at your pda, eddie returned the hug in haste. the two of you stayed in that position for a while, you clinging on to him with your arms wrapped around his neck, his hands resting on your waist after having pulled your body closer to his.

“uh…guys?”

you jumped away from him at dustin’s voice, a bashful smile worn on your face as you stared up at eddie. your face was merely inches away from his face, so close that you could lean in and kiss him if you really wanted to. in the back of your head, you knew that you really wanted to. you’ve been wanting to since freshman year.

your eyes shift from his eyes down to his lips then back up to his eyes again. you could just die at the way he was looking at you, obviously having caught on to your train of thought.

the piercing stares of some of your peers are the only reason you found yourself taking a step back. for some reason, kissing someone with a majority of your peers watching didn’t exactly seem like the best call.

“anyway,” you start. “i should get going.”

“yeah, yeah,” eddie says, taking a step back as well.

“i’ll see you around?”

“i’ll see you at the concert,” he responds.

“right, at the concert,” you say, grabbing your things.

you pretend not to hear as one of the boy’s ask:

“dude, who the hell names their band deathbed?”

PART TWO

[thornquillthefiendish]

yoyo!!

random question but which wc character do you think has been ruined by the fandom?

Hmm.

There are. A few.

I think one is Spottedleaf, I just never jived with the fandom perception of her though it constantly changed and evolved, it was all still so hyper focused on Firestar and that’s definitely because of the books connecting her existence so heavily to him, but I’ve disliked a lot of the different presentations of her character in fandom. She’s definitely been ruined for me for a large part, definitely just rebuild her in my head ignore most things about her.

Then there’s ashfur. I think this is definitely concerning earlier ashfur but. There is a great amount of discomfort in how much people openly attempted to relieve his character of guilt and at times — how people still do this (though it’s rarer ofc). Most of his character modernly in fandom is based on this old fandom version of ashfur that I don’t think represents the image in my head as clearly, it’s based on this really twisted way we looked at him that definitely was influenced majorly by our adolescence for those of us around during the hype phase, and I don’t think he exists outside of that lens anymore, at least I don’t think there’s any turning back. I’m kinda neutral to how the fandom looks at him today, it doesn’t appeal to me, but I guess it’s not really my business tbh, but in a way he has been forever ruined; mostly by the sincere defense made for him early on that has modernly completely altered him to fit into that phase in the fandom, to the comedic elements of it often. I don’t know if it’s ruined in an actual bad way, of course, and I don’t think it has been, it’s definitely interesting to have experienced the change in his character from gradeschool to now, but it’s definitely been forever altered in our eyes, nobody will ever view ashfur without thinking of melodramatic breakup songs and self pitying emo-esc poetry.

My own emotions on it are a desire for an added intimidation to him, which I’ve actually seen a lot more recently and I enjoy a lot of that, I definitely have ideas on what I want his character to represent in my own rewrite, but I think as someone a little bit more out there in terms of interests in the warriors fandom that of course my views are not shared by everyone, admittedly they’re based on things definitely exiting the scope of genre or even just things people would normally come across. My tastes are definitely a bit odd, especially when it comes to writing and characters and stuff, even in other spaces, not exactly sure if that’s a good sign or a bad sign, but oh well.

There’s likely other characters I can think of that I have/have had issues with fandom consensus; Hawkheart, Nightcloud, bluestar, squirrelflight, Sandstorm, a lot of female characters in general, but that’d devolve into me ranting for too long so, I’d say these two are the ones I think of the most when I think of characters the fandom “ruined” for me (ashfur isn’t even “ruined” modernly so to say he’s just. Transformed completely)

[snackhobi]

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

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

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

--

“It’s time to get up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why had she ever expected anything different?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then.

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

It’s cheesy and cliché and you know it.

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

“Haha, yeah,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Really?”

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

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

You have very little faith in your abilities to keep a plant alive, but your peace lily seems to flourish under your care. It’s only one plant but alongside your cactus it seems to bring light and life to your office, and there’s a bubbling sense of satisfaction in your chest each time you see them, still alive despite your ineptitude. It’s a brief distraction from the lingering sadness that still dogs your heels, opening up each time you find yourself thinking of Seokjin before having to quiet those thoughts.

The lily and cactus are fine but it doesn’t take long before you find yourself wanting to add more members to your green coterie. Plus, you never did buy that fuck-off huge bouquet, so maybe you’ll treat yourself to one this time around.

When you step into Spring Day you’re greeted by the sight of someone actually behind the counter today, barely visible behind the large leaves of the ficus plant; when the bell rings they pop up and it’s the same florist as before, eyes wide as he peeps over the counter and only growing wider when he spots who it is.

“Hi,” he says. He’s not as squeaky as he was last time but he still seems a little flustered at your appearance, fumbling with The Language of Flowers as he drops the book onto the chair and stands up straight; his hoop earrings have small chains today and they’re jostled by the motion. He looks away from you to brush his apron down. He’s wearing a loose button-up underneath it, sleeves rolled up like before, revealing the thin bracelets he has on each wrist. “You’re back.”

“I am.” You smile widely, surprised he's remembered you and weirdly happy at the sight of him. You’d half expected to see someone else; there’s no way this guy is the only person who works here, but you’re glad it’s him. “I was worried my lily would get lonely so I thought I’d get her a friend. Can I pick your brain for another recommendation?”

He takes you to the succulents. There’s a menagerie of terrariums to choose from, bursting with different shapes and sizes of plants, bright greens and soft teals and muted browns. 

“I think you’ll like this one,” he says, lifting up a dodecahedron of glass, each geometric plane trimmed with metal. He holds it up for you as you peer inside, small succulents nestled in a scattering of pebbles and soil. “They like bright light, but keep them out of direct sunlight because the glass can magnify it and burn them. And water them really sparingly, because there’s no drainage.” He taps the base of the terrarium. “It’s really easy to over-water succulents.”

He’s always so careful when he handles things, even if he lifts them like they’re weightless. No wonder the plants and flowers bloom so prettily here. They know they’re loved and looked after.

“They’re so cute.” You smile at the collection of contrasting plants that somehow live harmoniously together in such a small space. “And there’s more than one! So my lily will have plenty of friends.”

You’re too busy looking down to painstakingly accept the terrarium to notice the small, shy smile that flits across the man’s face as he watches you, your hands so cautious and protective as you accept more members into your growing family. “You’re right,” he says. “She won’t be lonely.”

You have the glass ball hugged against your chest as you trail behind the man, but then you come to a stand still by a selection of floral arrangements and realise that there’s no way you’ll be able to carry both the terrarium and a bouquet; at least, not one the size you’d been planning for. The florist notices the sound of your footsteps disappearing and stops to look over his shoulder. He seems concerned.

“Sorry,” you apologise, staring at one particularly large collection of flowers and foliage all gathered together in brown paper, soft pastel colours surrounded by greenery and smaller pale blooms. “I was just thinking about how nice your bouquets are. They’re so pretty.”

“Would you like one?”

“Of course, but I only have so many hands.” You laugh as you glance down at the terrarium you’re clutching onto. “I wouldn’t trust myself to hold a bunch of flowers at the same time as this. That would be a disaster waiting to happen, honestly.”

The florist pauses. “How about if I make you a boutonniere to pin on your shirt?”

You look up from the terrarium, blinking. There’s that tinge of pink stealing over his cheeks again and you find the sight surprisingly endearing. “You can do that?”

“If you’d like.” He’s looking away from you again, staring intently at a bucket of sunflowers. “So at least you have some flowers to take home.”

Something twinges, deep down in your chest, right at the bottom of your ribcage. Something you can’t put a name to. “That sounds nice. Yes, please? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

You carefully put your succulents down on the counter and lean against it as you watch him select flowers for the corsage, pausing before he chooses each one; he keeps his gaze averted from you the whole time but you think it’s because he feels awkward about the attention you’re giving him. You’re not pretending like you’re not watching him intently, wanting to take everything in, intrigued. He keeps his eyes cast down as he starts to bring everything together but there’s still a flush on his cheeks. It’s… adorable. He’s adorable. 

“Feel free to say no, but can I take a photo?” You point at the camera you have looped around your neck. “Not of you! Well. Not all of you. Just… your hands as you make the corsage? I swear I don’t have a hand fetish, I just like to take photos of things I think are cool. Totally get if you don’t want me to, I—”

“Sure.”

He’s staring down at the tiny floral arrangement in his hands as he interrupts you, but he seems resolute despite the blush on his face. You pause for a second and then smile. You lift the Polaroid camera up to peer through the viewfinder and take the shot, but before you have the chance to take a proper look it seems like the florist is finished.

He only looks up at you now that he’s done and holds his work shyly up for you to inspect, as if it’s not the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. He’s framed a soft purple rose with small blooms of lilac and white baby’s breath, offset by a burst of greenery, delicate and perfectly balanced. 

“Oh, that’s so beautiful,” you breathe. You reach out to touch it with reverent fingers, lavender petals of the rose so soft against your skin. “You did that so quickly, too! How did you choose everything? Did you just go for things you thought would match?”

“Um.” The florist has turned red. “Yes?”

You decide not to press further, even if you wonder what it is that has him so embarrassed right now. Probably because you complimented him on his floristry skills. “You have a really good eye,” you say, smiling. “It’s so lovely.”

He somehow flushes an even brighter shade of scarlet when you struggle to pin the boutonniere on and ask for his help; he’s so careful as he secures it in place, staring at his hands as he settles the flowers gently against your chest.

“Perfect.” You beam at him and feel triumphant when he gives you a small smile in return despite how shy he seems, but then he seems to realise that he’s still got his hands resting against the fabric of your clothing and rips them away like they’re on fire.

“Um.” He has his head turned away from you but there’s a wide smile on his face, teeth on show as he looks down at the ground. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

You’ve just finished paying when you realise— “I don’t think you’ve charged me for the boutonniere ?”

The florist seems like a rabbit caught in headlights. “It’s a, uh, promotional thing. An incentive to come back and buy a full bouquet or arrangement. You… uh, you actually get a discount on your first bouquet if you get a boutonniere or corsage first. I just— I need your name to make sure you get the discount. Next time you come. If you come back,” the man says in a rush, before sucking his lips in and looking away from you. “If that’s okay?”

Of course you’re going to come back. “Oh! Sure! It’s Y/n,” you say. 

“Y/n,” he repeats. He’s staring at you, lips parted, soft around the shape of your name. You wait for a beat, looking back at him, before one of eyebrows rises.

“Um… do you have a book to write it down in? Or do you just memorise all of your customer’s names straight off the bat?”

The florist blinks and then his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush again. “A book! Of course, um.” He scrabbles around behind the counter, flustered, but seems to come up empty-handed. You watch as he grabs the only book he can find— The Language of Flowers— and cracks it open to the title page to scribble your name down in pencil before shoving the book under the counter and out of sight.

“I feel bad that you’ve just, uh, defaced a book because of me,” you say. “You didn’t have to write it down, I was just kidding? I know not everyone is as forgetful as me.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he says. “It’s my book. I can write what I want in it. The, um, the logbook seems to have gone missing,” he continues, staring at his hands as he scratches his palm. “Yoongi-hyung must have moved it. I’ll, uh, write your name when he comes back with it. Yeah.”

“Yoongi? Is that your boss?”

“Hyung? Sort of. He owns Spring Day but he basically treats me like a co-owner, I guess.”

“Oh, wow, that sounds so cool, even if it must be a lot of responsibility.” You smile softly at the florist. “He must really trust you.”

He glances up from his hands, eyes warm when he spots the expression on your face. “Yeah,” he says, smiling back. “I owe Yoongi-hyung a lot.”

“Oh!” Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag, terrarium safely encased inside. “You know my name, and now I know Yoongi’s name, but I don’t know your name…?”

He flushes again, imperceptibly, the tiniest spread of pink on the apples of his cheeks. “I’m Jungkook,” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook,” you repeat. His eyes flicker and he looks away from you. You’ll have to work on that shyness— but you’ve always been good at coaxing people out of their shells. You’re unapologetically yourself, and that helps other people feel comfortable being unapologetically themselves, too. “Alright, Jungkook, thank you for the help again today. And the beautiful boutonniere.” You wiggle your shoulder so the flowers affixed to your chest shift a little. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.” He sounds a little breathless. “Yeah, I’ll see you around.”

Once you get home the terrarium is carefully unpacked and placed on your desk with your other plants; you’ve had to relocate some of your general filing clutter to another table to make space (the plants make you feel better than staring at a rose-gold in tray with letters that you need to get to, so whatever). You finally have a chance to look at that photo you'd taken earlier and fish it out of your pocket.

The background is a little blurry, not the focus of the shot, but you can see the neat pile of offcuts on the table, a small scattering of equipment. Jungkook’s hands, however, are in perfect focus. He has such lovely hands, from the pronounced knuckles to the subtle flex of his tendons to the pale blue veins that are visible as he holds the tiny bunch of flowers together and wraps them in ribbon. You stare at the picture for a little longer than you probably should before resting it against the peace lily’s pot, in eyeline as you begin to write.

(Lily watches, enraptured, as Yunhee prepares the sprigs of herbs and flowers that she hangs from the kitchen’s low ceiling. Her pretty hands are so fast as they bring the dried flora together, encircling each bunch with twine, quick and delicate. Careful. Reverent.

“Would you like a go?” Yunhee has seen her watching and holds up a spray of dried lavender rosemary, colours muted from their usual brightness, but no less pretty. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

Lily smiles. “I would love that.”)

--

“What do I want in my bouquet? Hmm… that’s a tough one. What’s your favourite flower?”

You’re back at Spring Day the day after buying your terrarium, and once again, Jungkook is there. You’d caught a brief glimpse of another man on your way in, his hair a bleached-blond mess, but he seems to have disappeared— although his apron has been cast haphazardly over the back of the wicker chair behind the counter so you don’t think he’ll be gone too long.

Jungkook pauses. “I don’t know if I could choose just one,” he says. “But if I had to, I’d say the tiger lily.”

“Oh!” You point at his arm. His t-shirt today seems to be as baggy as the rest of his clothing choices but it leaves his lower arms visible. “Is that the tattoo you have?”

Jungkook turns his arm towards you so you can see it properly, the delicate lines of the lily blooming across his skin, and you can see the scratched lines of some words silhouetted behind it, ones you hadn’t spotted before. “Yeah.” He’s smiling. “It’s my birth flower.”

“That’s so pretty,” you say, awed. “What do the words say?”

Jungkook’s been less shy today, but when you ask this, he seems bashful. “Please love me.” He traces the words with his finger, the letters hidden behind the large petals of the flower. “It’s what the tiger lily means.”

He keeps his gaze averted from you, staring at the black and grey lines that bloom across his skin. You’ve barely scratched the surface of Jungkook, but there’s something so… so fascinating about him. Undeniably powerful and masculine, yet still so soft and considerate. Romantic.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, truthfully. “Both the tattoo and its meaning.”

Jungkook smiles shyly. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m glad you like it. I, um, drew it, actually.”

You’ve been staring at his arm but when he says this, you reel back. “You designed that tattoo? Jungkook. Are you telling me you can sing and draw?” When he doesn’t respond, still shy, you giggle. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I know the truth.”

“So what would you like in your bouquet?” Jungkook’s clearly trying to change the subject and you laugh.

“I have no idea. I’m a dunce and you’re the expert, so I’ll let you do the heavy lifting,” you say. “How about something with some tiger lilies?”

The tiger lilies are beautiful, vivid oranges flecked with brown; Jungkook lets you select the ones you want, accepting the flowers from you carefully as you pluck them from the buckets and then laughing at yourself when you end up with water spattered over your shoes, dripping down the long stems. After that you let him take over and he chooses the other flowers to bulk out your arrangement, mulling over each decision before he seems content with his choices.

“I can recognise the roses and lilies, but what are the others?” You ask, intrigued.

“Roses, hypericum berries, tiger lilies, orange lilies, goldenrods, and some greening for filler.” He lifts each flower up as he lists them off for you, a cascading gradient of red to cerise to orange to yellow. “Do you want me to change them?”

“No.” Your voice is gentle. “It’s perfect. It’s just like a sunrise. I love them.”

Jungkook’s responding smile is wide enough to show his teeth and squeeze his eyes.

There’s something soothing about watching him work. His eyes are entirely focused as he puts everything in its place, uncompromising when it comes to his perfectionism; things will look fine to you but he’ll seem to think differently and shift things around until it passes his rigorous standards. You want to take a photo. Not just of his hands, but of all of him— the little furrow of his brows, the intense look in his eyes, the tiniest pout on his lips; the softness of his hands, the tenderness of his fingers, the relaxation of his shoulders. Someone who’s intent on perfecting his craft but finds joy in its practiced motions.

You're just considering risking it all to ask him if you can take a photo when you're (thankfully) interrupted.

“That’s a pretty bouquet,” someone drawls. “What’s the occasion?”

The other man has appeared out of the back room. His eyes are fox-like but his mouth is soft and his fluffy white jumper seems even softer, fuzzy against the dark apron that he loops back over his head.

“Hi, Yoongi-hyung. Um.” Jungkook glances up at you. “Is it… for… a partner? Or someone else?”

“Nope, just thought I’d treat myself. Is that weird?”

Yoongi looks at you consideringly, clearly thinking something, before he shrugs. “Nah. You should tell your partner to step up their game, though. You shouldn’t have to buy yourself flowers.”

You laugh, trying to cover up your sudden awkwardness as Seokjin’s face flashes in your mind. Partner? You? Haha. “I’m single, so this is the only way I’ll be getting flowers, I’m afraid.”

Jungkook drops a handful of goldenrods. Yoongi’s eyes flicker over to him, watching as the younger man scrabbles to pick the yellow flowers back up. “Huh,” Yoongi says. “I see. Well, as long as you’re paying, I’m not complaining.”

You already like Yoongi, as forthright and blunt as he is, an utter juxtaposition to Jungkook’s unassuming shyness; he plops himself down and watches Jungkook finish putting the arrangement together, arms crossed as he leans back in the wicker chair. He looks a little lazy and a little sleepy. A cat reclining in the sun.

Jungkook finishes the bouquet by wrapping it in layers of brown and white paper, layering orange and yellow and white ribbons around the stems, pulling the sunrise of plants together with more bursts of bright colour.

“It’s so beautiful,” you say. 

Yoongi makes a small grunting noise of agreement. “Good work, Kookie.”

Jungkook seems almost overwhelmed by the praise and holds a hand over his face, a shy curve of his fingers over his nose and mouth as he coughs and pretends he’s fine. “It’s alright, I guess,” he says. “Do you want anything else?”

“No, that’s everything for today, thanks.” You beam at Jungkook, who smiles back; he’s so cute. “How much is that?”

Yoongi’s mouth opens but Jungkook speaks over him to tell you the price, which is lower than you thought, but— “That must be from the boutonniere discount, right?”

Yoongi squints at you. “Boutonniere discount?”

“You know, hyung, the boutonniere discount.” Jungkook’s voice is a little high. “The promotion.”

Yoongi stares at him. Jungkook stares back. You think Jungkook’s about to break in the face of Yoongi’s blank pokerface, but then he nods. “Oh, yeah, that one,” Yoongi says, slowly. “I forgot. The boutonniere discount. Absolutely.”

Yoongi lapses into silence during the rest of the transaction, and though he looks sleepy, his eyes are sharp as he watches the two of you. Not that you notice, too busy carefully accepting the flowers from Jungkook and hefting the huge bouquet in your arms, mindful not to jostle them too much.

“Thank you so much, Jungkook!” You tilt your head forward to breathe in the soft floral scent, smiling. “It’s so lovely. And it was nice to meet you, Yoongi.”

“Likewise,” Yoongi says. “We’ll see you again?”

“Of course!” On your way out you go to take a hand off the bouquet to give them a jaunty wave, but unlike Jungkook you can’t keep the whole thing steady with just one hand and settle with giving them a nod instead. “I’ll see you again!”

As the door settles shut behind you, bell tinkling as you go, Yoongi raises an eyebrow at Jungkook. “Boutonniere discount?”

“Shut up, hyung,” Jungkook mutters, embarrassed. 

Once you get home you unearth the vase Namjoon made you in his last ceramics class, unwrapping the bouquet and easing it into the water. You watch as the flowers come a little loose from the tight presentation and jostle lightly against each other as they settle into the vase. It’s a bright burst of colour on your breakfast bar, eye-catching and beautiful. 

These flowers should last longer than the corsage from yesterday, which had already started to wilt; you know practically nothing about preserving flowers but you’ve sandwiched the purple rose and lilac and baby’s breath between layers of tissue and squashed them between some books on advice from the internet, wanting to press them and keep them close. (Maybe you’ll frame them or something. That would be cute.)

You pause. You pluck out a tiger lily, disrupting the careful balance Jungkook had strived to create, spinning the flower slowly between your fingers. Your friends send you congratulatory flowers after each new book publication, but this is the first bouquet that’s ever been made specifically for you— not the you that’s hidden behind a pseudonym. You. Even if you’d asked for this yourself, Jungkook had been the one to choose everything for you. He'd been the one to put the thought and time and effort into it.

You stare at the tiger lily for a few moments longer before slipping it back into the arrangement, turning it so it rests just as it had before you’d pulled it out.

(Spring is turning to summer and everything is starting to bloom, the garden alive with a riot of colour, full of the buzzing of bees and other insects— drawn here just as Lily had been. But Yunhee finds Lily in the greenhouse, away from the noise and activity, quiet and contemplative as she stares around her.

“What are they?” Lily points at a plot of flowers that have yet to bloom. The yellow and orange buds are long and heavy, weighted towards the ground. 

“Tiger lilies.” Yunhee squats down and touches one of the furled flowers. “They’re shy to start with, but once they start to blossom, they’ll be some of the prettiest things here. Yes, that means you,” Yunhee laughs as the plant in her fingers seems to twitch. “They’re always so bold once they’re in full bloom. You just have to wait until you can coax them out.”)

--

“You seem to be doing better.” Jimin puts his coffee down. “Have you spoken to Jin yet?”

“Good god, Jimin,” you laugh. “Straight in there, aren’t you?”

Jimin fixes you with a stern gaze and you wince a little.

“Sheesh. No, not yet.” You fiddle with your napkin, curling it around the end of your teaspoon. “I’m starting to feel… like… kind of okay about it, I guess, but I’m worried that it’s going to be weird when I see Jin again.”

It’s been over a month since your confession, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without talking to Jin since you’ve met him. It’s… weird. You miss him so much. But you don’t know if it’s too soon to try and reintroduce him into your life, even if Jimin clearly disagrees.

“It’s only going to get weirder the longer you go without talking to him,” Jimin says, and you hate that you know he’s right. “You keep asking how he is, and he keeps asking how you are, and it’s obvious you both miss each other. I’m not saying you have to jump back to how things were straight away, but you can ease back into it, you know?”

You sigh. “I know,” you say. “It’s just hard, Minnie.”

Jimin, your oldest friend, had been the first person you’d called after your failed confession. You’d been tearful and honest when you’d said that it felt like you were going to hurt forever. But it’s weird how quickly that’s ebbed away, even if you still regret opening your mouth in the first place; most of the hurt you feel right now is from missing Jin, not from lingering pain about unreciprocated feelings. You miss your-friend-Jin, not your-crush-Jin. 

“You seem to be doing okay, though.” Jimin raises his eyebrows at you over his latte. “Anything to do with whoever’s sending you those pretty bouquets that’re all over your apartment, hmm?”

You splutter into your coffee. “What? No, don’t be ridiculous, I’m buying those for myself,” you say once you’ve wiped the coffee off your chin. “Me? Getting sent bouquets? Pfft.”

You never planned on becoming some sort of manic flower hoarder, but Jimin isn’t exaggerating when he says that they’re all over your apartment. You’ve even had to buy extra vases to hold all the bouquets and arrangements you have, every hue and shape and size of flora imaginable on almost every flat surface— only your desk remains untouched, sacred ground for your potted plants. You’d bought a rubber plant a few days ago, but beyond that, nothing new has been set on your desk recently.

It’s just… whenever you’re in Spring Day it’s like there’s no space in your brain or heart to think about Seokjin. It’s a place of respite for you, now. Somewhere you can go that’s untouched by the outside world. Somewhere you can go to be surrounded by beauty and life. Somewhere you can go to talk to Jungkook, the sweet, soft florist who’s slowly opening up to you, a blossoming flower, petals unfurling further with each visit.

He’s not always there. Sometimes it’s just Yoongi, and you like Yoongi and enjoy his company, but… it’s different with Jungkook. He’s growing bolder, less shy, and every conversation with him is so riveting; you eagerly gobble up every tidbit of information he feeds you. He sings. He draws. He paints. He takes photos. He dances. Everything he finds interesting, he tries, and everything he tries, he tries voraciously— he never settles for anything less than 100%. He puts himself entirely into everything he does.

He’s incredible.

Anyway. You can’t come away from Spring Day empty-handed, hence all the flowers that are filling your apartment. Even though Jungkook says it’s okay for you not to buy things, you’d be a supremely awful customer if you just distracted him by talking and then leaving again, so you always make sure to buy something. Even if it’s just a tiny flower themed bookmark that you don't need.

“I’m all for retail therapy, but why not buy stuff for yourself that doesn’t eventually die and wilt?” Jimin seems mystified. “That many flowers can’t be cheap.”

“I’m a relatively successful author, I can afford to blow money on flowers if I want.” You wave your hand dismissively. “Besides, my latest novel involves a lot of flower and plant related stuff, so I’m basically investing in my writing. I’m killing two birds with one stone: research for my novel, as well as filling the gaping hole in my chest by buying flowers for myself because I’m destined to die alone and no one else is ever going to buy them for me.” You finish brightly.

Jimin looks equal parts frustrated and sad. “You know that’s not true, Y/n. Just because Jin—”

“It’s fine, Jimin, I’m kidding! I’m kidding,” you insist. “The reason I’ve been single for the past billion years is because I’m just too much of a catch and people find it intimidating, I know.”

You’ve used fake, inflated narcissism and mocking self-deprecation as ways of protection for years. Most people take your confidence at face value. However, Jimin knows you too well to be fooled by it; not to mention he’s one of the few people who knows about your books and has read every single one so he’s well aware of all the schmoopy daydreams you keep close to your chest.

Ugh. This is why you write under a pseudonym. Autumn Lovett is allowed to enjoy clichés and have unrealistic and dumb romantic fantasies. A lot of their platform is built around it. Meanwhile the real version of you tries to pretend that you’re not obsessed with the idea of true love and yearn for it almost every waking moment despite how utterly impossible it is that you’ll ever find it. Because it’s embarrassing.

“I’m going to kick you,” Jimin says lovingly. “Right in the shins.”

“God, please don’t.” Jimin’s kicks are lethal. “If I say I don’t genuinely think I’m some sort of unlovable cave troll, will you promise not to hurt me?”

Jimin takes longer to think about his answer than you’d like. “Okay,” he says eventually. “You have to really mean it.”

“Alright, I don’t genuinely think I’m some sort of unlovable cave troll. I just haven’t met the right person yet.” Your words seem to pacify Jimin, even if they ring a little hollow in your own ears.

The truth is that, on a deep level, you do feel unlovable. It’s maybe a bit self-pitying, because you have friends who adore you and you know you’re worthy of love, but… it’s kind of hard to really believe that when you have yet to have your feelings genuinely reciprocated. There have been a few moments in the past, a few brief, fleeting connections, but never anything wholesome and real. You feel like you’ve been waiting for something that’s never going to happen. 

Besides, if it does happen, it’s never going to be as soft and loving as the relationships you write into your books, right? You’re a sucker for clichés. You love the idea of someone bringing you flowers, watching the sunset with you, dancing together in your kitchen to a song on the radio— every overdone and overused formula that’s shoved into every romantic film ever. You want all of it. (You’ve never been on a ferris wheel but god do you want to have a date that involves one.)

Maybe you’re still alone because you’ve been asking for too much. Not everyone is as lucky as Jimin and Namjoon; you doubt you’d ever be so fortunate to find someone who loves you as much as they love each other and express that love, too.

You’re still brooding over these feelings when you visit Spring Day later. Jungkook’s singing again, something smooth and lovely and mellow, and when he sees you he brightens— he cuts himself off, but not because he’s embarrassed, but because he’s happy to see you. 

Something inside you goes soft and warm at the sight. He’s so nice.

Still, despite Jungkook’s soothing presence you’re far more distracted than you usually are and he seems to notice this; you end up sitting cross legged on the floor of the greenhouse under the leaves of a monstera while Jungkook keeps flicking you looks between watering plants.

A few weeks ago, he would be too timid to say anything, but by now he’s grown far more bold. You’ve been encouraging him to speak his mind. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” You’ve had your head tilted back to watch the fluttering leaves of the monstera plant but you look down to turn your attention to Jungkook. He’s wearing a dark plaid shirt today, loose sleeves rolled up past his elbow as he hefts his blue watering can; he looks soft and approachable, eyes warm with concern. “Yeah, I just have some stuff on my mind, I guess. Sorry. I’m not exactly a great conversational partner at the best of times, so I’m being even worse right now.”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to apologise.” Jungkook hesitates. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

You let out a light chuckle. “Ah, you don’t want to hear about the nonsense I’ve got in my brain, but thank you. It’s very sweet of you to offer.”

“No.” Jungkook’s voice is surprisingly firm and you internally startle. “If there’s something on your mind, it’s not nonsense. I’m not saying you have to tell me if you don’t want to, but— please don’t think I don’t want to listen to you.”

You blink. He’s not looking away from you like he normally does— there’s a hard set to the line of his mouth, like he really, really means what he says and he wants you to know that.

“Oh.” For once you’re the one who breaks eye contact, glancing down at your lap. You’d found a lone daisy on the floor and you’ve been cradling it in your hands, rolling the stem between your fingers, and you watch as the petals fan out and shiver at the motion. “Okay. Thanks, Jungkook.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. His voice is gentle. You keep your eyes fixed on the daisy, and you can hear the slosh and drizzle of the watering can as he goes back to the plants. You take in a deep breath.

“What’s your opinion on romance, Jungkook?”

There’s a splashing noise as Jungkook fumbles with the can and drops it. Luckily it stays upright and doesn’t spill over the floor. “I, um, what?”

You look away from your daisy and stare at him earnestly, as embarrassingly open and raw as you feel right now. “What’s your opinion on romance? You know, love and all that.”

Jungkook pauses. 

“I know it’s a weird question.” You wince. “You don’t have to answer it. I’ve just been thinking about it.”

Jungkook stares at the watering can by his feet before he stoops over and picks it back up. He’s not looking at you. “How come?” His voice is a little strained, but you don’t notice.

“Ah, I don’t know,” you sigh. “I think about it a lot, honestly. Sometimes I just wonder if it’s realistic? Like, of all the people in the world, what’s the likelihood you’re going to meet someone that you really… really resonate with? And they’re going to feel the same for you? Part of me has always believed in fate, or like… serendipity, I suppose. Bumping into someone that turns out to be so much more important than either of you could imagine. A soulmate? In a way? But as time goes on I… I guess I’m worried I’ll never actually find that and it’s all a ridiculous pipe dream.”

You feel small and defenceless after admitting this. You might be a loudmouthed sarcastic clown, but underneath all your theatrical buffoonery and snark, the truth is that you’re an utterly hopeless romantic. It’s the world’s worst kept secret, sure, but you’ve never laid it out so plainly to anyone before. 

The longer Jungkook stays silent, the more awkward you feel, and you desperately need to break the tension.

“Bweh.” You make a little noise. “I get nauseous whenever I express real emotions. I didn’t mean to word vomit all of that at you, sorry—”

“I believe in soulmates.” Jungkook’s back is to you as he stands in front of a collection of osteospermums, but he’s stopped watering them. “And romance. And true love. I don’t think it’s always going to be easy, and it might hurt along the way, but… I think there’s love and happiness waiting for us at the end of it. Yoongi-hyung always calls me a hopeless romantic.” He laughs a little and glances over his shoulder at you, his expression warm and sincere. “I always cry at sad scenes in romantic films and books and he likes to tease me about it.”

He doesn’t seem ashamed about being open and vulnerable with you. It’s terrifying and yet Jungkook seems unafraid. Honestly, you admire it. “Me too,” you admit, your voice a quiet hush. “Everyone keeps arguing about if Rose could have let Jack onto the door with her but I’m always too busy crying to pay attention to how big the piece of wood is.”

Jungkook lets out a breath of laughter, nose scrunching as he smiles at you. He’s not judging your sappiness at all. “Titanic is such a sad film,” he says. “It makes my heart ache every time I watch it.”

You hit your knee with a fist. “I know! Why couldn’t they just be happy? Ouch,” you say. “Wow. I punched myself harder than I thought. I just get very passionate about happy endings. Sad endings— well, they make me sad, especially if the rest of the story has been sad too. What was it Guy Fieri said? I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.”

Jungkook blinks. “Guy Fieri said that?”

“Now that I think about it, I think it was actually Haruki Murakami.” You rub a soothing hand over your knee. “But yeah. I’m not saying sad endings don’t have a place, and sometimes it’s right for the story that’s being told, but… I’m more of a happy ending person. If I were James Cameron I’d have to let Rose and Jack end up together. I’d be too soft to write the ending he did, even if it was appropriate. You know?”

Jungkook turns away from the osteospermums, his eyes as soft as he looks at you. “Yeah, me too,” he agrees. “I think everyone deserves a happy ending.”

The monstera plant above you patiently listens as you and Jungkook have a long, quiet conversation about love and romance, and it’s… weird. You never thought you could have a conversation like that without wanting to cringe so hard you collapsed in on yourself and imploded into a black hole. Submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known is usually a lot more… well… mortifying, but somehow with Jungkook, it isn’t.

Maybe it’s because he’s so open himself. Maybe it’s because you can tell he’s not judging you at all. He doesn’t think your desperate yearning for love and romance is anything to be embarrassed about— and he clearly feels the same yearning. You find it baffling that someone as lovely as Jungkook doesn’t have someone special in his life, though. Wild.

“Monsteras are actually nicknamed Swiss cheese plants,” Jungkook informs you, running a hand over one of the leaves and trailing a finger over one of the holes in it. You're adding it to your steadily growing plant collection. “Because of these. They look like the holes you find in Swiss cheese.”

You laugh. “Oh, that’s so cute! I love that.”

Jungkook smiles. “I knew you would.”

He’s just finished tying a ribbon around the plant’s pot when he pauses. “Oh,” he says. “If you like happy endings, can I recommend something?”

He stoops down to get something from behind the counter and you can tell when he’s found what he’s looking for by how his face lights up. You’re hyped to see what it is, what’s gotten Jungkook so excited— but then he flips the book over to hand to you and you nearly choke on your own spit. 

Jamais Vu. Your most recent novel.

“I really love this author,” he says as you try to swallow down your coughs, eyes watering with the effort. Luckily he’s looking down at the book and doesn’t seem to notice. “No matter how difficult things get, or how awful things seem, the endings are always happy. Or at worst, bittersweet. They’re never completely sad? Watch out for the plot twist in the middle, though, that’s a rough one.”

“Hahahaha, alright, I will!” It was the first time you’d incorporated a murder mystery in one of your books, but damn, it had gone over really well with the critics. And Jungkook too, apparently, judging from the excited look in his eyes. “This looks, um. Interesting.”

He beams at you. “If you like it, I have the rest of their books at home. You can borrow those as well. I, uh, I've been reading them from the very beginning,” he admits, with a tiny, shy laugh. “The earlier books are skewed mainly towards romance, but the plots are always good too. If, um, you like that sort of thing.”

You feel faint. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Jungkook.”

Once you get home, you very carefully and delicately place the monstera on your desk, turning it a few times until you’re entirely happy with the position of it.

Then you lie face down on your bed.

Your breaths are fuggy against your pillow but you keep your face buried in it, even if it’s getting progressively harder to breathe. Jungkook reads your books. Jungkook reads all of your books. Jungkook is apparently an avid fan of your books— the copy of Jamais Vu he’s lent you is a hardback copy and the design on it is one you recognise as a pre-order exclusive. 

Oh, shit. Is it a signed copy?

You scramble out of bed to grab the book and flip to the title page. There it is, staring up at you: your own signature. Well, Autumn Lovett’s signature, complete with a tiny scribbled leaf. 

To Jungkook, you’d written. Thank you so much for all your support! you’d written. Autumn Lovett, you’d written.

You muffle a scream into your hands.

Even if Jungkook doesn’t know who Autumn really is, there’s no way he’s going to read your next book and not realise the truth. The tiger lilies. Yunhee’s dark eyes and dark hair and swift hands. Her strength and softness. Lily, magnetised by her, drawn in by her gravity.

(You haven't realised until now just how much meeting Jungkook has changed the development of your novel. Why?)

You’re at a loss for words. You honestly don’t know what to feel. Part of you feels flattered that Jungkook loves your writing so much. Another part of you feels like you’ve been lying to him the whole time you’ve been talking— pretending to be someone you’re not. Somehow. Autumn has lied to him by not being real, and you’ve lied to him by not letting him know the truth. Sure, you’ve only found out today, but.

The one person you’d talk to— the one person who’d help you muddle through your emotions on something as complex as this, as flippant and blasé as he might seem to people who don’t know him like you do— is someone you haven’t spoken to in over a month. 

Your eyes slide over to your phone. After your conversation with Jimin earlier you’d genuinely been planning on messaging Seokjin tonight; nothing major or big, just a dipping of your toe back into the waters of your friendship. But you need to hear his voice. You’re not going to offload on him, of course. You’re not going to make the first conversation you have after your confession to be all about you. But you just need that familiarity right now.

He picks up after one ring. 

“Hi, Y/n,” he says, and you feel like you could fold in two.

“Hi, Jin.” The sound of his voice fills you with warmth and tender affection, and you love him so, so much— but you know in an instant that it’s platonic. This cresting wave of tenderness crashing through you and making your knees want to buckle is for one of your best friends, Kim Seokjin. Your friend. “Hey. I hope you’re doing okay. Been up to anything interesting?”

You end up curled in your computer chair as you talk, your hand resting on the book that Jungkook has entrusted you with. It’s funny how talking to Seokjin comes so naturally; a month feels so long, especially after such a huge revelation from you to him, but it’s also like no time has passed at all. You think maybe you could go years without talking but the moment you came back together again, it would feel the same way. 

It’s like you exist on the same level. Like there’s some sort of unbreakable, connective membrane between the two of you. It’s why you’d fallen in love with him. It’s only now that you realise that you’d mistaken that closeness for romantic love, when it isn’t really, at all. It’s just different to your other friendships; deeply and emotionally intimate, but not romantic. 

“It sounds like you’ve been doing well,” Jin says. There’s the sound of sizzling in the background and you glance at the clock; he’ll be cooking dinner. He always cooks around now. “How’s the novel coming along?” Are you still in love with me? Are you writing about me?

You pause. Your flip Jungkook’s book open again, staring at his name written in your handwriting— months before you’d known who he was. Some tenuous, inexplicable connection before you’d even met. 

“It’s good,” you say, truthfully. “It’s not what I’d been planning, but it’s really good.” I love you, but I’m not in love with you. I’m writing, but not about you. Not really.

“I’m glad.” Jin’s voice is so warm. “You’ll have to send me what you've got so far at some point.”

“So you can point out all the inconsistencies whenever characters are cooking or baking anything? No thanks, already fallen into that trap too many times,” you say, and Jin laughs.

“If you’re going to write a character who’s a baker, you need to do your research batter,” he says, and you laugh in return.

“Did you say batter instead of better? That’s terrible. I love it, even if I wasn’t bready for it.”

“Your puns are so crumby,” Jin replies.

“Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”

You both end up dissolving into laughter at your increasingly nonsensical and awful baking puns. The puns are weak and not even good in a bad way (as in, so bad that they’re good), but they don’t need to be. Jin takes longer to finish laughing than you. His squeaky wiper noises are a familiar sound through your phone speaker and you’re still smiling once it eventually trails off.

“I missed you,” you say suddenly. “I’m sorry. Not sorry about the confession, but— sorry it took me so long to come back around afterwards. I was just worried it would be weird.”

“I understand. It’s okay. I missed you too. You know I love you, right?”

“I love you too. Not romantically. Don’t get it twisted. I realise now that I’m way out of your league, anyway, so it’s a good thing you turned me down.”

“It was for your own good,” Jin says. “As the two most beautiful human beings alive we’d been too powerful if we were together, so it’s for the good of humanity.”

“We’re just so altruistic,” you sigh dramatically, and then you both giggle. “Can the world’s two most beautiful human beings get together for lunch? That wouldn’t cause a vortex in the space time continuum, right?”

“I think the fabric of the universe can handle it.” You hear the sound of Jin taking his pan off the stove, the clunk of metal. “Let me check when I’m free, sweetheart.”

(“You seem happy.” Jaerim’s smile is a soft, hesitant thing, but Lily’s responding smile is bright and wide.

“I am,” she says. Pinned to her breast pocket is a corsage of sweet pea, soft purple and pink and white, its gentle fragrance filling her senses. A reminder of Yunhee even when she’s not here. “I’m really, really happy. But I’m always happier when I can share things with you.”

Jaerim reaches out for her hands. His touch is familiar and warm, and Lily feels as loved as she always has— the way she loves him, too. 

As a friend.)

--

“You know, at this point I’m pretty sure you’re bankrolling the entire shop,” Yoongi says, and you laugh.

“I can always go somewhere else if you’d like?”

“Please.” Yoongi snorts. “I’m not complaining. Besides, Jungkook would be heartbroken if his favourite customer stopped coming.”

The way Yoongi assembles bouquets is different to Jungkook. He’s no less skilled and lavishes the same amount of attention on each one, but his arrangements always seem a little wilder, freer— not in a bad way, just different. He’s surrounded by an increasing collection of carnations and dusty miller, the silver leaves curling around the immaculately white blooms; simple and elegant arrangements for a small bridal shower.

“That’s good to know,” you say, ignoring the warm flush that spreads through your chest at the idea of being Jungkook’s favourite customer. Sometimes you worry that you’re overbearing, actually, with how often you visit, even if Jungkook never seems to mind. “I do buy a lot, though, so that’s probably why I’m his favourite.”

Yoongi’s just finished tying a trail of silver and white ribbon around the collection of flowers in his hands, eyes flicking up at you as he eases it into a small vase. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to keep throwing money at this place,” he says. “You’re welcome to come whenever you like. Without needing to buy something.”

You feel weirdly chastened. “Um, okay.” You laugh lightly. “Kind of a weird business you’ve got running if you’re not telling customers to buy things, though?”

Yoongi snorts again. “You’ve spent more money in the past few months than most customers might spend in a year.” He reaches for another bunch of carnations. “I think we’re good.”

The bell tinkles above the door. You glance over your shoulder to see who it is and your face lights up when you see it’s Jungkook, clutching a small cardboard tray of coffees. He looks boyish and cute today, his hair is a little windswept from the breeze outside, and there’s a smile on his face that only grows wider when he spots you. You smile back. You’re always so happy to see him.

“Is that my coffee?” Yoongi says, without looking up from the bundle of flowers he's holding. “Bring it here.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes and you stifle a laugh behind your hand. Any shyness Jungkook might have had originally seems entirely gone now, and he’s unabashed when he pretends to disrespect his hyung, even if you know there’s a lot of love there.

Jungkook puts the cardboard cup out of the way of Yoongi’s work so there’s no chance it might accidentally get knocked over. “Here’s the decaf caramel cappuccino with extra sweetener and whipped cream that you asked for, hyung.” Jungkook gives you a conspiring smile and you stifle another laugh at the expression that flits across Yoongi’s face at the word decaf.

“Die,” Yoongi says mildly, before taking a sip of his bitter and untouched black coffee. “Perfect. Now, shoo, I’m busy. Go check on the herb display, I think they could do with some fertiliser.”

You keep hold of Jungkook’s cup as he mists the herbs, a tiny spritzer in his hands that he carefully aims at the stem of each plant. Unlike Yoongi’s black coffee, Jungkook’s opted for something iced, a creamy yellow blend with shavings of chocolate on top.

“If I’d known you were here, I would have gotten you something as well,” he says. You glance up to see Jungkook’s paused in his motions, hands engulfed in bright green basil leaves. It seems like he’s noticed you peering at the drink.

“Don’t be silly, I don’t expect you to buy me coffee! I’m just trying to work out what this is. It looks really tasty.”

“It’s a banana frappe. You can try some, if you want?”

You beam. “Can I?” You take a sip before Jungkook changes his mind, pursing your lips around the straw as the coldness hits your tongue and nearly gives you brain freeze— but then you register the sweetness on your tongue, the flavour of banana and vanilla and honey, delicious. “Oh, this is so good,” you breathe. “Where did you get this? I need this in my life.” You take another cheeky sip, eyes on Jungkook’s reaction, but he seems unfazed at the fact that you’re greedily slurping up his drink before he’s even had a chance to have any.

“There’s a small café a few streets away from here,” he says. “I, um.” He looks away from you, back towards the basil, before he pulls his hands out of the leaves and starts to mist the soil of the mint plants. “I could take you there, if you’d like.”

You haven’t seen him blush for a while, but that familiar tinge of pink is starting to steal over his cheeks as he looks away from you. Something churns low in your stomach, something almost like butterflies; a shifting of their wings, ready to take flight. “Oh,” you say. “That would, um. That would be nice.”

For the first time since you’ve stepped foot into Spring Day, you leave without buying anything. Instead, you leave with a day and time, hastily typed into your phone so you don’t forget. (Not that you would. How could you forget anything about Jungkook?)

You still haven’t told Jungkook who you are. Well— who Autumn is. He’d been so excited when you’d ‘finished’ Jamais Vu and had accepted another book from him, wanting eagerly to hear your opinion on it; it’s hard to not blurt out the truth to him, but you don’t know how to broach that topic. You’re worried that it’ll change this friendship you’ve built up with him and you don’t want to lose Jungkook. Even if you haven’t known him that long, he’s already so, so important to you, and you don’t want to let go of that.

But if you’re starting to become real friends, the kind of friends who get coffee together, who spend time together outside of Jungkook’s work— he deserves to know, right? You just need to find the right time to tell him.

When the day rolls around, you’re early. You’re always early for things. You skulk around the front of Spring Day, where you’d agreed to meet; you make sure to keep just out of Yoongi's eye line, ducking out of sight when it seems like he might spot you through the front window. You’re staring at a bucket of coral-coloured blooms when you hear Jungkook calling your name and you glance up, lifting your hand in a wave.

You almost choke on a breath. You’ve never seen Jungkook out of uniform, his plethora of loose, oversized shirts under a dark apron, nondescript trousers and plain shoes.

“Hi, Y/n.” The smile on his face is bright and wide, eyes squeezing into crescents. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long?”

He’s in such a simple outfit, but it’s devastating. His hair is arranged neatly under a cap, a leather jacket over the dark, tight shirt tucked into his jeans, blue denim nipped in by a plain black belt; there’s large rips at the knees, flashes of skin visible as he walks forwards, feet steady in black boots. It’s undeniably Jungkook, but it’s so different from the version of him you’ve gotten used to over the past two months, catching you completely off guard.

“Y/n?” He repeats, concerned at your silence, and you snap to attention.

“Oh, sorry! I was just thinking about, uh,” you glance at the flowers you’d been looking at, “peonies. No, I haven’t been waiting long at all, don’t worry. You, um, look really nice today,” you add lamely, unsure what else to say. 

“You do too.” Jungkook sounds like he genuinely means it, even if you’re just wearing a pretty regular outfit, similar to the sort of thing you usually wear when you visit him at work. “Peonies only flower for about a week, actually, if you wanted to get some?”

“No, no, that’s fine! Today’s not about flowers, today is about coffee,” you say. Your heart is hammering in your chest for some reason. A single butterfly lifts off in your stomach, taking flight with a flutter of its wings, flitting to and fro. “Take me to the coffee?”

He takes you to the coffee. He leads you confidently through the maze of alleyways, past more places you haven’t seen; he waits patiently whenever you ask to stop and take photos, watching as you stare in awe at an arch built out of precariously balanced tomes that leads into an old bookshop.

“It’s just so pretty around here,” you say, flapping your hand about to try and speed up the development process of a photo. “I’m sorry I’m taking so long.”

“It’s okay.” Jungkook’s voice is soft. “We’re not in a rush.”

He’s not just saying that to be nice, either. At one point, after you’ve apologised yet again, he steals your Polaroid from you and runs; you laugh at him when he refuses to give it back, taking shots of you while he dances just out of your reach, a cascade of photos that somehow turn out distinct and unblurred. Curse his photography abilities. 

You slap him lightly on the arm when he eventually surrenders the camera back to you and he just chuckles. It’s a long, looping detour on your way to the café, but you’re having so much fun that you don’t mind— in fact you end up having to be the one to get you back on track, tugging Jungkook’s elbow when it seems like he’s about to take you down another alleyway and towards the river, which you know is the wrong direction for the café.

“Coffee, Jungkook.” You try to sound stern but you end up dissolving into giggles when he pouts at you. “Okay, how about a compromise? We can get coffee to go and then come back this way so you can show me that market you were talking about.”

He brightens. “Okay,” he says. “We can do that.”

You almost regret saying this when you eventually turn up at the café; it’s actually a few stories up a building, a narrow set of rickety steps that opens into a light, airy room, naked lightbulbs hanging in constellations overhead, the entire wall behind the counter a massive chalkboard that’s covered in art of different styles and designs. The wall facing out onto the road outside is glass— the perfect place to unwind and people watch.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe. “Jungkook, this is so cool.”

“I know,” he says, smug and cheeky, and he laughs when you huff out a little breath at him. “The drinks are good, too.”

He’s not lying. He opts for another banana frappe, and after much deliberation, you decide to try the iced honeycomb latte. He refuses to let you pay and hands his card over to the barista before you even get a chance to reach for your bag, which has you narrowing your eyes at him.

“I feel like you prepared that in advance,” you say.

“Not telling.” He taps the side of his nose, which is scrunched from his smile. Inside you another handful of butterflies take flight.

More and more take wing as the afternoon goes on, each time Jungkook laughs or smiles or looks at you; he leads you through the market and shows you his favourite stalls, excited each time he gets to show you something he likes and enjoys, stealing sips of your drink when you’re distracted— but you laugh in his face and do the same to him, so it’s okay. 

Time flows by as easy as quicksilver, liquid and bright, and before you know it it’s turned from afternoon to evening, sky softening in deepening shades of blue and purple, the smattering of clouds a pastel palette of pink; you come to a stop by the edge of the river, Jungkook a few steps ahead of you by the time he realises you’re not walking beside him. He smiles at you as you lift your camera and take a shot of him surrounded by the sunset.

“I didn’t realise how late it was getting,” you say, and Jungkook blinks. It’s like he’s coming around to himself, like he didn’t realise either; he glances around and notices the shade of the sky before he pulls his sleeve back to look at the watch on his wrist.

“Wow, me neither.” He sounds surprised, and then he looks guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you busy for so long.”

“Oh my gosh, Jungkook, don’t apologise.” You tuck your latest photo into your pocket to look at later. “I’m having so much fun, I just didn’t notice the time go by. It’s not like you’re forcing me to be here,” you laugh. “I like spending time with you.”

The lampposts have yet to turn on and it’s hard to make out Jungkook’s features when he’s turned away from the soft light of the sunset like this. But you can hear the sincerity in his voice when he speaks. “Me too,” he says. “I’m really glad you found Spring Day.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest. Jungkook looks towards the river just as the first lights switch on, finally dark enough that the streetlights come to life; there're trailing bulbs between each lamppost that flicker on moments after, points of brightness that flood the path below them. Jungkook’s face is shaded by the brim of his cap but he takes it off and shakes his head, running his hand through his hair now that it’s freed. Another breath catches in your throat at how utterly mesmerising he is. 

The sound of his voice breaks you out of your trance. “I was wondering,” he says, staring at the rippling mirror of lights on the water, the fading colours of the sky overhead cast in undulating reflections that shift from moment to moment. “You like photography, right?”

“I do,” you say. “Even if I’m not that great at it myself.” 

“I have a friend who’s a photographer and some of his work’s been accepted in a local gallery.” Jungkook’s running his fingers over the hard brim of his cap, running them along its edge. “The opening night is in a few days, and, um. I was wondering if you’d like to go with me?”

He finally turns away from the river to look at you. Jungkook’s eyes are so big and dark. For once you’re the deer caught in headlights, and you don’t even know why; it’s like this simple, innocuous question has reached inside you and stolen all the air out of your lungs. 

Even so, your answer is immediate. “I’d really, really love that,” you answer honestly, and Jungkook’s responding smile is so, so wide.

You forget about that final photo until you get home. It falls out of your pocket as you shrug your coat off to hang it up, and you stoop down to pick it up, fingers stuttering and going still against its white edges as you take it in.

Jungkook’s silhouetted by the evening sky behind him, in stark contrast to the gentle colours and yet just as soft. The shadows are a little blurred, and the colours are a little muted— but Jungkook’s face is clear, his eyes warm and his smile gentle as he looks at you. 

No one’s ever looked at you like that before.

At last the final butterfly flaps its wings and joins the others, your stomach full of fluttering.

--

Your friendship with Jin has miraculously gone back to normal. If anything, it’s even better than it was before your confession— you don’t feel the need to think twice about your actions, like you’re tiptoeing around him, desperate to keep your love a secret. It’s as easy as it used to be and you’re glad.

But you still remember how much it hurt when he’d looked at you and turned you down. You’ve moved past it, sure, but it had just cemented something you’ve known your whole life: how utterly unlovable you are. How wrong you’d been at reading signs, how you’d been in over your head. How every crush you’ve ever had has come to nothing.

You’ve kept that picture of Jungkook resting against your peace lily. His lovely eyes watch as you struggle at your computer, hours of typing stilted words and phrases that you read back and furiously delete. You bury your head in your hands, frustrated. 

Why can’t you write?

By the time Friday night rolls around, you’ve added a grand total of one (1) sentence to your novel. But right now you have more important things to worry about; it’s almost time for you to meet Jungkook at the gallery downtown and the maps app on your phone has been playing up. It’s not that you’re going to be late— you don’t actually live that far away— but you’re not going to be early, and you hate that.

You can see the small groups of people trickling into the gallery, the lights shining out by the entrance cutting across them as they step inside, but your eyes are immediately drawn to Jungkook. He’s been looking down at his phone but as soon as you start to approach it’s like he can sense that you’re there, eyes rising from his screen and zoning in on you immediately. 

You stop in your tracks. His face lifts and splits into a wide smile and you smile helplessly back. He’d said the dress code for tonight was smart-casual, and he looks so good dressed like this. You love his turtleneck jumper.

“Hi,” he says. “Wow, you look good.”

“Hi,” you respond, breathless. You feel winded from his compliment and from the blush that’s rising on his face, even if he’s keeping his gaze locked on yours. “You do too.”

You stare at each other for what feels like eons when someone brushes past you and it snaps the two of you out of the moment, and Jungkook coughs. “Um. Should we go in?”

It’s busier inside than you thought. The gallery isn’t exactly small but the layout isn’t entirely straightforward and people keep clustering in certain areas and getting in the way, distracted by the photos on display. You have to wade through one particularly large group of people to get back to Jungkook, who’s been waiting for you on the other side; he looks concerned on your behalf, and when someone makes a move to walk between the two of you he reaches out for your hand, cutting off their path. Your hand feels so small in his, so warm in his grasp.

“I didn’t realise there’d be so many people here,” he mutters, looking around. You entwine your fingers with his and he startles, glancing at where your hands are joined, like he hadn’t noticed that he’d reached out for you. 

You abruptly feel embarrassed and you’re about to let go when Jungkook squeezes your hand. You glance up and he’s looking away from you, back of his neck red, but he’s not letting go.

“I think Tae’s stuff is a bit further in,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You trail after Jungkook, who keeps his pace matched to yours. It’s a little quieter back here so it’s easy to find who you’re looking for; when you spot a man with bright blue hair he waves wildly in your direction and Jungkook brightens.

“Kookie! Hi!” 

Jungkook lets go of your hand when he’s swept into a hug, and before you can introduce yourself, you’re swept into a hug, too.

“I’m Vante,” the blue-haired man says once he lets you go. “But you can call me Taehyung. Vante is my photographer name. I think it sounds cooler. Don’t you?”

“I think Taehyung is a lovely name,” you say, unphased by how full on Taehyung seems to be. “But Vante sounds really cool, too.”

Taehyung beams at you. “I like you,” he announces. “Y/n, right? Jungkook mentioned you.”

You cough into your palm, trying to act like you’re not supremely flustered right now; when you’re not looking, Jungkook hits Taehyung on the shoulder. ���Yeah, that’s right,” you say, looking up. Both boys have innocent expressions on their faces. “Can I have a look at your photos?”

Taehyung is an incredibly talented photographer. You don’t need to be an expert to know that. He has a series of scenic and nature shots, some in colour, some in black and white; he enthusiastically answers your questions about each one, about the background of them and why he takes photos of what he does. Jungkook walks quietly behind you and is content to watch as the two of you talk, chest warmed by how well you’re getting on with each other.

You round a corner to another wall, and Taehyung gestures dramatically at the collection lined across it. “And these are my portrait photos,” he says. “There’s even one of Kookie up here, even if he gets embarrassed whenever I mention it.”

Sure enough, Jungkook is blushing. 

“Take me to it,” you say firmly, and Taehyung laughs out loud before he does just that. It’s a black and white shot, Jungkook in profile as he looks towards the camera, endless ocean waves and sky behind him. “Jungkook, you’re such a good model,” you say, smiling softly at it. 

Jungkook’s gone bright red, and you’ve honestly missed this sight, even if you’re glad that he’s not shy with you any more. “Taehyung’s just good at taking photos,” he says, voice high with embarrassment.

“I have a lot more photos of Jungkookie that aren’t on display,” Taehyung pipes up, and Jungkook looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him. “You’ll have to visit my studio some time so I can show them to you.”

You have Taehyung’s business card carefully stowed away in your bag as you walk home, arms swinging by your sides; you unintentionally brush your hand against Jungkook’s, but before you can say sorry he’s taken it as an invitation to hold your hand again. The apology dies on your lips as he slots his fingers between yours and you smile at him instead.

“Taehyung is so cool,” you say. “And talented, too. I love his photos.”

“I’m glad you both get on so well,” Jungkook says. “Sometimes people seem to think Taehyung is… I don’t know. He can come on a bit strong, I guess.”

“He’s great.” You frown. “I’m going to fistfight anyone who’s mean to him.”

Jungkook laughs and squeezes your hand.

He insists on walking you up to your door, keeping hold of your hand as he follows you inside your apartment building. You feel somewhat abashed at how wide his eyes go at how nice it is inside here. You’re not on the same level as, say, Stephen King or George R.R. Martin, but you make a pretty decent amount of money from your books and it shows.

Jungkook doesn’t actually know what you do. You’ve vaguely alluded to the fact that you’re a writer, but that could mean any number of things; for all he knows you could pen the agony aunt column in a magazine (you imagine that would be pretty fun, actually). You keep waiting for the right opportunity to come clean about your pseudonym but nothing’s presented itself yet.

“Do you want to come in? My friend Seokjin makes killer brownies and I’ve got a box of them still in the fridge,” you say. “He always makes way more than I can eat myself.”

Jungkook seems torn. He wants to see inside your apartment, you can tell, but he also probably doesn’t want to seem intrusive— even if you’re offering.

“I hate wasting food so you’d be doing me a real favour,” you add, and Jungkook relents.

“Alright,” he says, and you smile to yourself as you unlock your door.

You’ve been giving flowers to other people, too— Seokjin and Jimin and Namjoon and even Hoseok have been receiving the gifts of your bounty— but only the premade bouquets. The ones that Jungkook puts together are ones that you keep for yourself. It’s far less overwhelming now than it had been a while ago, only a few floral arrangements here and there, but it’s obvious from Jungkook’s expression that he recognises each bouquet.

He ends up sitting at your breakfast bar as you dig the brownies out of your fridge, and he smiles in delight as you warm up some milk. It’s getting late, and you know Jungkook doesn’t like coffee, anyway.

(You’ve learned a lot about Jungkook in the past few months.)

“Which one is Seokjin?” He asks around a mouthful of brownie. You’ve retired to your living room and Jungkook is peering at the strings of fairy lights you have on the wall, Polaroids of your friends and family clipped along its wire. “This one?”

“No, that’s Namjoon,” you say. You stand up from the couch and scooch next to Jungkook so you can point. “He’s Jimin’s boyfriend— which is this guy here. That’s Seokjin,” you point. “All my favourite people. Ah, don’t look at this one, it’s me and Jimin when we were back in school. We look like such dorks. Look at our hair.”

“You look cute,” Jungkook says, and you try not to blush. “Wait, is that me?”

Your collection of Jungkook photos has been growing exponentially over time. The one he’s looking at is a picture of himself in Spring Day, bent over a bucket of roses, fingers cupping the pink flowers as he smiles at them; he’s said he’s okay with you taking photos, but maybe he meant when he was actually aware of you taking them.

“Um, yeah,” you say. You feel weirdly embarrassed. “I can take it down if you want? Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” Jungkook’s staring at the glowing light next to the photo, avoiding your eyes. “I just didn’t think I’d be on the wall with the rest of your, uh, favourite people.”

Your mouth falls open. You don’t know what to say. Normally you’d scoff at him and say duh, of course you are, but for some reason you can’t summon the courage right now. The words catch in your throat.

Luckily, Jungkook seems to notice another photo. “Oh, is that from your school prom? Wait. Are you on crutches?”

You laugh, glad for the distraction. “Oh, yeah! Jimin persuaded me to sneak out of my house a few weeks before that because I was under curfew but there was a party we were both desperate to go to. Needless to say, climbing out of my window didn’t go so well. I was on crutches for ages after that. It wasn’t so bad, honestly. People felt sorry that I couldn’t dance so they kept sitting with me and feeding me cupcakes out of pity. They were delicious,” you say with a smile. “Never did get to do that end of school dance I’d planned with Jimin, though. That’s the only thing that was bad about it.”

Jungkook’s face twists. You’re too busy looking at the photo and reminiscing to notice, but you do notice when he steps back. You turn, confused as Jungkook holds his hand out and looks at you expectantly.

“What?”

“I know it’s a bit late, and I’m not Jimin, but you can have that end of school dance.” Jungkook wiggles his eyebrows at you. “I promise I won’t step on your feet.”

You giggle, but you can feel a blush threatening to fight its way onto your cheeks. There’s a storm of butterflies in your stomach. “But there’s no music,” you say. “How can we dance without music?”

Jungkook shrugs. “I’ll sing for us,” he says. He steps forward, hand still proffered, and you slide your hand into his, unable to deny him. 

It’s been years since Jimin’s taught you the basic waltz, and you’re a little stiff because of it, but your body seems to remember the steps as Jungkook slowly leads you. You’re staring at your feet while Jungkook hums, but once you have the rhythm down he opens his mouth and starts to sing; you look up from the floor, your eyes helplessly drawn to his. 

His voice is soft and honeyed, words sweet as they hang in the air. You’re so entranced by the deep, warm brown of his eyes that it takes you longer than it should to recognise the lyrics of the song: 10,000 hours, transformed by Jungkook’s mellifluous voice.

He leads you into a turn, and when you come back together it’s a little clumsy and you giggle. Jungkook smiles at you as he continues to sing. The laughter leaves you feeling light and sparkling, like there’s a fountain bubbling inside you, and all the stiffness finally falls away from your limbs. The waltz becomes more of a swaying dance as you let your arms drop, Jungkook’s arm sliding around your waist as you step closer to him, and you end up turning in small circles in the middle of your living room as Jungkook murmurs a love song into your ear.

You suddenly realise that you’ve never been happier than you are right now: dancing in your living room in the circle of Jungkook’s arms as he sings to you, a romantic cliché that’s somehow become true for you. For you. With someone as incredible as Jungkook.

You’re never happier than when you’re with Jungkook.

Holy shit.

You’re in love with Jungkook.

The final note of the song lingers in the air as he comes to an end, the resonance of a bell that slowly fades. He smiles at you as you slowly come to a stop, still nestled in each other’s embrace as your feet finally become still.

“I’m so glad I broke my leg,” you say suddenly, and Jungkook laughs outright, face squeezing up in the way that you love so much.

You’re in love with him.

You watch as he slips his shoes back on. You feel helpless and untethered in a lot of ways, but at the same time, you’ve never felt more sure about anything. When he flashes you a smile, you can’t help but smile back— but that’s always been the case, hasn’t it?

“Hey,” you say suddenly, just after Jungkook’s finished shrugging his coat on. “I know you’ve just, um, gotten ready to go and everything, but can I quickly show you something?” Your heart is thudding in your chest. 

Jungkook blinks. “Sure.”

You give him a jerky nod before turning on your heel and walking down the corridor to swing the door open to your office. Jungkook follows behind you, waiting in the doorway as you flick the light on; he makes a noise when he notices the frame hanging on your wall, the flowers of the corsage that you’d dried and pressed safe behind the glass.

You don’t respond. You’re too busy taking a moment to suck in a deep breath and steel yourself before you open your filing cabinet to pull out a stack of papers, sheaves of writing that are stapled together— the very first, unedited drafts of each of your novels, kept for posterity.

“I, um, don’t really know how to say this.” You stare at your hands as you shuffle through the booklets. “I haven’t told anyone new in a long time, so I guess I’m out of practice, but, uh.” You’re so nervous that you’re light-headed. “Autumn Lovett is actually my pen name. These are drafts of my novels if you think I’m lying,” you say, shoving the paper at Jungkook’s chest; he grabs them before they fall to the ground. “Um. So. Yeah. Taa-daa?”

You feel like you’ve run a marathon. Your heart is racing and your lungs are struggling to take in air. You can’t look at Jungkook. You’re staring at the ceiling instead, dreading his reaction.

When he makes a noise, however, your head snaps down. He’s crouched in the middle of your office with your drafts held over his face.

“Jungkook?” You say, panicked, and he makes the same noise again.

“Oh my God,” he whines, muffled behind the paper. You squat down to grip his hands and pull them away from his face, worried; when it’s finally revealed he’s bright red and he looks mortified. “I can’t believe I recommended your own books to you,” he all but wails. “And I gushed like a fanboy in front of you about them too. Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t mean to but you laugh. Jungkook tries to hide his face again but you pull the drafts out of his hands and send them scattering to the floor. “Oh, Jungkook,” you say, overflowing with affection. “You don’t have to apologise. I found it flattering, actually.”

He doesn’t seem bothered that you hadn’t told him sooner. He doesn’t care that you’ve been keeping it a secret. He’s just embarrassed. He stays embarrassed as he helps you gather up the papers, and he stays embarrassed as you return your own book that he’d let you borrow, and he stays embarrassed as he heads towards your front door for the second time that night. 

“I do, um, really like your work,” he says, shy as he fiddles with your door handle. “I’m really looking forward to your next novel. I’m not just saying that to be nice because I know who you are now.” His eyes are wide as he looks up at you. “I mean it.”

Your heart feels full to the brim with fondness. “I know,” you say. “I believe you. I— you can have a read through it before it’s published, actually, as long as you promise not to leak it.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen even further before he holds his hand out. “Pinky promise.”

You giggle as you hook your finger with his. “Pinky promise.”

Once Jungkook’s left you immediately sit down at your computer and write and write and write— it’s like the words just won’t stop. They come pouring out of you, and endless torrent that you don’t try to rein in. You write for so long you end up crashing at your desk, face smooshed against your keyboard as you drool in your sleep.

(“I don’t know how to dance,” Yunhee says, and Lily just smiles.

“Me neither,” she says. “We can learn together.”

They keep stepping on each other’s feet. It’s clumsy and messy and they keep dissolving into laughter between apologies to each other, but it’s perfect, because it’s Yunhee. 

It’s perfect, because it’s Yunhee, with Lily: because it’s them, together.)

--

“I’ve finished my novel,” you announce, and all the men at the table sit up.

“Wow.” Namjoon blinks at you. “I thought you weren’t due to publish for, what, another six months?”

“What can I say? I’ve been inspired.” You smile down into your glass before taking a drink of your orange juice.

Seokjin stares at you before he leans back in his chair. He’s always been able to read you through and through, and that perceptiveness doesn’t leave him now. “Ah,” he says. “You’re in love.”

You’re in the middle of swallowing your juice and nearly choke, spluttering. Namjoon pats your back with concern while his boyfriend looks askance.

“You’re in love and you didn’t tell me?” Jimin sounds affronted. “Who is it? Are they cute? Where are you hiding them? I knew you were lying about those flowers, you lying liar.”

“I wasn’t lying,” you wheeze, finally coughing the last remnants of orange juice out of your windpipe. “Well, I guess it was kind of a half lie? I was buying them, but, uh, he made them.” You fiddle with the napkin in your lap as Seokjin coos at you.

“You fell in love with a florist,” he says. “You’re literally living in an AO3 fanfic. That’s adorable.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, and Jin just laughs when you try to kick him under the table and nearly hit Namjoon instead.

“It sounds romantic,” Namjoon agrees, apparently unphased by how close he was to getting nailed in the shins.

Jimin slaps his small hand against the table. “You haven’t answered any of my questions, snake. I know what you’re like, Y/n— get the Polaroid out of your bag. We need to judge your new beau.”

Jimin’s right. He knows exactly what you’re like, the helpless romantic that you are; the three men shuffle their heads together to peer at the photo of Jungkook, the one where he’s surrounded by the sunset.

“He’s fucking cute,” Jimin decides immediately. “I’m almost offended you haven’t introduced him to us yet. You should invite him to our house-warming party. Namjoon agrees.”

You look at Namjoon, who nods despite not being consulted. “You’re so whipped,” you mutter at him. He just shrugs. “Anyway,” you continue, raising your voice over Jimin’s and Jin’s muttered conversation as they continue to stare at your photo of Jungkook. “I’m going to hold fire on the house-warming party invitation for now, because, um, I haven’t actually said anything to him yet.”

Your eyes are cast down as you say this, affixed to the sight of your hands in your lap. You’ve still been visiting Spring Day, of course, and you’ve started to see Jungkook more and more outside of work as well; each time you meet him you fall a little bit more in love. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to fall for him.

“Y/n.” Jimin’s voice is sober and you glance up from your lap to take in the worried look on his face. “I know it must be scary—”

“Oh gosh, Minnie, I love you, but it’s okay, you don’t need to give me a pep-talk on how I’m a 10/10 and anyone would be blessed to have me,” you interrupt. “I haven’t been putting off confessing because I think he’s going to pull a Jin and turn me down—”

“Hey,” Jin says mildly. He knows you’re joking. You got over that ages ago.

“—but I, um, emailed him my book yesterday, actually,” you finish. “What he does once he’s finished reading it is up to him.”

Jimin is right. It is scary. But Jungkook is worth the potential pain and heartache. He is. He’s always so lovely to you, always so considerate; he sings for you and dances with you and he’s even painted for you, a small canvas covered in favourite flowers, ones that won’t die. Last week when he’d dropped you off at your apartment, he’d brushed his lips across your cheek before practically sprinting away, and your heart had exploded in your chest. 

You have no idea how someone as amazing as Jungkook sees something worthwhile in you, so it's hard to come to grips with, but there’s no way you’re reading this wrong. There’s no way.

The table goes quiet and then Jin leans forward and takes your hands in his. “I can’t believe you’re confessing to him with your book,” he says. “This really is an AO3 fanfic. Hashtag slow burn.”

This time, when you kick him, you don’t miss.

You spend the rest of the day with your coterie of doofuses and by the time you get home you’re ready to relax. You’ve just finished getting into your pyjamas, flopping down onto your sofa when there’s suddenly a hammering at your door. You sit up, startled at the noise. The knocking doesn’t let up as you approach the door and you’re wary, but once you look through the peephole you immediately swing it open.

“Jungkook? Are you okay?”

He’s wild-eyed and windswept and his chest is heaving as he sucks in air. You stare at him with concern as he catches his breath.

“Yoongi let me have the day off,” he says. You blink at him.

“Okay? Did you want to go out somewhere? Now? You’ll have to let me change, though, my pyjamas aren’t exactly great evening wear.”

“I’ve spent the whole day reading your book,” Jungkook says, and your heart goes still in your chest before it starts beating at double time.

“Oh,” you say. “Um. What, uh. What did you think?”

Jungkook’s face has taken on an expression that you’ve become intimately familiar with, a similar look to the one he’d been giving you that night by the river, soft and open and warm and— you can see it now, as time has gone by— full of love. He cups your face in his hands and rests his forehead against yours, dark eyes drinking you in, the smile on his lips so lovely and sweet. Just for you.

“I love you,” he says, and then he kisses you.

He keeps cradling your face in his hands, his lips moving against yours in a way that’s so tender that it makes you want to cry; you’ve never felt so wrapped up in someone’s touch like this, like you can feel exactly how precious you are to him just from the touch of his lips against yours. You know it’s a cliché to say that it feels like fireworks going off in your chest, but it does, every single one of the butterflies that have been nestled in your ribcage exploding into flames and brightness, sparkling heat that shines out of you every second Jungkook keeps kissing and kissing and kissing you.

Kissing Jungkook feels like every romantic fantasy you’ve ever written into your books is coming true all at once. You’re not unwanted, undesirable, unlovable: he wants you, he desires you, he loves you. 

(He loves you.)

It feels like every flower he’s ever given you is flushing to full bloom all at once, spilling out of your chest, brightness and colour and life curling around your heart. All those years spent quietly hoping, culminating in this moment: Jeon Jungkook pressing his lips against yours, keeping you steady as you lean into him, and you feel like all that waiting and yearning and wanting was worth it if you got to meet him at the end of it all. You’ve finally got your storybook ending.

No, actually— it’s just the beginning. 

You’re still standing in your doorway when you part, Jungkook’s hands splayed across your jaw as you give him a smile so wide it almost hurts. 

“I love you too,” you say. “If that wasn’t already obvious.”

Jungkook chuckles and you can’t help but lean into the sound, eyes slipping shut as you turn your head and rest your forehead against his jaw. “I had to reread some parts because I didn’t think I was reading it right,” he admits, and you keep smiling. “I thought there was no way it could be real.”

How could Jungkook ever have any doubts? How could Jungkook think that there was no way that you could love him? Does he not realise how amazing he is? How wildly lucky you feel that somehow— with all your flaws and blemishes and imperfections— he loves you back?

“What made you come around?”

“Yoongi-hyung took one look at the last page and threw a roll of ribbon at my head,” Jungkook says, and you laugh, and Jungkook laughs, and the two of you are laughing and laughing and laughing. You feel like you could float away, buoyant with happiness; only Jungkook’s presence is keeping your feet on the ground. “I hope you don’t mind that I let him read it.”

“It’s okay.” You tilt your head back to look at Jungkook. He’s staring at you like you’re the sun and he’s turning towards you, a fierce and beautiful tiger lily blooming in your light. “I wouldn’t mind if you sent free copies of the book to everyone in the world if it meant I’d have you at the end of it.”

Jungkook smiles at you. It’s bright and wide and his eyes are crescents as his nose scrunches and he flashes his teeth, and you love him. “Purple rose, lilac, baby’s breath,” he says, and you recognise the flowers of the corsage he’d given you, all those months ago. “Love at first sight, first love, everlasting love.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Shut up,” you breathe. He'd seen you as worth loving, even then? “Shut up. You did not— you did not confess that you had a crush on me with flowers? After we’d only met twice?” 

“Maybe I did.” Jungkook’s smile turns cheeky and you love him.

“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe me. You were literally reading a book about flower language, how did I not— god. I love you,” you say helplessly, and he laughs before he kisses you again.

(“I love you.”

Yunhee freezes in place and looks up at Lily with wide eyes. Lily is terrified of being hurt again, terrified of Yunhee not returning all this endless love that she has in her heart— but Yunhee is worth that terror. She’s worth that pain. Even if she doesn’t feel the same, she needs to know how loved she is. How brilliant and lovely and wonderful she is, her Yunhee, her love.

Yunhee opens her mouth to reply, and says:

-

How this story ends is up to you, Jungkook. I’ll be waiting. - Y/n)

[shelby-love]

ELIJAH MIKAELSON

Past Catching Up.

Requested: yes (by anonymous)

Prompts: none

Warning(s): none

Word count: 1.2K

Author's note: It’s always a pleasure to write about my Mikaelson men! Thank you for your lovely request. Happy reading! <3

~

The French Quarter was brimming with people, the streets buzzing all around. There were tourists in every nook and cranny of the city. Many sounds danced in the air, from wheeling bicycles to chattering. Jardin Gris Voodoo Shop was having a busy day, which was proved by the long amount of time you had spent inside.

These people didn't know in what kind of city they had stumbled in, but they didn't seem to mind.

Your hold on the small bag filled with herbs you had bought for Freya tightened impulsively as a little kid passed by you in a blur of a moment, ducking just in time not to trample you over with his bike. You sighed, glancing over your shoulder after him. There really was no point in lecturing the kid.

Your gaze fell in the direction of your walk again, being free of obstacles for what looked like 3 seconds. You felt yourself stumble against something hard, and instinctively you held onto the mystery for support. It takes you a moment to compose yourself and figure out the right excuse.

"Are you okay?" the man asks smoothly, still holding your shoulders in a vise grip.

You stepped out of that very same hold and looked up. He saw the shock register on your face before you could even attempt to hide it. Just like a year ago, a small smile played on his lips. Always in a way that made someone think he knows something they don't.

He reminded you of Klaus now that you thought of it. He was much like Kol too, yet very…no.

Yet entirely different from the sophisticated man you loved. Elijah Mikaelson was one of a kind after all.

"What are doing here Levi?" You asked him quickly. Your eyes fell on the surrounding vampires, those sent by Elijah to keep an eye out on you. There was not a doubt in your mind that one of them had already left to fetch him.

Even though Levi crushed your whole being when he broke up with you, erasing your feelings for him forever – a part of you refused to see the man with whom you shared many memories suffer great pain at the hands of Elijah.

You are a different woman now. An entirely different one; the last of your human beliefs had disappeared months ago when you were introduced to the supernatural world.

"Came to see you, of course," he drawled, lips twitching into a magnified smirk.

"Well, you wasted your time," you told him with a frown. "I want nothing to do with you."

Attempting to walk around his muscled body was of no avail as his hand grasped your wrist in which you were holding the herbs.

Levi took noticed and smiled, "You were never into gardening. What changed?"

You glared at him, wanting now more than ever to tell him you were delivering the herbs to the oldest witch on the planet. "They're not mine."

"Do you want to go get a drink? We should catch up," he proposed and you hated the way his smile grew by a mile. "There's a jazz bar here. St. James Infirmary am I right? Do you know where it is?"

"I've been living here for the last year Levi," You growled. "Of course, I know where it is."

And you did wish to take him there more than anything. You wanted to take him to the long-standing establishment of New Orleans, that has served as neutral territory between the supernatural factions of the city for decades. Fixing someone a drink using Levi should be easy as no vampire dared to touch you due to being Elijah's love.

"Great!" Levi said, his white teeth gracing you under the sun. "Then let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

How he managed to act like nothing bad ever happened between you two was puzzling, to say the least. While you had your wounds reopened with his sudden appearance, he seemed everything but wounded.

"Is there a problem here?"

You were never gladder to see Elijah's Armani suit as you were right then at that moment. You nodded your head eagerly and attempted to free your wrist. By now you had caught the attention of several locals and tourists in passing.

"He won't leave me alone." You gritted out, pulling your wrist again. "Levi let me go!"

It took a great amount of self-control for Elijah to keep his vampirism at bay. The look in your face was enough to pull at his heart that wanted nothing more than to protect you and have you in his arms.

"Can I suggest you listen to her and take a step back?" He asked him calmly, the tone of his voice stoic.

"Why should I do that? Y/N and I go way back, right love?"

Elijah's eyes visibly darkened, the veins of his vampire part threatening to surface. The younger man didn't know what he was dealing with, and as much as it pleased you to be in possession of that particular fact, you didn't want to your garbage-like ex of a boyfriend to be the reason behind Elijah's control loss of self-control.

Levi let you go, raising his hands in mock-surrender. Eventually he did stagger away, acting in a way that made it seem like the rejection didn't hurt or that the cold stare didn't put him into submission.

Elijah pulled you to him, grasping the side of your face with his hand while inspecting your wrist with the other.

Glad that he was there to intimidate your ex-boyfriend, you leaned in to give him a peck on the lips as a thank-you.

Although your brows came together very soon.

It's not over yet.

"Stay there," You pointed to Elijah before turning around. The Original vampire didn't attempt to stop you as the noble man in him had full trust in you like always. It was one of the many things you adored about him.

"I knew you were-"

You placed your hand lightly on Levi's shoulder, halting him in his steps and turning him around to face you – beaming.

Slap!

When it came to physically and verbally attacking someone, in your case, background always mattered.

Did they deserve it? What was it in for you?

Yes, and everything.

It sure felt good when your hand met his cheek. No. It felt more than good.

Amazingly satisfying aren't even the right words.

"Leave me the hell alone." You said in his face. "Unless you want my boyfriend to break your body like a twig."

Levi didn't have a clue how serious that threat was.

With a determined look you stalked back to Elijah. "Do you want me to wipe his memory?"

You eventually came to a decision and nodded. "Wipe it clean."

***

"Brother dearest!" Klaus' voice boomed when you and Elijah crossed the entry of the Mikaelson home, hand in hand. "I got a whiff of your encounter with Y/N's past lover. I've got to admit… You handled yourself very well back there."

"Why thank you, Niklaus." Elijah said monotonely.

"How melodramatic." Klaus mused. "Am I right?"

"Yes," You agreed. "I slapped him."

Klaus grinned, "So I've heard."

Ignoring Klaus became your expertise. Shrinking his voice into the background seemed way too easy as you leaned toward Elijah.

He placed his hands on your hips, your breathing mingling together.

"I've got to find Freya."

"She's in the drawing room." He whispered, having picked up where his sister was with his hearing.

Understanding dawned his eyes, "We can't change our past, so we live together in the present, and we fight the past off together when it comes knocking at our doors."

"Thank you for…you know. Not freaking out."

"Were you always this wise?"

"No," He replied with a chuckle. "That's the millennium rubbing off me."

~

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MASTERLIST

[lillianofliterature]

protective measures | data soong x reader

a/n: this came to me while I was in the shower myself and blacking out (losing vision and hearing) repeatedly because I decided taking a hot shower was a good idea. So I suddenly pictured this scene in my head and I decided to write a fictober fic about Data being a protective partner and not dealing with my shiz – aka me ignoring the fact that I have a chronic illness and that my body can’t regulate its own temperature.

I juST WANT A SCALDING HOT SHOWER WITH NO RISKS, DARNIT.

DO NOT REPOST MY WORK.

fanfic or original work: fanfic

fandom: Star Trek: The Next Generation

prompt: (#24) “Are you kidding me?“

summary: reader has a chronic illness (POTS/Dysautonomia) and decides to do something stupid, which Data rectifies immediately.

warnings: reader has a chronic illness, playful arguing, light language

terms used: spoon = chronically ill folk like myself refer to our energy levels as spoons. For example, doing one chore or taking a shower would take up one spoon, and some days we might have three more spoons or no more spoons left to spare after that.

word count: 2.9K

music: What I Love About Charlie by Randy Newman

The soft whoosh of the door to your quarters hummed peaceably to a close behind you as you crossed the threshold of your small haven among the stars. There was a reminiscent twinge of lavender in the air from the candles you had burned before your shift, daring you to clamber under the soft duvet of your large bed and let sleep have its way with you. However, instead of such, you heaved a wearied sigh and slid your shoes off by the door, nudging them against the wall, knowing full well that you had only one spoon left to spend – and you needed a shower.

Your movement by the door warranted the attention of a certain ginger tabby who plodded up to you from her hideout under the cool recesses of the multi-tiered scratching post. The indulgent warmth of Spot’s fur comforted you as she lathered her forehead against your calves. You smiled down at her and whispered a soft greeting, granting her head a gentle pat.

When you stepped forward to make your way to the bedroom suite, she wove herself in-between your legs in the pattern of an eager infinity circle before ambling over to her half-empty dish near the replicator. A long strain of melodramatic meowing ensued.

“Spot,” - you dragged out the vowel in her name in feigned frustration and opened your dresser drawer flamboyantly for emphasis - “there’s still food left from this morning! What are you complaining about?”

I can see the shiny glint in the bottom of the bowl, she seemed to meow.

An amused chuckle left your lips as you shook your head at the begging tabby. Those piercing green orbs of hers always seemed to do the talking when she was quiet, but when she spoke so loudly like this, the “puppy dog” effect was in full swing. You would have given in, too, if it hadn’t been for the various feeding schedules you knew Data was testing.

He had been attempting to find her preferred supplement mix for the last couple of weeks, but she seemed indifferent to everything except the food she could always persuade you to give her from your own plate. After she refused so many of the different mixtures and flavors he had coded, he theorized that it might have been something to do with her feeding time rather than a picky sense of taste – and perhaps the added incentive of your spoiling her so much, which Data didn’t seem to mind.

After gathering fresh undergarments, fuzzy socks, and a comfortable set of loungewear, you crossed the carpeted floor and headed for the bathroom, passing by Spot as you went. “Data will be home soon and he’ll feed you, okay? I don’t want to interfere with the schedule he’s trying out.”

As if she couldn’t understand you – or perhaps she simply refused to acknowledge that answer – her meows kept coming until you turned the corner and disappeared from her sight. You set your wad of clothes on the stout countertop by the sink and began taking off your uniform, dropping it in a heap by the doorway to be put through the garment processor later on. With a tired, achy intake of air, you stepped inside the shower dome and began entering your preferred specifications on the small grade LCARS panel.

You were almost ready to engage the water feature of the shower – you much preferred the soothing effect it had on your body rather than the quick efficiency of a sonic shower – when you pondered in the last second whether or not to indulge in a higher temperature. Your finger rested idly above the panel that waited for your touch.

Would it be alright to let yourself have a hot shower for once? To just let the steam relax your aching muscles?

A knowing sigh escaped your lips.

It never ended well when you indulged yourself like this, even just in the simplest things. Hot showers were soothing in the moment, but as soon as the water turned off and you stepped out, your body was unable to balance its temperature and you would become absolutely drained and sometimes even purple below your knees. There were always consequences when it came to your autonomic issues – such as lasting fatigue, frequent trips to sickbay for sodium supplements to regulate your blood pressure, and even having to miss shifts on occasion.

You were of course grateful that the world around you had excelled to a point where chronically ill bodies were able to be more readily treated and accommodated, especially in a place like Starfleet, but there were still times when it was just all a bit much.

Your next thought was of Data. As your husband and closest friend, he was the best anyone could ask for, especially in your situation. He was always going the extra mile in your relationship to help you keep up with your symptoms and sure you were taking care of yourself at all times. He even checked in on you throughout the day by use of your combadges. He never hesitated to stop you from pushing yourself too far or doing something stupid – like taking a hot shower when you knew that the aftermath was never fun to deal with.

He wouldn’t approve of this at all.

But you were cold and sore from a day spent on your feet that had been riddled with dizzy spells, palpitations, and a myriad of other symptoms that hardly ever left your body. Very few things feel better than a hot soak after a long day, and a lukewarm shower just didn’t appeal to you.

Without a second thought, you raised the temperature of the water and let the hot entity coat your body in its calming pitter-patter rhythm. The heady feel of the steam enveloped you like a warm blanket and you released another sigh – this time peacefully, with a sense of long-awaited relief.

   Data passed through the door of your shared quarters and immediately noticed your shoes toppled over one another near the entryway. Subconsciously, he was acutely made aware of the sound of running water from the other room. He turned to follow the source, deducing that you were well enough to shower after a full day’s work, which was a tremendous feat for your body. Plus, it was purely ritual to say hello to each other as soon as you arrived back home. His turn of direction was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Spot, who nudged herself against his legs impatiently.

“Hello, Spot. It is nice to see you as well,” he knelt down and stroked the feline head to tail, contentedly smiling to himself as her curling spine conformed like putty to the mold of his hand, “I assume you are ready for your next helping of food, yes?”

The tabby meowed once before returning to a low purr.

“I thought you might be. It has been approximately eight hours and seventeen minutes since your last meal,” - Data scooped the satisfied cat up in his arms and carried her over to her dish, never breaking eye contact with her - “If my studies are correct, this should be an appropriate time to allow you your second portion since there has been ample time for proper digestion.”

It was only when Data had bent to reach for her dish that he realized she had only eaten a little more half of the breakfast supplement he had laid out for her. It had been infused with vitamins and other nutrients beneficial to the feline species, which he had hoped she would enjoy. Apparently, Spot was pickier than that.

Everything but the very bottom layer had been devoured, just until she reached the silver shine of the lowermost rim and left the rest to dry distastefully. His head tilted to the side as he contemplated all the possible causes for her sudden disinterest.

“Curious,” he simply stated.

Spot squirmed out of his arms and sniffed her bowl once before resting low to the ground in anticipation. Data picked up the bowl and set it onto the replicator tray. It dissolved into nothingness before being replaced by Spot’s dinner supplement, which he promptly placed on the floor. He refreshed her water dish and stroked her back dotingly as she scarfed down her food with an enthusiasm she sparingly demonstrated.

Data quirked his head to the side slightly, resolving to the realization that perhaps Spot was not meant to be understood most of the time, but rather accommodated.

When he stood, he turned back to the sound of running water with a lingering glance at his little tabby and made his way to the bathroom. He stopped short when he noticed the steam pouring out of the doorway and dissipating amongst the broad cast of lamplight on the ceiling. Without batting an eye, Data acted quickly. “Computer, override Lieutenant (L/n)’s controls of the LCARS shower panel and reset the water temperature to sixty-seven degrees Fahrenheit.”

There was a chirp as the computer relayed his directions before transmitting audibly in the living area where he stood. “Controls have been overridden. Temperature resetting.”

Data watched as the steam dissipated from the doorway and nodded to himself with an air of self-satisfaction. In a split second, there was a shriek of discomfort he had been expecting.

  You recoiled from the stream of chilled water and slammed your fingers against the LCARS panel, hitting every possible control to reheat the temperature. When it refused to respond, except with a blaring sound that indicated your action was blocked, you cursed under your breath. “Are you kidding me!?”

“Computer, why isn’t this panel responding?”

“You have been denied access to the temperature dial.”

“Denied access? By who?”

“Lieutenant Commander Data.”

You huffed in frustration, slowly inching yourself around the water and towards the curved glass door, sliding it open enough to fit your head through. “DATA SOONG!”

The sound of his solid and perfectly timed footsteps approached until you saw him standing in the doorway of your bathroom.

“What did you do to my shower?”

“I have prohibited you from endangering yourself with your chosen temperature setting.”

“Data, I’m a full-grown adult. I can choose the temperature of my own shower.”

With a pointed finger, he stepped closer. “You know as well as I that higher temperatures in your showers cause your blood pressure and internal body temperature to spiral. You have said yourself on many occasions that the immediate satisfaction is not worth the toll it takes on your cardiovascular symptoms,” - he paused only to jut his chin downwards and quirk an eyebrow at you in an imitating fashion as if to prove his point - “Have you not?”

A mock-gasp passed your lips. His matter-of-fact statement held a certain air of sass to it that you hadn’t expected—it was moments like these that made you wonder how people could think Data was incapable of his own emotions. It was so obvious in some moments, however vague or fleeting, that he was entirely capable of expressing himself.

“But it’s FREEZING!”

“I assure you, (Y/n), the temperature is not low enough to freeze. I set it myself. You are simply acclimated to the hotter setting of one hundred and nine degrees Fahrenheit. It is no doubt a shock to your body to experience such a steep decline in temperature, but it does not put you at risk,”

“The chills all over my body would beg to differ,” you muttered.

Timidly, your feet inched back under the waterfall, testing its discomfort. You kept the door slightly ajar so you could hear his impending lecture, slowly dipping your head under and rinsing the lathered shampoo from your hair. Contorting your back in what was likely not Beverly Crusher approved posture, you made sure your sopping wet hair of ice didn’t make contact with your back.

Data continued. “In fact, I have done extensive research regarding the benefits of colder bathing routines. It has been proven that cold water actually increases circulation and can reduce muscle soreness. Some results indicate that human hair and skin is greatly improved in shine and condition, causing a ‘glowing’ effect.”

While listening to your husband’s voice and internalizing his carefully researched evidence, you found it hard to stay annoyed. He was devoted to you in every possible way, even in the ways a human partner would hardly have the patience for. Despite your tendency to return to harmful habits for the sake of quick pleasure – even just a hot shower or a bite of dark chocolate – he was ever-faithful and willing to help you each and every time.

A fluttery sensation erupted in your stomach, just as it had the first day you had met him. You silently hoped that feeling would never subside.

  All while he talked, you managed to withstand the cold long enough to rinse the scrubs and creams from your body quickly enough to avoid the first symptoms of common hypothermia. When the water finally shut off under your input, you slid the door open and looked around for the towel you had evidently forgotten to set out.

When you tuned back into Data’s conversation, your ears weren’t prepared for the mental image they evoked. “-last meeting in Ten Forward, Commander Riker informed me that he prefers cold showers over the alternative. He enjoys the rush that the lower tempera-”

“I couldn’t care less about how Commander Riker and his naked ass cheeks bathe. I’m cold,” you shivered, wrapping your arms about your chest.

Without being prompted, Data turned to the linen closet where a smaller replicator was located for such a purpose. He tapped away on the panel until it replicated his entry. Grabbing the towel, he turned and unraveled it as he came to your side.

“Here,” he held it out in front of him for you to step into, “I replicated a heated towel, not unlike the heating pad you often use for easing pain. It should be far more comfortable for you.”

You stepped forward and let him wrap you into the warm cloth. A shiver wobbled your limbs briefly as he tucked the corners under your chin for you to hold in place. Glancing down, you found that your legs were, in fact, not purple. Your fingers and toes weren’t numb or tingly. You were tired from the exertion, but you weren’t nearly as dizzy. It was a pleasant change.

Perhaps Data was on to something—maybe a cold shower was better for you.

You smiled up at him, leaning into his chest. "I know I complain about how you help me sometimes, but I really do appreciate you, Data. I don't think I'd be able to stay here aboard this starship if it weren't for you. Thank you."

"It is one of the greatest pleasures in my life that I am able to help you succeed, (Y/n). However, I do not require praise for my efforts; it is what any husband would do for his wife, in any situation. It was a condition in our vows that I fully intend to honor."

Your smile broadened. "You'd be surprised at how hard it is for humans to help each other sometimes...and I still want to thank you, just for being you-- and how willing you are to put up with me."

"In that case, you are welcome. But I do not simply 'put up with you'. You are not a burden to me. I value your companionship above all else."

"I love you, too, Data," you leaned forward and pecked him on the lips, which he responded to almost eagerly.

  You made your way to the nightwear you had set out and carefully clambered into them while holding your towel to your skin as long as physics would permit. When you had dressed and disposed of the towel and your uniform, you shut the lights out and followed after Data.

He stood by the dresser and pulled out his own set of pajamas you had replicated for him some holiday past, and proceeded to change. Although he did not have the need for sleep, he did enjoy mimicking a normal life as much as possible. Not because he was a puppet or sought solely to please you, but because Data wanted to belong—not only in the wide universe of sentient, feeling beings, but also in the simple warmth shared between two people under the intimate haven of a soft duvet.

He preferred imitating sleep alongside you rather than keeping himself busy with other things in between his shifts, which consequently allowed him to roam his own memories and run the occasional diagnostics.

His most frequently visited memories were those he shared with you and his close friends, such as Geordi and Guinan. But his favorites, if he were able to choose in an emotionally attached sense, were the moments he had spent with you, down to the very millisecond. Every last detail.

With an exaggerated exhale, you plopped down on the bed and began to brush through your hair. Data had moved to the living area where he checked on Spot, making sure her water dish was full for the night and fluffing her bedding that sat primly under the wide coffee table. Your gaze drifted to his kneeling frame as he tucked her into her own blanket.

“Goodnight, Spot. I wish you sweet dreams, although I do not understand the use of the term ‘sweet’, I suspect it is used as a synonym for pleasant,” he stroked her gently as he spoke, earning a quick lick from her pink tongue, “I do not require grooming, although I do appreciate your effort. If you should need me, I will be in bed with your mother.”

The smile that crept onto your features was effortless.

[zodiyack]

A Sire And His Sired

Requested by anon: Could you do a possessive Klaus story

Pairing: Niklaus Mikaelson x reader

Warnings: Swearing, some fluff?, slight(?) angst, me not proofreading

Words: 1,218

Summary: See request + Lucien doesn’t know boundaries, especially when it comes to his sire’s beautiful lover. He’s convinced she’s a goddess, but the god that rules by her side isn’t too happy about his advances.

Taglist: @matth1w​, @redspaceace-writes​, @fandom-puff​, @darling-i-read-it​, @simonsbluee​, @jenepleurepasbaby​

Masterlist | The Originals Masterlist

“Well hello.” a smooth accent interrupted her silent and peaceful thinking. She was delighted to finally hear an accent, but within a second her smile fell as she realized it wasn’t the accent she wanted to hear. “You look absolutely divine. Who have you accompanied tonight? Or are you...alone?”

Deciding to be friendly rather than blowing everyone off until the love of her life returned by her side, she shook her head. “No, I’m not. And the name of my partner should be known by now. If you aren’t aware...god bless your poor soul.”

The man scoffed, chuckling as if he were mocking her warnings. “Duly noted, love. However...I don’t see anyone around that I should be ‘cowering just from the very thought of’. So, why not indulge me for a few moments, huh?”

It was a semi-usual occurrence. The vampires at parties trying to either hook up with or feed on her. Most of the time, it was ‘cause they weren’t sure whether she was a vampire or not and they either had forgotten or had no knowledge of the man who both fell asleep and woke up beside her.

“No thank you.” Y/n tried to push him away, giving him a polite smile as she shook her head and began to walk towards the kitchen in hope for something to clear her mind. Unfortunately, the grip on her wrist prevented her from leaving.

“My name’s Lucien, by the way. May I ask you what yours is?”

He smiled so innocently, it made Y/n sick. She knew guys like him, that they weren’t what they wanted everyone to think them to be. “No.” With one harsh pull, her wrist was free and now bring rubbed with her free hand as she stomped to the destination she had yet to reach. The kitchen was free and quiet until...

“Feisty! I love it! Listen, I’m sorry if I rubbing you the wrong way-”

“Please don’t say it like that.”

Lucien began to cackle dramatically. He wiped away a fake tear before realizing how much the joke was lacking in the making-Y/n-laugh department. “My apologies. What I’m trying to say is that I really do wish to get to know you, become your friend and all. Is there uh...anything I could do to make it up to you?”

“I’m not sure.” She wasn’t giving him nothing just because she didn’t like him or whatever. Y/n was being honest and genuine, feeling sorry for the man when he frowned and began to leave the kitchen. “But you can sit with me for a bit if you’re alright with that?”

Moments flew by in a blur, the two starting with clean slates. Of course, Lucien still had his flirty advances, but Y/n blocked them out with a simple interruption. Every time he tried to flirt with her, she’d cough or sneeze, talk or yawn, just whatever she could do to ignore him.

At some point, he’d compared her to a goddess. She didn't engage with him any further, knowing she’d make it worse had she done so. And Lucien wasn’t exactly worth the drama nor struggle.

Everything was going swell until her lover had returned. At least, for Lucien. She smiled brightly when she saw him, but the way he looked at her and Lucien made her smile fall and her heart race. Lucien even found himself doing a double-take when he saw his sire standing in the doorway.

“Nik! Glad you could join us, old friend!”

“Of course, Lucien. Why wouldn’t my beautiful Y/n be glad I’m joining you lot?”

The hybrid broke into laughter and Lucien laughed along until he realized just how serious Klaus was. “This is who your date is?” He turned to Y/n with wide eyes and a slack jaw. 

“You can’t tell me I didn’t try to warn you.” She grimaced as she avoided both males’ intense eyes. There was no stopping Nik, especially not when Lucien had already been warned of what would happen had he continued like he did.

“What’s got you so surprised, old friend?” Niklaus roared with sarcastic laughter, however, the look he was shooting at Lucien emphasized how sarcastic he really was being. If looks really could kill, Lucien would be dead more than a thousand times over.

Confident in his innocence in anything, and everything, involving his sire, Lucien frequently claimed the roll of the misunderstood character. The description was simple; yes, he was melodramatic and petty- how could anyone blame him though?

Lucien felt nothing but hatred for Klaus after everything that occurred his past with the hybrid. And though he thought it was hidden by his façade, some Mikaelsons had already uncovered their suspicions. Klaus had his doubts as well, but even if he wasn’t aware, he would still want to figure it out on his own as usual.

When Klaus swooped in to snatch Lucien’s prey just as he did Aurora a great many years ago, Lucien felt the hate grow just a little bit stronger. He was taking from him once again. “Uh- Well...” he grinned as he scoffed dismissingly, “nothing really. I was only talking to this goddess of a woman.”

“Yes, indeed, she is a goddess. However, that goddess has a god, just as a queen has a king.” Klaus began to grow more intense, determined to make his position in Y/n’s life as obvious as he could make it.

“Oh? My apologies, I didn’t know.” Lucien responded with a chuckle. ‘But...then again, you didn’t know with Aurora, did you?’ So many centuries later and he was still salty.

“Well,” he advanced towards Lucien, accent thickening and voice dropping octaves with every step he took in his direction, “now you know.”

He wasn’t intimated, only annoyed. Nevertheless, for the sake of his act, Lucien cowered slightly with a nervous waver in his voice. “Yes, heh, I suppose I do.”

“Good. Now...leave.” Klaus waited impatiently with his infamous dead eyes and victorious smirk, repeating himself with the same faux softness before Lucien left. Had Lucien ignored his command once more and stood planted beside her a second longer, Y/n was sure Klaus would’ve yelled in his face with a complexion and vision of red. Not that it’d be a new sight.

“While I didn’t enjoy your...friend’s feeble attempts of charming me, you didn’t have to scare him like that.” Y/n sighed with a smile that counteracted how stern her scolding was supposed to feel. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her into him with a dominating intent. There was no way in hell that he’d let go of her after Lucien’s little stunt, and she was well aware of that.

“You’re correct, love. I didn’t have to, yet regardless, I did just that.” He could practically feel her eyes roll against his chest as he held her close to him. The calm change in his tone brought butterflies to her gut and the smile back on her face. “You really are a goddess, you know.”

“How could I not? You never let me forget, Klaus.” Y/n giggled, Klaus’ chest heaving with his own cachinnation.

His voice lifted a few pitches with the loving chuckle-scoff that erupted from between his lips, “What kind of man would I be if I let you forget the truth, love?”

[salemorbit]

In The Beginning...

[Link x genderneutral!Reader]

warnings: none! maybe fear of heights

~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the beginning, there was a voice.

Link's eyes fluttered open as the sound echoed in his head. He wiggled his fingers as the voice got louder.

"....Link....Link...."

Slowly, he sat up. Warm water dripped away from his body as several joints cracked with the movement. He inhaled deeply, looking around the room.

The voice in his head seemed to be just that: in his head. Like his conscience, but...different. It instructed that he get up, look at the tablet on the far left of the room, pick it up, start his journey.

As Link went through the motions, he eventually made it out of the cavern that he had been in and into the sunlight. He squinted his eyes in the sun, letting them adjust slowly as he took in the land before him.

Not much was certain in this moment. Link had just woken up from a century-long nap, and now he was tasked with venturing into a world unbeknownst to his malleable brain. His memories were wiped. Was this a dream?

Link made his way down the slope, talked to the old man, learned of what he should do next. His new destination was a strange structure buried in some rock. See what happens when it interacts with his slate. Easy enough.

He had to take down some Bokoblins on the way, masterfully slicing them down with an old double axe. After the fight, Link shifted the axe in his fingers, studying the weight. Uneven. Too heavy at the head. Double the strength needed to deal effective damage. Not comfortable.

As he slid the axe onto his back, Link climbed up a small hill to continue his quest. Upon reaching the top he halted. Eyes narrowing due to distance, Link peered across the clearing to make sure he was seeing things right.

Someone was crouching around the tilted rocks, hand brushing through pebbles. The old man hadn't mentioned anyone else besides him on the Plateau.

An enemy? Link sized them up.

No, he thought, too inattentive. If they were, anyway, Link could take them. He wasn't sure where this innate confidence came from, but he seemed certain he could take them.

Gingerly stepping forward, Link approached the mysterious person. He was soon within hearing distance of their incessant muttering:

"...ground is settled too evenly for this to be a recent obstruction," you grumbled, kneeling in front of an opening to the structure. "Was it purposefully built under these rocks? How does the pedestal work? I wonder if-"

Link cleared his throat, causing you to spin around and fall onto your butt in surprise. You scrambled back quickly, shielding yourself underneath the strange structure.

"I don't have any rupees on me!" You cried. "I'm not armed! I swear!"

Link just gazed at you, eyes slightly widening. You seemed afraid. Link didn't think he was that frightening. Maybe a little bedhead from the 100-year sleep?

Link consciously smoothed the crease he formed between his eyebrows. Giving himself what he could best figure was a neutral look, Link knelt down in front of you, holding his hands up softly to show he wasn't going to draw his axe on you. You shifted after a second of silence, peering between your raised arms to see Link urging allyship.

"You're not a thief?" You gulped. Link shook his head. "How'd you get up here?"

That wasn't a question he thought you'd ask him. Not even the old man seemed to wonder that. Link looked away for a second, legitimately thinking. How did he get up here?

"Can you talk? Are you deaf?" You asked, then quickly knocked on your head softly. "No, idiot, of course he's not deaf. He answered a question."

Link smiled softly, standing up and offering you a hand. You took it hesitantly, letting him strangely easily hoist you up. As you dusted yourself off, you looked him up and down cautiously. He sure didn't look the muscly type. This guy was just as tall as you, if not a little shorter. How could he handle such a big axe with such a lean frame? Dozens of questions dotted your mind, but he didn't seem like the talking type. Instead, he lifted something from his hip and gestured toward the structure behind you.

Your mouth dropped in a quiet gasp, gawking at the tablet he held in his hands. You knew those markings. You'd seen that before in the old books...

"How'd you get a Sheikah Slate?" You asked, ungraciously tearing it from his hands. You flipped it all around in your palms, furrowing your eyebrows as you ran your fingers over the carvings and tapped the sides harshly. Link just blinked at you, still registering the snatch, when you looked back up at him. Immediately you realized your rudeness, apologizing profusely and shoving the slate back into his hands.

"Excuse that, I've been traveling alone for some time," you said sheepishly, folding your hands behind your back upon returning the slate. "I guess I forgot my manners. The question still stands, though."

Link glanced up at you then raised his finger to point up toward the mountain you wanted to check out later. You tilted your head slightly. Did he live up there?

"The cave," he said, bringing his hand back down to his side. The first two words he spoke to you brought a smile to your face. His voice was a bit crackly, probably from not talking to many people himself, but serene.

"The cave. I was going to check up there later, maybe you could show me around?"

Link gestured again toward the structure behind you, ignoring the question. You nodded, eagerly stepping aside so he could move toward the pedestal. You followed slightly behind, wondering what he could possibly do to the structure that you hadn't tried for the last week you'd been on the Great Plateau.

Link took a few looks between the slate and the top of the pedestal before slowly setting the slate flat on the top of the pedestal. An orange glow flashed from the pedestal, making you gasp again and rush over to see the situation closer.

"....Watch out for falling rocks," you read slowly. You and Link shared a look before the platform you were standing on shook like an earthquake was splitting the Plateau. You stumbled and grabbed on to the pedestal, Link widening his stance so as not to topple over himself.

The entire structure ascended where you stood, carrying you and Link skyward. The top of the structure broke through the rocks it had previously been buried under, not stopping its pierce into the sky until you were well above the ground. At some point you had shut your eyes out of fear; heights were never your thing.

When the shaking finally stopped, Link tapped on your shoulder gently. You cracked open one eyelid, still gripping onto the pedestal with white knuckles. You gulped thickly, looking up at Link with your legs shaking.

"Is it done? Did we die?"

Link shook his head, pointing out toward the edge. You really didn't want to let go of the pedestal, but your curiosity got the better of you. With knobbly knees, you slowly walked near the edge of the platform that had risen from the ground.

The entirety of Hyrule Kingdom was laid out before you, almost making you forget how goddamn high up you were. The view was breathtaking, even higher than the edge of the Great Plateau, but the wind howled in your ears and reminded you where you were.

"Goddess above, I hate heights!" You yelped, falling to your knees in an attempt to be closer to the ground. How the platform rose, you didn't know. How you were going to get down, you painstakingly also didn't know.

You were stuck.

"It's a tower," came Link's voice, strong over the wind. "What goes up must come down."

His words did little to reassure you as you nervously nodded. Noticing your intense distress, Link knelt down next to you and lifted one of your arms.

"I don't know who you think you are, mystery man," you warned, though it came out weakly due to your fear, "but I will not let you take me to any secondary location."

Link chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I can help you down."

"Goddess, no."

"I can-"

"I've decided to live the rest of my life up here, thank you very much. There will be no helping down of any kind. I either die up here or die getting down, and I've had enough dreams of falling to know that's not the way I want to go out."

A few more moments of coaxing later, and somehow you had agreed to place your life in the hands of a spindly stranger on top of the highest thing you had ever let yourself be on top of. Screwing your eyes shut, you clung onto Link as he guided you down the sides of the tower, trying so desperately not to let the whistling wind psych you out.

Soon enough, you felt the ground at your feet. Collapsing almost immediately, you melodramatically lay your face on the ground and muttered thankful prayers to the Goddess. Link watched, an amused look on his face, as you finally stood up and turned to thank him.

"I owe you one," you said stiffly, avoiding his laughing gaze. "How about you stick around and I cook you some dinner? I know a pretty good steamed meat recipe."

At the mention of food, Link's stomach grumbled loudly. This eased the tensions a tad, you smiling gladly at his turn to be embarrassed. A red tint appeared on his ears as he placed a hand on his stomach.

"I'll take that as a yes."

~~~~~~~~~

wooooooohoooooo first fic comin at you full force!! nothing too intense or fluffy or anything. just trying to get a read for how it feels to write in this format.

requests are welcome! :))