#pink lily flower delivery

[silverbrain]

The LADS when you get them flowers

coz men should be given flowers too!

Xavier

On your way back from the association on a breezy evening, you’re stopped at a red light when you spot an old woman selling a few flowers. The bright yellow sunflowers catch your eyes and you find yourself simply unable to look away.

You quickly steer off towards her, and decide to buy them, planning to give them to Xavier. You wonder what he will say, and your heart skips a beat as you imagine the surprise on his face.

You quickly scramble home and double check with Xavier who is waiting on his dinner delivery that he ordered for the two of you.

“Is that who I hope it is?”, Xavier asks from his place on the couch, leaning back to look towards the door. He had hardly moved since he had placed himself there on the sofa with his evening coffee. It was a rare day off that he had and he had found himself in a rabbit hole of conspiracy theory videos. 

“Xavier!! I’m finally free!”, you say cheerfully as you take off your shoes and enter his apartment.

He chuckles. He knows how much you hate the paperwork.

“These are for you”, you say, moving towards him, with your arm outstretched, five bright yellow sunflowers standing tall.

“What?” He looks from your face to the flowers, back to your face. “For me?”

You nod. Xavier laughs softly but he takes them quickly. “Thank you”, he says after a beat, before enveloping you in his arms.

He puts them in a vase, and doesn’t elaborate but you can see the faint blush painting his cheeks. You settle down to have dinner when he brings it up. “You know…”, he begins, “I don’t think I’ve ever been given flowers before…”, he says shyly.

He never gets used to it whenever you pick up random flowers to give him.  

Zayne

Zayne’s eyes widen when you give him the bouquet of flowers, a sophisticated set of pink tulips.

“Happy Doctor’s Day!”, you wish him. He stands there; a bit too shocked to move.

“You…got me flowers for Doctor’s Day?”, he asks, as if you had got him a pet rat instead.

“Yeah! After all, you ARE my favorite doctor”, you say, smiling.

He smiles before leaning in, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Really? Is that what I am to you? Your favorite doctor? Nothing else?”, he asks, mischievously.

“What else?”, you ponder, a finger dramatically resting against your chin.

"Maybe the funniest person you know?", he questions.

You snort, but it comes out quiet, muffled. "Hmm some days", you shrug.

Zayne laughs, the sound deep in his chest before he holds you close. "Thank you, they're very pretty."

"Are they the only thing that's very pretty?"

"Hmm. What else?", he wonders, copying you dramatically.

"There's a note", you tell him. Zayne raises an eyebrow in question before he unfolds the paper, but you stop him quickly.

"Not....now...later maybe?"

"Why...?", he asks.

"Maybe I'm shy??"

"Why?", he continues, "after all, I'm just your favorite doctor, am I not? There should be nothing in this letter that makes you so shy."

Rafayel

Poor Rafayel had been having a terrible week after he had taken up an art commission with a businessman who couldn't tell blue from purple but insisted on criticizing any sketches Rafayel sent him.

He's been calling you at least five times a day, and even though you've been trying to spend some time with him after work, you wonder if there's anything else you can do to make him feel better.

As you finish talking to him for the second time in an hour, and it’s only 11am, your eyes fall upon the plastic flower decor at the Association and a plan begins brewing in your mind.

Maybe a bouquet would cheer the man up.

On your break you decide to visit the florist by the hotpot place and send off a fat bouquet of oriental lilies with a short note. 'Hang in there fishie. I'll get back to you in no time ♡'

You can't deny you're waiting for your phone to light up in the next hour, and it does. You accept the video call, trying to hide your smile.

"Do you think you can appease me with these?", Rafayel pouts, but it's only playful.

You lean forward and laugh a little. "Is it not working. Oh...", you feign disappointment.

"I didn't say it isn't!!", he replies hurriedly. "It's just...the promise of seeing you soon is only making it harder to stop counting the minutes till I do see you..."

"Well, let these keep you company till then. I sent them with special instructions to take care of the recipient", you reply.

"Wow cutie, you can talk to flowers now?"

When you see him in the studio that evening, the flowers are in a vase right next to him, and he seems to have made some progress with his paintings. He doesn't waste a single moment before wrapping you up in his arms and peppering kisses all over your face.

Sylus

There is no love purer than mine. Sylus's words echo in your head as you walk through Vagrant's Land on the way to the Onychinus Base.

It had been some time since he had said it, but it was making your heart thump as your thoughts returned to the old couple you had met while finding Tobias. They had met so long ago, and they had been together for so long. “I didn’t know what love was before I met her”, the man had said and that had sent your thoughts into a flashback.

You think of Sylus, and you feel your cheeks flush, wondering if there was something you could do for him. As you mount your bike, ready to return, you decide to buy him some flowers. Imagining Sylus with flowers was hard, he was more suited to shiny gems or sleek metals, but his heart sure was soft as a flower.

You take a detour. Standing in the middle of the flower shop, you wonder what kind of flowers he’d like. You had some ideas, but the variety the shop had to offer was making your brain spiral. You finally decide to go with your first choice. You buy three red roses and begin the ride back home, hoping the dumb crow wouldn't tattle before you got there.

Sylus is doing ‘business’ when you get back, but he doesn’t miss the way you hurry a little.

“You’re back kitten? How did everything go?”

“Oh, you know, nothing special”, you reply. “I do have something for you, though” You cross the room quickly, giving him the flowers. He raises an eyebrow from where he’s sitting, unsure.

“Go on, it’s not a trick”, you joke.

Sylus extends his hand to accept the flowers, his fingers brushing yours softly. It builds an anticipation in you, a slight nervousness, but you look at him to find that he seems even more affected.

Sylus opens his mouth to reply, but words fail him. He closes his mouth again and raises his ruby red eyes to meet yours. “You…got these for me, kitten”

“Yup”, you answer.

He stares at them long. “Where did you get them?”

Where?! What kind of question? But before you can reply he’s standing up to wrap his arms around your waist and lift you up, causing a little squeak to escape your lips. “Thank you, dear”, he whispers, oh so quietly before he kisses your hair.

Caleb

You want to surprise Caleb with something when you visit Skyhaven for a friend’s wedding. You don’t tell Caleb you’re visiting, even though he calls you pretty frequently. You just want to see the look of surprise on his face when you catch him off guard.

You bring along a big jar of apple syrup, the special recipe that he likes, but as you type in the address in your phone, you wonder if you could somehow do more. You notice a flower shop close by and decide the colonel’s house needed some flowers to make it a home.

Caleb opens the door and stands there in shock at seeing you. When the initial shock wears off, you present the bouquet of daisies to him shyly. “For you”, you smile.

“Thank you”, he whispers, like it’s so, so precious. He kisses your cheek, then your lips, before he’s kissing all over your face and making you laugh. He’s laughing too, softly, happily.

“The things you do...You make me so happy pipsqueak”.

He takes one flower out to place it in your hair. “There, now we’re matching.”

[p0orbaby]

Born to Love You Back

summary: a very important question is on the horizon

warnings: none

a/n: some rich!reader for you all

word count: 1.7k

-

The jeweller’s salon is tucked into a narrow street in the 1st arrondissement, down a street so narrow you almost missed it, the kind of place that doesn’t need signage because everyone who matters already knows where it is. The building itself is unassuming but pristine, a five-storey townhouse with cream-coloured stone, wrought-iron balconies, a double door painted a deep charcoal with brass fixtures that gleam in the waning afternoon sun. Outside, a delivery van idles, spilling faint notes of Edith Piaf from its radio as a man unloads crates of flowers: cyclamen, lilies, eucalyptus branches arranged in bursts of green and white. They’ll likely find their way to the salon’s interior within the hour, arranged with almost mathematical precision to evoke a studied nonchalance.

Inside, it’s quiet—museum-like but less sterile, hushed but alive. There’s a balance between the soft hum of conversation from another room and the faint, barely perceptible scent of lilies and leather. The floors are a herringbone parquet, polished to an impossible sheen, and the walls are panelled in dove grey. Everything about the space is designed to whisper money. Even the receptionist, stationed behind a desk lacquered to such a high gloss that it might double as a mirror. She’s mid-twenties, probably just out of university—Sciences Po, perhaps, or one of the Grandes Écoles—wearing a black crepe shift dress that hits just above the knee. Chanel, you’d bet, though it’s hard to tell from here. Her hair is sleek and straight, parted sharply in the middle, her nails painted in Rouge Noir, a colour so iconic it’s practically shorthand for Parisian sophistication. She greets you in French first, then switches to English the moment she hears your accent, though her tone remains precisely the same—warm but not too warm, deferential but not subservient.

Aurélie is waiting for you on the stairs. She’s maybe late thirties, tall, with that certain froideur that women in her line of work cultivate like a second skin. Her blazer is Saint Laurent—black, sharply tailored, peak lapels—and her silk blouse is an ivory so fine it catches the light in a way cotton never could. Her trousers skim the tops of her Louboutin heels—black patent leather, red soles so subtle they barely register. Her jewellery is minimal but deliberate: a single strand of Mikimoto pearls, their lustre so perfect they almost look artificial, and a pair of matching studs. She smiles when she greets you, her lips painted a nude so neutral it could have come from any number of Tom Ford palettes, but you’d guess Casablanca.

“This way, please,” she says, gesturing towards the stairs with a hand that’s manicured in a soft ballet pink, not a chip in sight. You follow her up, noting the faint scent of her perfume—Chanel No. 19, not a popular choice but a discerning one, with its crisp notes of galbanum and iris that feel both professional and unapologetically feminine.

On the landing, there’s a painting—a still life, maybe Cézanne, maybe a very good imitation. You don’t stop to look, but it catches your eye enough to linger in your mind as Aurélie opens a door to the second-floor where Its quieter, darker. The walls are a deep navy—Farrow & Ball, maybe Hague Blue—and the rug beneath the central display case is thick enough to swallow the sound of your footsteps. The case itself is glass-topped and backlit, the kind of lighting that renders diamonds almost supernatural in their brilliance. The rings are arranged by cut and carat, each one nestled in its own velvet slot, the symmetry of the display both calming and slightly overwhelming.

Aurélie steps aside, giving you space but remaining close enough to anticipate your needs. She stands with her hands loosely clasped in front of her, her posture immaculate.

“Take your time,” she says, standing back with the same attentive grace she’s shown since you arrived.

You nod, your gaze already falling to the rings. You’ve thought about this for weeks, maybe months, but standing here, it feels more real, the weight of the decision settling in your chest. Not because you’re uncertain—you’re not—but because this is a moment you’ll remember, whether you want to or not.

The first ring is a cushion-cut diamond, two carats, set in a band of pave diamonds. Platinum, naturally. The proportions are flawless, the craftsmanship impeccable, but as you turn it in the light, you know immediately it’s wrong. Too ornate. Too eager. Alexia would hate it. You imagine her wearing it for a moment, and the thought feels so ridiculous you almost laugh. She doesn’t like excess, at least not in the obvious sense. Her taste is clean, modern, unfussy.

The second ring is pear-shaped, slightly smaller, but with a brilliance that draws your eye. The stone feels alive under the light, its facets catching every subtle movement of your hand. For a moment, you hesitate, thinking about how it would look on her hand, but then you remember something she said once, flipping through a magazine in bed: “Pear cuts are too delicate. They look like they’re trying too hard.”

You sigh, not quite aloud, but enough for Aurélie to notice. She steps closer, just enough to offer a quiet suggestion. “Does she have a preference?” she asks, her tone light, neutral. “For the setting, or the cut?”

“She likes things simple,” you say, the words coming out more clipped than you mean them to. It’s not her fault, this unease you feel. “Classic, but not boring”

Aurélie nods, her expression unchanged, and steps back again. You wonder if she can sense the weight of what you’re doing—if she’s seen enough of this to know the signs. The third ring catches your eye before you reach for it. A round brilliant diamond, 1.8 carats, set in a plain platinum band. No pave, no halo, no embellishments. It’s striking in its simplicity, the kind of ring that doesn’t need to assert itself because it knows what it is. You pick it up, holding it to the light, and as you turn it, something settles in you. This is the one. You don’t need to overthink it.

Aurélie smiles faintly, as though she already knew. “Shall I prepare it for you?” she asks.

You nod, handing it back, and she takes it with both hands, disappearing into a back room.

While she’s gone, you pull out your phone. You shouldn’t call her—she’s probably still at training, her mind on drills and tactics—but you do it anyway. She answers on the third ring, her voice steady but soft, with that familiar cadence you’ve missed more than you’d care to admit.

“Hey,” she says, her voice clear, grounded, with just the faintest lilt of distraction. In the background, there’s a low murmur of voices, the familiar thud of a ball meeting turf, maybe a coach shouting something that’s swallowed up by the wind. You imagine the sun slicing through the Catalan sky, the kind of relentless brightness that makes the whole city shimmer.

“Hey,” you reply, smoothing nonexistent creases from your blazer out of habit, though no one is watching. Your reflection in the polished glass of the display case looks composed, disinterested, but the sound of her voice pulls something taut inside you. “How’s training?”

“Same as always,” she says, and there’s a pause—just long enough for you to hear her exhale softly, almost imperceptibly. You know she’s stepped aside, moved to some quieter corner of the training complex where no one will overhear. She’s careful like that, never careless, always aware of her surroundings.

“Still exhausting?” you ask, and she laughs under her breath—a low, warm sound that lingers longer than it should.

“Mhm,” she hums, the sound of it makes you smile despite yourself. “But it’s a good kind of exhausting. You know how it is”

“Not sure I do,” you tease, leaning against the edge of the display case, its surface cool against your hand. “I can’t say I’ve run laps around a pitch lately. Unless you count running several businesses as exercise”

“Of course,” she says, dry but affectionate, “such an athlete. Truly inspiring”

The corner of your mouth twitches upward. “I aim to impress”

There’s a faint rustle of movement on her end—maybe she’s leaning against a wall, maybe adjusting the strap of her training bib. You picture her in that effortless way she carries herself: shorts sitting just right, socks perfectly rolled down, hair tied back in that half-loose, half-styled way that only someone like her can pull off.

“Where are you?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know, but because it’s the kind of question you ask when you want the conversation to last a little longer.

“Near Rue de la Paix,” you say, keeping it vague. “Finishing up a meeting”

“You’re always finishing up a meeting,” she says, and there’s a lightness to her tone, but it doesn’t quite hide the subtext.

“You’re always training,” you counter, matching her tone, and you hear her chuckle, soft but genuine.

“Buen punto”

There’s a brief pause. In the background, someone calls her name, a voice you don’t recognise, and she responds with a quick, sharp “Un momento.” The way she switches languages so fluidly—it’s seamless—and yet it reminds you, in a small but certain way, that her world is different from yours. Barcelona, with its golden afternoons and relentless sun, its terracotta rooftops and restless streets, feels a thousand miles away from the polished stillness of this Parisian jewellers.

“You should,” you encouraged knowing full well she’ll make no move to end the call herself.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asks, and it’s a question, but not really.

“Of course,” you say, without hesitation this time.

There’s another silence after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence you could live in, one where nothing needs to be said because the words are already understood. Finally, she says, “Te quiero,” and you hear the faint click as she ends the call.

Aurélie returns with the ring, now nestled in a velvet box so pristine it looks almost untouched by human hands. You slip it into your pocket, the weight of it grounding you, and leave the salon with a nod of thanks.

Outside, Paris feels sharper, brighter. The air smells faintly of rain and burnt sugar from a nearby crepe stand, and the light is just beginning to soften as dusk approaches. For the first time all day, you feel steady.

[delicatebarness]

barnes' girl | prologue

Summary: Your flower delivery to a major corporation takes an unexpected turn when an encounter with the enigmatic CEO, James Barnes, leaves you feeling both intimidated and intrigued. As your paths continue to cross, you find yourself drawn into a world far removed from the peaceful confines of the flower shop.

Warning: Age Gap. Power Imbalance. Intimidation. Sexual Undertones.

Word Count: 1368

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-FI

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A/N: I am incredibly ill right now and did not expect to be writing at all so I do apologize if this is terrible. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Barnes' Girl: Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in this series. | @im-alestan | @carrotlove

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @mrsnikstan

Stepping into the bustling flower shop, the scent of fresh blooms envelops you as you start another day of deliveries. Arrangements of roses, lilies, and tulips fill the space with vibrant colors and intoxicating fragrances. Above the door, the bell softly chimes, signaling your departure into the city– A particularly exquisite bouquet in hand. An imposing skyscraper of a major corporation was today’s first destination, a rare delivery for the quaint little shop.

Carefully cradling the flowers in your arms, you navigated the crowded streets until reaching the towering building. Sleek and modern, the lobby contrasts starkly with the charming disarray of the flower shop. You couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nerves as you approached the elevators. Hearing the door ding open, you begin to step inside, unbeknownst to you that James Barnes, the CEO, was stepping out. 

Suddenly, and chaotically; the collusion causes the petals to scatter across the polished, marble floor in a kaleidoscope of colors. 

“I’m so sorry, sir!” The words spilled out in a frantic rush, and you dropped to your knees, gathering the fallen flowers desperately. Your hand shook as you tried to salvage the bouquet. Panic surging through you, your heart pounding in your chest.

Mr Barnes stood above you, a towering figure of authority and magnetism. Sharp and discerning, his eyes flickered with something unreadable as he watched you. For a moment, his expression is inscrutable, then suddenly, his lips twitch as if suppressing a smile. Your breath hitched at the intensity in his gaze, as if he was sending unspoken commands that sent a shiver down your spine. 

Giving you a momentary reprieve, he looked away, clearing his throat. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you interpreted his reaction as disdain. Scrambling together the last of the petals, you muttered apologies and small comments about how your boss would be furious. 

As you manage to compose yourself, you catch sight of the now crumpled box that the flowers were in. Unbeknownst to you, Mr Barnes took a mental note of the shop’s name emblazoned on the side. You were left flustered and humiliated, convinced you had left a terrible impression on the older, powerful CEO.

~

Later that day, you were surprised to hear that he had called the shop. He explained the incident was his fault, not yours, and agreed to order flowers for the building regularly. “To brighten up the office,” he claimed, but his motives were more complex, layering with an interest that went beyond mere floral appreciation. 

The routine of delivering flowers to the building became almost comforting as the weeks passed. Yet, one morning, as you stepped into the lobby with a small bouquet of pink hydrangeas, you were unaware that he was watching, waiting for you on the cameras. The phone on the receptionist’s desk rang, echoing through the lobby, and she answered with a practiced smile. 

“Certainly, sir,” she replied, her accent thick. She turned to you after hanging up. “Mr Barnes wants you to deliver these personally today.” 

Taking the visitor key card she offered, your pulse quickened, and a mix of anticipation and dread bubbled within you. While making your way to the top floor, it was as if you could feel his gaze on you through the security cameras, a silent, omnipresent observer. The elevator doors open to the executive floor, and you step out, your grip tightening around the bouquet.

With a deep breath, you walked toward his office. The encounter of your first meeting played over and over in your mind. Ruining his suit, you felt jittery and self-conscious. Yet, as you enter his office, you see him there, every bit as intimating as you recall. His broad body was wrapped in a dark suit, attempting to look welcoming but still imposing. 

You felt small by the opulent surroundings as you hesitantly stepped further inside. “Hi… I, I’m, I brought the flowers you ordered,” your voice trembled slightly as you held up the bouquet– The vibrant pinks contrasting against the muted elegance of the office.

“Thank you, come, place them on the desk,” he instructed, his gaze never leaving yours. His voice was low, commanding yet inviting, almost like a purr.

As you made your way towards the massive glass desk, you couldn’t help but notice the way he watched your every move. His gaze followed you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Placing the flowers down carefully, you turned to face him, your heart pounding.

You begin to thank him before his low voice interrupts. “What’s your name?” You stutter as you tell him, feeling even smaller under his intense gaze. A small, almost predatory smile curved his lips. “Such a sweet little doll, tell me, are you always so clumsy?” 

Shifting uncomfortably, you felt a heat rise to your cheeks. “I… I didn’t mean to be. It was an accident.” 

A hint of amusement glinted in his eyes, his smile widening. “Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again. From now on, bring the flowers directly to me. Understood?” 

“Y-Yes, sir,” you whispered, nodding quickly. You turn to leave, his glass of whiskey in his hand catching your eye. “I b-better get going,” you stammered, slightly moving toward the door. 

“Do you not want to join this old man for a drink?” He held out the glass toward you, the amber liquid glistening in the light.

Glancing nervously at the clock behind him, you hesitated. “I really shouldn’t… I’m still on work time.” 

Raising an eyebrow, a hint of a smile still played on his lips. “Just one drink. It won’t take long.” 

Your fingers brushed against his as your trembling hands took the glass. The contact sent a shiver down your spine. “Thank you,” you whispered, nervousness and curiosity coursing through you. 

“To unexpected encounters,” he toasted, his eyes still locked onto yours.

Taking a small sip, the warmth spreads through you. “To unexpected encounters,” you echoed, your voice barely audible. 

He watched you intently, an unspoken tension thick in the air. The walls of his office seemed to close in around you, the lighting added to the intimacy of the moment. “Tell me, doll, how long have you been working at the flower shop?” he asked, leaning back in his leather desk chair slighting. 

“About six months,” you replied, your finger tapping the glass nervously. 

“And, do you enjoy it?” he asked, his gaze never wavering.

“Yes, sir, I-I do… it’s peaceful,” you said, your heart still raced but your voice became steadier. 

“Peaceful, huh?” He tilted his head, considering your words. “Not like this place,” he added with a wry smile, his whiskey glass-filled hand gesturing around the room. The walls were lined with large abstract paintings and bookshelves filled with finance, and self-improvement books. 

Taking another glance around, you took in the grandeur of his office. “It’s… very impressive,” you admitted, your eyes returning to his. 

“Oh, you think so?” His smile widened once again, amusement dancing over his piercing blue eyes. “You don’t find it… intimidating?” 

“A little,” you confessed, your cheeks growing hotter. 

“Good,” he said, his tone serious as he leaned back again. His fingers steepled beneath his chin. “It’s meant to be. But, you, doll,” he added, his expression softening slightly, “you shouldn’t be intimidated.” 

You swallowed hard, his comments catching you off guard. “I- I should really get back to the shop,” you said, your voice barely audible again. 

“If you must,” he conceded, reluctance lacing in his voice. “But remember, little doll… I expect to see you here every week with those fresh flowers.” 

“Yes, sir,” you nodded, a strange sense of excitement and apprehension rushing through you. “I, um, thank you for the drink.” 

“Anytime, babydoll,” he replied, his eyes lingering on you as you turned to leave. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as you walked back to the elevator. The marble floors echo your footsteps, and the soft hum of the employees fills your ears. The conversation replayed in your mind, every word, every glance.

The enigmatic and powerful James Barnes had taken a particular interest in you, and you realized that your weekly deliveries were about to become much more intriguing.

---

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

[pucksandpower]

Head Over Heels

Charles Leclerc x Vasseur!Reader x Carlos Sainz

Summary: in which Charles and Carlos are head over heels for you and you’re still painfully oblivious despite their best efforts

Warnings: this is a poly fic, overwhelming amounts of fluff

“Hey, Y/N! You’ve got a delivery!”

You look up, confused, as one of the mechanics hands over a beautifully wrapped bouquet. The vibrant pink roses and lilies contrast strikingly against the red of the Ferrari motorhome.

“For me? Who’s it from?” You ask, genuinely puzzled.

The attached card is simple: For someone who lights up the track without even racing.

“Must be from a sponsor or someone thanking Dad,” you muse aloud, inhaling the fragrant bouquet.

Your father, Fred Vasseur, chuckles from a few steps away, “A sponsor, you think?”

You nod, genuinely convinced, “Who else?”

Charles, emerging from his cool-down session after practice, spots you with the flowers. His heart does a little jolt, hoping you’d recognize his gesture. “Those are beautiful,” he comments, trying to sound casual.

“They are, aren’t they?” You beam, holding them out to let him get a better look. “I think they’re from a sponsor or something. It’s a nice touch.”

A small, knowing smile tugs at Charles’ lips but he just nods. “Very thoughtful of them.”

Your father watches the exchange with an amused smirk, clearly catching on to Charles’ hidden intentions. He leans in to whisper to the Monegasque driver, “You sure you want to keep it anonymous, Leclerc?”

Charles shrugs but there’s a hint of red on his cheeks, “I thought it’d be more … romantic? But I didn’t think she would be this oblivious.”

Your father chuckles, patting Charles on the back, “Give it time, son.”

The day continues and you go about your tasks, occasionally stopping to admire the flowers, still clueless about their real origin. Everyone around seems to be sharing knowing glances and subtle nudges.

Carlos, having heard about Charles’ gesture, approaches you. “Heard you got a surprise today,” he comments playfully.

You nod, beaming, “Yeah, a pleasant one. It’s always nice to be appreciated, even if it’s indirectly.”

Charles, overhearing, sighs from a distance. “I need to up my game,” he murmurs to himself.

***

“Morning, Y/N! I brought you something.”

You glance up from your paperwork to find Carlos holding out a steaming cup of coffee and a beautifully wrapped pastry. You can’t help but smile, already salivating.

“Thanks, Carlos. This is such a treat! How do you always know where to find the best coffee and pastries?”

Carlos shrugs, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles, “Oh, you know. Just lucky, I guess.”

Your father watches the exchange from a distance, laughing softly. “Carlos sure seems to have a knack for pleasing your taste buds,” he teases as he approaches.

Rolling your eyes playfully, you reply, “He’s just being friendly, Dad. Everyone loves a good pastry, right?”

Your father just raises an eyebrow, sipping his own coffee, “If you say so.”

Carlos, seeing an opportunity, chimes in, “Actually, I’ve been exploring the local bakeries in each city. You know, trying to find the best treats.” He pauses for a second, cheeks reddening ever-so-slightly, “Glad you like them.”

It’s a small confession but enough to get a teasing cheer from some of the mechanics nearby. You just laugh, assuming it’s part of the team's usual banter. “You’re too dedicated, Carlos! Thanks for always thinking of me.”

Carlos chuckles, his eyes betraying a hint of something deeper, “Anything for a … friend.”

Later, as you’re engrossed in your work, Charles passes by, subtly observing the pastry and coffee by your side. He exchanges a brief, understanding look with Carlos.

“You know,” Charles says casually, taking a seat opposite you, “Carlos wakes up an hour early just to find these for you.”

You blink, surprised, “Really?”

Charles nods, smirking, “Ask anyone here. They’ve seen him race off, rain or shine.”

Your heart swells with appreciation. “I had no idea,” you whisper, truly touched.

Carlos, overhearing, intervenes with a chuckle, “Leclerc, stop making it sound so dramatic! I just … like to start my day with a good treat, that’s all."

You smile warmly, taking a sip of your coffee, “You’re such a good friend, Carlos. I’m lucky to have you looking out for me like this.”

Carlos nods, swallowing down a hint of disappointment, “Always, Y/N. Just looking out for a friend, right?”

Your father passing by, catches the tail end of the conversation. He winks at Carlos, teasing, “Oh, absolutely. Just a friend.”

Carlos shoots him a mock glare but there’s a smirk on his lips. “Exactly. Just doing what any good friend would do.”

You laugh, completely missing the underlying tension, “Well, here’s to more coffee-filled mornings. Thanks, friend.”

Carlos raises his cup in a mock toast, “To friendship.” But there’s a certain longing in his eyes, a silent hope that someday friendship might evolve into something more.

***

“Y/N, have you ever thought of getting behind the wheel?”

You glance up from your notes, finding Charles leaning against your desk, a mischievous glint in his eye. You laugh, “Of a race car? Surely you’re joking.”

He shrugs, an inviting smirk on his face, “Who better to teach you than a Ferrari driver?”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Are you offering?”

Charles nods. “Why not? It’ll be fun and maybe you’ll get a new appreciation for what we do.”

You consider it. “Alright, when?”

“How about after tomorrow’s practice session? The track will be free.”

Carlos, overhearing the conversation, interjects, “Planning some secret training without me?” His tone is playful but there’s an underlying hint of jealousy.

Charles grins, “Just thought I’d offer our friend here a little taste of the track life.”

You chuckle, “Don’t worry, Carlos. If I crash, I promise I’ll come to you for my second lesson.”

Carlos smirks, “I’ll hold you to that.”

The following day, after the practice session, you find yourself clad in a racing suit, helmet in hand, feeling a mixture of excitement and nerves. Charles approaches, looking much more confident than you feel.

“Ready?” He asks, voice full of anticipation.

You nod, gulping down your anxiety. “As I’ll ever be.”

The next hour is a blur of acceleration, sharp turns, and the roar of the engine. Charles proves to be a patient and encouraging teacher, guiding you through the intricacies of handling a race car. The adrenaline, the rush, and the sheer power of the machine are intoxicating.

At one point, as you glide around a particularly challenging curve, Charles whoops in delight from the passenger seat, “That’s it, Y/N! You’re a natural!”

Your laughter rings out, pure and genuine, “Maybe I’ve found my new calling.”

As the session comes to an end and the two of you climb out of the car, Carlos approaches, clapping. “Not bad for a rookie,” he teases.

You playfully shove him, “Thanks to my excellent instructor here.”

Charles laughs, ruffling your hair, “You were great, seriously.”

Carlos nods in agreement, “I guess I’ll be out of a job soon.”

You roll your eyes, “One lesson and suddenly I’m a pro? You flatter me. But seriously, this was amazing. Truly. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Charles grins, “Anytime. And remember, there’s always more to learn.”

Carlos smirks, “And more instructors available, just in case.”

You laugh, “I’ll keep that in mind. For now, let’s celebrate me not crashing the car!”

As you all head off, you link arms with Charles, “You know, for a moment there, I felt the thrill you must feel during races. Thanks for being such a good friend and showing me that world.”

Charles smiles softly, a pang of both happiness and a touch of disappointment at the word you used. “Of course. Anything for a friend.”

Carlos, observing from a distance, shares a knowing look with Charles. The message is clear: the race is far from over.

***

“Hey, Y/N. Can’t sleep?”

You’re startled to find Carlos waiting by the hotel lobby, a charming smile playing on his lips. The clock on the wall reads just past midnight.

You rub your eyes, yawning, “No, not really. Jet lag, I guess.”

Carlos gestures toward the entrance, “How about a midnight stroll? I know this beautiful spot nearby.”

You hesitate for a moment but then nod, intrigued. “Sure, why not? Lead the way.”

The two of you step out into the cool night to find the quiet city bathed in soft light. The silence is comfortable as you walk side by side.

As you amble along, you can’t help but wonder, “Why are you up so late?”

He glances at you, “Couldn’t sleep either. And I thought maybe you’d enjoy some company.”

You smile, touched by his thoughtfulness. “That’s really sweet of you.”

He points to a quiet park with a pond, its surface shimmering with the reflection of the moon. “Here we are. This place always helps me clear my head whenever we’re in town for a race.”

You settle on a bench and Carlos quickly sits beside you, shoulders brushing lightly.

The night unfolds with shared stories and laughter. Carlos opens up about his journey in racing, the challenges he’s faced, and the moments of triumph. You listen intently, feeling a newfound connection.

As the hours slip away, Carlos admits with a soft chuckle, “You know, I’ve never brought anyone here before.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Really? Why me?”

Carlos smiles, the moonlight illuminating his face. “Because you’re special. You’re different from anyone I’ve met on or off the circuit.”

A warm feeling washes over you. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

He turns toward you, his gaze intense, “Y/N, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say. Something I’ve been feeling for a while.”

But just as he’s about to speak, you yawn loudly, unable to hide your exhaustion any longer. “Sorry. I guess jet lag finally caught up with me.”

He chuckles, disappointment flickering in his eyes, “No worries. Let’s head back.”

When you reach the hotel entrance, Carlos bids you goodnight, his voice tinged with a hint of longing. “Get some rest. We’ll have a busy day tomorrow.”

You smile sleepily, giving him a friendly hug, “Thanks for the midnight adventure. It was nice.”

He holds you for a moment longer than usual before pulling away, “Anytime. Sweet dreams.”

***

“Another one? Seriously?”

You chuckle, pulling out a small folded note from your jacket pocket, the fifth one this week.

“The world’s fastest circuits are slow compared to how fast you make my heart beat.” You read aloud, your cheeks warming at the words.

Carlos, seated nearby, smirks, “Someone’s clearly smitten with you. Any idea who?”

You shrug, “I figured they’re just motivational notes from the team. You know, to keep spirits up.”

Charles joins in, trying to keep his face neutral, “They’re quite poetic for just team motivation, don’t you think?”

You ponder his words, tilting your head. “I guess? But who would be sending them?”

Carlos snorts, “Oh, come on! It’s so obvious.”

You shoot him a confused look, “It is?”

Carlos and Charles exchange a glance, silently communicating. Charles, deciding to have a bit of fun, teases, “Well, they’re definitely from someone who admires you. And since they’re always hidden in places only the team has access to, it’s likely from someone here.”

Carlos nods in agreement, “Sounds about right.”

You laugh, shaking your head, “You guys are just trying to rile me up. It’s probably just one of the pit crew playing a prank.”

Charles, a touch defensive, says, “You might be surprised. Maybe you have a secret admirer closer than you think.”

Your father, passing by, overhears the conversation and chuckles, “It’s about time she figures it out.”

You stare, completely baffled, “Figures what out?”

He just winks, patting Charles on the shoulder, “Keep trying.”

Your day is filled with speculation and curious glances, with everyone seeming to be in on a secret that you aren’t privy to. The notes, while touching, become a source of playful teasing.

That evening, as you prepare for bed, you find another note tucked inside your notebook: Your passion and dedication make even the toughest races feel like victories.

You can’t help but smile. “Who are you?” You whisper to yourself.

Little do you know, just a few rooms away, Charles is scribbling down another note, his heart set on winning yours, one word at a time.

***

The night is electric, the post-race party in full swing, music thumping and lights reflecting off the crystal-clear waters of the pool.

“Y/N! Join us for a dance?”

You turn, finding Carlos standing there, his hand outstretched and a playful smile on his face.

You laugh, “You’ve seen me dance. You sure you want to take that risk?”

He chuckles, pulling you closer to the dance floor, “For you? Always.”

As the music shifts to a slower, more intimate tune, you feel a bit self-conscious. But Carlos guides you gracefully, making you feel as if you’re the only two people in the world.

“See? You’re a natural,” Carlos murmurs, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

You chuckle, “Or you’re just an excellent lead.”

Carlos smirks, “Could be both.”

Throughout the night you share more dances, both with Carlos and a few with Charles, who also proves to be quite the dancer. Each time you’re spun, dipped, or drawn close, there’s an electric charge, a connection that’s impossible to ignore.

“Enjoying yourself?” Charles asks during one dance, his voice soft and sincere.

You nod, “Very much so. It’s not every day I get to dance with Ferrari’s finest.”

Charles smirks, “Glad to be of service. You’re quite the dancer yourself, you know.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re just saying that.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I mean every word.”

Before you can process his statement, Carlos swoops in, teasing, “Mind if I cut in?”

Charles sighs, releasing you, “Go on but save the next one for me.”

Carlos, dancing you away, smirks, “He’s quite smitten with you.”

You laugh, “Oh, stop. We’re just friends.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow, “Are you sure about that?”

You nod, “Absolutely.”

Carlos, holding you a bit closer, murmurs just low enough so only he can hear, “And he’s not the only one who’s smitten.” The hint of longing in his eyes remains hidden to you as the dance continues.

***

“Welcome to the local side of my home!” Charles exclaims with an open gesture, Monaco sprawling before you in all its glory.

You gaze around, taking in the sights of the city. “It’s beautiful. The tourist traps and casinos really don’t do it justice.”

He grins, obviously proud. “I thought you’d appreciate a personal tour. Ready?”

You nod enthusiastically, “Absolutely.”

Charles leads you through winding streets, each corner revealing another story, another memory. “This is where I had my first gelato,” he shares, pointing at a quaint little shop. “And over there,” he gestures to a narrow cobblestone lane, “is where I learned to ride a bike.”

You chuckle, “Really? These streets seem a bit treacherous for a kid on a bike.”

He laughs, “Let’s just say there were a few scrapes and bruises.”

As you continue, Charles points out his favorite viewpoints, cafes, and even his childhood home. It’s an intimate glimpse into his world and you feel honored.

“You know,” you say, pausing to gaze out over the harbor, “it’s one thing to know someone as a colleague and it’s another to really know them. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Charles looks at you, genuine warmth in his eyes. “I wanted you to see where I come from, the place that shaped me. Who better to share it with than you?”

You smile, touched. The two of you continue, with Charles occasionally slipping his hand into yours, guiding you along.

Towards the end of the tour, you stop at a cozy café overlooking the sea. As you sip your drinks, Charles leans in, his tone serious. “Y/N, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

You look up, curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

Before he can speak, his phone rings. Glancing at the caller ID, Charles sighs. “It’s the team. I have to take this.”

You nod, understanding. “Go ahead.”

When Charles hangs up, he looks apologetic. “I’m so sorry. Duty calls.”

You smile, reassuringly, “It’s okay. Today was special. Thank you.”

Charles nods, hesitating for a moment, as if wanting to say more. Instead, he simply leans in, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. “Until next time.”

***

“Oh, this doesn’t look good,” you mutter, noticing the looming dark clouds as you hurry through the paddock.

Before you can take another step, raindrops start to fall, quickly morphing into a torrential downpour. You’re caught in the middle, water soaking your clothes and making your paperwork soggy.

From a distance, Carlos notices your plight. “Y/N!” He calls out, already running towards you with an umbrella in hand.

By the time he reaches you, you’re thoroughly drenched, strands of hair stuck to your face. “Took a sudden shower, did we?” He teases, even as he huddles you under the umbrella.

You chuckle, shivering slightly, “It seems so. Thanks for the rescue.”

Carlos slips off his jacket and wraps it around you. The warmth of it, combined with his scent — a mix of cologne, fresh rain, and something uniquely Carlos — is comforting.

“You’re getting soaked!” You protest, noticing his wet shirt clinging to his toned body.

Carlos just shrugs, “You needed it more than I did.”

As the two of you find shelter from the storm, the tension between you is palpable. The rain has created a sudden intimacy and you’re both acutely aware of each other.

“Better?” Carlos asks, his voice softer than usual, noticing you inhaling the scent of his jacket.

You nod, cheeks heating up. “Yeah. Smells like ... well, you.”

He smirks, “Is that a good thing?”

You glance up, meeting his gaze, “Definitely.”

There’s a pause, a shared moment where neither of you needs to speak. The rain pattering outside creates a rhythmic backdrop to the charged atmosphere.

Carlos breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper, “Y/N, I …”

You lean in, “Yes?”

Just then, a gust of wind blows the umbrella out of Carlos’ hand, startling the both of you. The sudden distraction breaks the intensity of the moment and you both laugh at the absurdity of it.

Carlos, trying to chase the runaway umbrella, calls out, “Rain check?”

You laugh, trying to calm your racing heartbeat, “Quite literally.”

***

“You won’t believe what Carlos did this time,” Antonio, one of the lead engineers, whispers to Paolo, a senior mechanic.

You’re nearby, checking the equipment for the upcoming practice session, but their hushed conversation catches your attention.

Paolo chuckles, “Can’t be crazier than what Charles tried last week.”

Antonio smirks, “Trust me, it’s right up there. Both of them, head over heels, and all for the same girl.”

Your curiosity piqued, you edge closer, feigning interest in a nearby tire. “Who is it?” You wonder internally, trying to think of any new female team members or journalists that might have caught their eye.

Paolo, clearly enjoying the gossip, leans in, “You think she has any idea?”

Antonio shakes his head, “Nope. She’s completely in the dark. It’s actually kind of adorable how clueless she is.”

You bite your lip, even more intrigued. “Who could it be?” You muse.

Deciding to join in the speculation, you casually approach, “Hey, what’s this I’m hearing about someone making our drivers lose their heads?”

Both men look up, surprised to see you so close. Antonio stammers, “Oh, hey Y/N. Just, um, some silly paddock rumors.”

Paolo, trying to divert the topic, adds, “You know how it is. People love making up stories.”

You nod, playing along, “Of course. But, come on, spill. Who’s the lucky girl? Anyone I know?”

Antonio and Paolo exchange glances, trying to gauge how much to reveal. Antonio finally speaks, “Let’s just say she’s someone who is always around but seems to be missing all the signs.”

You laugh, “Sounds like she’s got her head in the clouds. I can’t wait to find out who she is.”

Paolo grins, “Oh, it’ll come out eventually. These things always do.”

***

The meet-and-greet in Maranello is packed to the brim. Fans from all over the world have gathered to meet their favorite drivers and the team uniform you’re wearing means you’ve gathered a considerable crowd around you too.

As you sign autographs and chat with fans, you notice a group of them exchanging knowing glances and excited whispers.

“Y/N,” one brave fan begins, “we’ve got a question for you.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Sure, fire away.”

The fan clears their throat, “We’ve been following you and the drivers closely, and, well, we couldn’t help but notice something.”

You exchange a curious look with them, “Notice what?”

Another fan chimes in, “You see, Charles and Carlos, they ... they seem to be really close, you know, off the track.”

You nod, “Yeah, they’re good friends.”

A third fan interjects, ‘It’s more than that, though. We think they’re totally into someone.”

You chuckle, thinking they’re just indulging in the typical gossip. “Well, they are both very passionate about racing if that’s what you mean.”

The fans exchange disappointed glances. “She really doesn’t get it,” one of them whispers.

But they’re not giving up that easily. Another fan seems to have a plan. “Okay, Y/N, hypothetical scenario. What if these two drivers were in a race not for points but for something else?”

You’re intrigued, “What do you mean?”

The fan grins, “Imagine if they were trying to win someone’s heart and that someone is right here, oblivious to it all.”

You laugh, amused by their playful scenario. “That would be quite the competition.”

They exchange triumphant glances, “Exactly! So, who do you think this lucky person is?”

You shrug, genuinely not knowing who they’re referring to, “I have no idea. Probably some lucky girl out there.”

The fans let out an exaggerated groan, “She really has no clue.”

Another fan leans in, conspiratorial, “What if we told you that this lucky person is not some random girl but someone they work closely with?”

“What do you mean?”

The fans exchange sly grins, “We mean, what if the person they’re vying for is ... you?”

Your eyes widen in surprise and you laugh, thinking they’re just pulling your leg, “Me? That’s crazy. They’re just my friends.”

The fans share a look of exasperation and one of them sighs, “She’s hopeless.”

***

“Alright, everyone, gather around! Intervention time!” Your father announces, drawing you into the center of the group of staff that were gathered on the first floor of the Ferrari motorhome.

You look around, bewildered. “What’s going on?”

Paolo, chuckling, pats your shoulder, “You’ve got the observational skills of a goldfish.”

You pout, “Hey! I notice things.”

Antonio snorts, “Oh, really? Do you recall Monaco? During the team photo?”

You nod, confused, “Yeah, we were all there.”

Antonio grins, “Carlos was standing right next to you. Instead of giving a thumbs-up like everyone else, he made a heart sign with his hands right behind you. Literally, right behind your head.”

Eyes wide, you protest, “He did?”

Your father chimes in, “And remember in Silverstone? When you lost that bracelet your mother gave you?”

You nod, “Yes, I was devastated.”

He continues, “Charles spent the entire night searching for it. He found it at 3 am and then hand-delivered it to your room.”

Antonio adds, chuckling, “Wearing those ridiculous race car pajamas, I might add.”

You blink, processing the information, “I thought I just dropped it while getting dressed ...”

Paolo, shaking his head in amusement, recounts, “During the team BBQ, Carlos grilled those vegetarian sausages especially for you. Remember wondering why we had them?”

Your cheeks turn a shade redder, “I just thought he was being considerate for the vegetarians on the team.”

Your father laughs, “We don’t have any other vegetarians on the team, darling.”

Antonio recalls another incident, “In Spain, during that heatwave? Charles, out of nowhere, had a mini fan delivered to you. Said it was team equipment.”

You gasp, “That was him?”

Paolo, grinning, continues, “Ever wonder who leaves those freshly peeled oranges on your desk every race day? That’s Carlos’ handiwork.”

You shake your head in disbelief, “But … why?”

Your father steps forward, placing a comforting arm around you, “Sweetheart, it’s because they’re both completely smitten with you. And while it’s entertaining for us to watch, it’s also driving the entire team bonkers with every passing day that you don’t realize.”

You look around, taking in the nodding heads and amused expressions, “I ... I had no idea.”

Antonio chuckles, “Clearly.”

Paolo adds, “It’s like watching a rom-com unfold right before our eyes, only you seem to have missed the entire plot.”

You laugh sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck, “Okay, maybe I’ve been a bit oblivious.”

Your father smirks, “A bit oblivious? That’s like saying Ferrari is known for being a bit red.”

Antonio gives you a friendly pat on the back, “Welcome to the real race, Y/N. Buckle up.”

***

Carlos clears his throat, his usual confidence replaced with a rare nervousness, “Y/N, can we talk? Like, really talk?”

You drop what you’re doing, “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Charles, appearing from the shadows, adds, “Actually, I’d like to be part of this conversation as well.”

You’re taken aback. “Alright, you both have my attention.”

Carlos begins, running his fingers through his hair, “You know, racing isn’t just about speed. It’s about timing, making the right move at the right moment.”

Charles nods in agreement, “Sometimes, you wait too long and the opportunity passes you by.”

You squint, trying to decipher their cryptic words, “Are we talking about racing or ...?”

Carlos exhales deeply, “This isn’t about racing. This is about ... us. You, me, Charles.”

Charles interjects, his gaze intense, “It’s about feelings. Ones that have been growing and evolving.”

You swallow, your heart pounding, “I think I know where this is going.”

Carlos, his voice laced with vulnerability, confesses, “Every time I do something hoping it will make you smile, every time I go out of my way just to be near you ... it’s not just because of friendship.”

Charles adds, “And every gesture, every moment we’ve shared, it’s been my way of trying to show you how I feel.”

Your eyes well up with emotion, “I ... I gained an inkling just recently but I still wasn’t sure.”

Carlos takes a deep breath, “We’re not just talking about individual feelings here. What we’re trying to say is we both care for you and we’ve discussed it. We both want to be with you and for the three of us to explore this ... together.”

Charles nods, “We want to navigate this track as a trio. If you’re willing.”

Carlos steps closer, his eyes searching yours, “We just needed you to know. Whatever you decide, we’ll respect it.”

Charles nods, “Just ... take your time. We’re here, no matter what.”

You take a deep breath, “I need some time to think, to process all of this.”

Carlos offers a soft smile, “Of course, Y/N. We understand.”

Charles gently places a hand on your shoulder, “We’ll wait, however long it takes. Your feelings matter to us. You matter to us.”

***

“Safety car deployed, safety car deployed!” The voice over the radio jolts you into high alert.

“What happened?” You ask anxiously, watching the large screen that displays the race.

Your father’s voice shakes slightly, “Multi-car collision at Turn 4. I can’t see which cars are involved yet.”

Your heart races, thinking of Charles and Carlos. “Please, let them be okay.”

Paolo, eyes glued to the live feed, mutters, “This looks bad.”

The images on the screen show plumes of smoke and debris scattered across the track. The safety car slows the procession of vehicles and you can see marshals running toward the crash site.

Suddenly, Charles comes on the radio, sounding strained but intact, “I’m okay but Carlos ... I can’t see Carlos.”

A weight settles in your stomach. Panic floods your veins. “Please, no.”

His race engineer’s voice cracks with urgency, “Carlos, if you can hear me please respond.”

What feels like hours pass but in reality it’s only seconds before Carlos’ shaky voice breaks through, “I’m here ... I’m okay. Got a bit shaken but I���m fine.”

You slump in relief, tears pricking your eyes. The reality of how precious life is and how quickly things can change hits you like a tidal wave.

Once the chaos subsides and both Charles and Carlos are confirmed safe, you rush out to the pits, needing to see them with your own eyes.

Charles, spotting you first, rushes over, his race suit smeared with dirt and sweat. Without a word, he pulls you into a tight embrace, the tension and relief palpable between you two.

Carlos joins, wrapping his arms around both of you, his breathing still slightly labored from the shock.

You pull away, tears streaming down your face, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

Carlos musters up a hint of a smirk, “Didn’t plan to, trust me.”

Charles adds softly, looking deep into your eyes, “It makes you realize what’s really important.”

You nod, your decision clear. The events of the day, combined with the confessions of the previous week, cement your feelings. “Life is short. Too short not to be with who you care about.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow, “Does that mean ...?”

You smile, nodding, “Yes. I want to be with both of you. We’ll figure it all out together.”

***

“France in winter is so enchanting,” Carlos muses as you all stroll through the snow-covered streets of your hometown, having flown there right after the end of the season.

You laugh, “You should see it in spring.”

Charles wraps one an arm around your waist and the other around Carlos, “With you as our guide, I’m sure every season is beautiful.”

The moment you all step into your family home, the familiar smell of your favorite dish wafts through the air. “Ah, maman’s coq au vin!” You exclaim.

Carlos looks intrigued, “What’s that?”

“It’s a traditional French chicken stew,” Charles explains, revealing his fondness for it too.

At the dinner table, your father raises a toast, “To family, old and new.” It’s a nod to Charles and Carlos, welcoming them into the fold.

Throughout the night, more wine is poured and stories are exchanged. Heading about your childhood misadventures makes Carlos chuckle and Charles smirk as your mother brings out the photo album no matter how much you beg her to save you the embarrassment.

Your grandmother pulls you aside and whispers, “It’s beautiful, cherie, how the heart can expand to make room for more love.”

***

Next stop: Monaco. Before you can even ring the doorbell to Charles’ family home, Lorenzo swings it open, his grin wide. “Ah! The infamous new trio. We’ve heard so much about you.”

You laugh, “All good things, I hope?”

Arthur, joining Lorenzo at the doorway, smirks, “Mostly just about how our dear Charles here can’t stop talking about you.”

Charles rolls his eyes, a hint of red tinting his cheeks. “Can we not start with the teasing five seconds in?”

Carlos chuckles, elbowing Charles lightly, “It’s what brothers are for, right?”

Lorenzo nods, winking at you, “Oh, absolutely. You should’ve seen Charles when he was younger. Always getting into mischief.”

Arthur, with a gleeful glint in his eyes, adds, “Remember that time with the go-kart?”

Charles groans, “Do we really have to bring that up now?”

“Oh, but now I’m curious.”

Lorenzo, not missing a beat, narrates, “Our dear Charles decided to modify his go-kart engine. Let’s just say it ended up in the neighbor’s pool.”

Carlos bursts into laughter, “I wish I’d seen that!”

At one point, when Charles steps out to take a call, Lorenzo leans in, “In all seriousness, we haven’t seen Charles this happy in a long time.”

Arthur nods in agreement, “Whatever you two are doing, keep it up. It’s good for him.”

***

The three of you touch down in Spain to ring in the New Year. The evening is filled with laughter, traditional music, and the tantalizing aroma of home-cooked meals. As midnight approached, Carlos’ mother brings out individual bowls filled with glistening grapes.

“You know about the Spanish tradition, right?” Carlos asks.

You shake your head.

Carlos explains, “At the stroke of midnight, for every chime of the clock, you eat a grape. Twelve chimes, twelve grapes. It’s said to bring good luck for the coming year.”

You chuckle, eyeing the bowl, “Sounds easy enough.”

It was not easy.

The first chime rings out and everyone pops a grape into their mouth. By the fourth chime, you’re struggling, laughter bubbling up around a mouthful of the fruit as you desperately try to keep up.

Charles, equally struggling, shoots you a wide-eyed look, grapes nearly falling out of his mouth.

Carlos, on the other hand, seems to have mastered the art, smoothly munching away, though his eyes reveal his suppressed laughter.

As the twelfth chime rings out, you finally manage to swallow the mouthful, gasping for breath air rounded by the hearty laughter of Carlos’ family.

Carlos’ father claps you and Charles on the back, “Well done! You two are practically Spanish now.”

You laugh, wiping away a tear, “I think I’ll need a few more years of practice.”

Carlos grins, wrapping an arm around you, “Don’t worry, we will have many more New Years for you to perfect it.”

***

The sun casts a golden hue on the beach, the waves gently lapping at the shore. Your feet are buried in the soft sand and you lean back, enjoying the feeling of warmth on your skin.

Taking a moment to appreciate the surroundings, you sigh, “The view is so breathtaking.”

Charles, reclining beside you with sunglasses perched atop his head, follows your gaze. His eyes, however, are not on the horizon but on Carlos, who’s emerging from the water, droplets glistening on his toned body. Without missing a beat, Charles replies flirtatiously, “Yes, he definitely is.”

Carlos laughs as he approaches, water dripping from him, “You two are impossible.”

You smirk, “Well, can you blame him? You do look quite ... impressive."

Carlos, towel now draped around his neck, grins, “Is that so? Maybe I should spend more time at the beach then.”

Charles mock pouts, “And less time with your car?”

Carlos pretends to think about it, “Tough choice. But I think I can find a balance.”

***

“Look who’s back and glowing!” Paolo greets as the three of you walk into the paddock together for pre-season testing.

Antonio joins in the teasing, “Carlos, you’ve got that sun-kissed tan going on and Charles ... did you forget the sunscreen again?”

Charles laughs sheepishly, touching his slightly reddened nose, “Apparently, I just burn.”

Carlos smirks, “We tried but some people are just destined to be crispy.”

You laugh, nudging Carlos, “Don’t be mean. But … we did have that one day when he turned a shade that matched the Ferrari.”

***

“Here’s to the dream team!” Antonio raises his champagne flute, his eyes shimmering under the bright lights of the party.

Charles, holding his second-place trophy, grins, nudging Carlos who’s proudly holding his first-place one. “Feels pretty good to have another double podium, doesn’t it?”

Carlos laughs, “Only because I’m one step higher!”

“Hey! It was the other way around last weekend,” Charles pretends to sulk.

You roll your eyes playfully, “Children, children. Share your toys nicely.”

Paolo chimes in, “It’s not just about the podium finishes. The energy this season ... it’s been different, more vibrant.”

Charles takes a moment, his gaze flitting between Carlos and you. “Well, happiness does tend to have that effect.”

Carlos wraps an arm around you both, pulling you close. “I couldn’t have said it better.”

***

“You would think that after all these years, I’d have gotten the hang of it,” your father laments, eyeing the bowl of freshly washed grapes in front of him.

Carlos’ mother laughs, patting his arm, “You’ll do just fine this time, Fred. We’ve all been practicing.”

Charles smirks, glancing at his brothers, “Oh, trust me, they’ve turned it into a competitive sport. Last year, Lorenzo managed to eat an extra grape by mistake!”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes, “One time! And I blame Arthur for distracting me.”

“Okay, it’s almost time,” Carlos says. “Remember, the key is not to rush.”

You chuckle, “Says the man who’s been acing this since he was a kid.”

Carlos winks, “Natural talent.”

The clock begins to chime, marking the impending arrival of the New Year. Everyone takes their positions, holding their grapes, waiting for the signal.

As each chime rings out, laughter fills the room. The past mishaps with the grapes only make the current attempt all the more entertaining.

When the twelfth chime fades, everyone erupts in cheers. Even your father, much to his delight, has successfully completed it in time.

Charles wraps an arm around you, “Another year, another challenge conquered.”

Carlos steps up to kiss both of you, tasting distinctly of grape, “With many more to come.”

You smile, looking around at the blending of families, the fusion of traditions, and the love that fills the room. “I can’t wait to spend every New Year together with you for the rest of our lives.”

[funnyjb]

Sparks

Summary: what happens after childhood friends met again and feel a certain spark?

————————————————————————-

2022

A regular October morning. The grey clouds covering the bright sun. The wind blowing leaves into the street. Lattes and books are all you need.

Your flower shop called Lily’s Bloom named after your late grandmother who you called your best friend was flourishing. Many customers in and out each day. Pretty colored flowers filled the walls and tables.

Your regular routine as always is to check inventory, look for any dead flowers, check appointments, and make sure deliveries are set up.

You lit a pumpkin spice candle and started to make a special bouquet for a client who is supposed to pick it up soon. They ordered pink peony’s, white baby’s breath, and pink roses. Also adding a special note.

The bouquet was set and so was the note. Now you just have to wait.

An hour later

The bell rings as the door opens. Your head was down trying to plan out your events in your notebook.

“Hey, I’m picking up for Joe.”- joe

A tall muscular man stands in front of you. His green long sleeve shirt and grey sweatpants.

You look up

“Joe?”- you

“Y/n? I didn’t recognize you!”- joe

You walked over to him to embrace him in a hug

You laugh

“Yeah, I use contacts now and got rid of the bangs.”- you chuckle

“Wow! I haven’t seen you since high school graduation. How have you been? How’s your parents?”- joe

“I’ve been good! Opened the shop last year and it’s been wonderful! My parents have been good though. They always tell me how they see your parents all the time.” How are they?”- you smile

“They’re great! You know them, always doing stuff around town and call 24/7.”- Joe laughs

“Never changed…well let me get your bouquet.”- you

“Thanks.”- joe

You walk back into the store where the bouquet was being kept. You walked back out with a beautiful bunch of flowers in your hand.

“Wow! This looks amazing, thank you.”- joe says as you hand it to him

“Thank you! Wonderful assortment you picked out.”- you smile as you walk to the computer for him to pay.

“Thanks. I tried my best. It’s my mom’s birthday so I wanted to get her flowers with a few gifts.”- joe

“Well, that’s very sweet. I’m sure she will love it.”would you tell her I say happy birthday?”-you

“Of course. She still asks about you.”- joe

Really? Well I’ve always loved your parents. Always welcoming and kind.”- you

“That’s them.”- joe smiles

You smile back.

“Ok, your total comes out to $76.00.”- you

He hands you his card and you scan it. You hand it back. His hand grazes yours.

“Thank you.”- joe

“Of course! Hope your mom likes the flowers and the gifts.”- you smile

Joe laughs as he waves goodbye and walks out.

I can’t believe that just happened.- you thought

————————————————————————-

A day later

“I can’t believe it! He’s hot, y/n. You should have shot your shot.”- kelly

“No, he probably has a girlfriend and that’s weird.”- you

“He actually doesn’t. We would have known by now.”- kelly

You give her a stare

“Just saying,y/n. You should have given him your number.”- kelly

“Well, he has the store number.”- you

“Eh, that doesn’t really count.”- kelly

You both laughed.

————————————————————————

Couple days later

You were walking along the street trying to get to brunch with kelly. Your brown boots making a noise on the sidewalk and your long coat keeping you warm. As you were looking down at your phone texting kelly you will be there in ten you bumped into a large broad chest.

“Oh- I’m so sorry.”- you look up

“It’s o- y/n?”- joe

“Oh-hey Joe!”- you

“Hi, where are you off to?”- joe

“I’m going to meet kelly for brunch! Where are you off to?”- you smile

“You’re still friends with kelly? Every time I hung out she tried to make a move on me.”- joe

“That sounds like kelly.”- you

“Yeah…anyway I was just picking up some take out.”- joe

“That’s nice, well enjoy and good luck on Sunday!”- you saw as you walk away

“Thanks, y/n. Tell kelly I say hi.”- joe winks

You laugh

“I will.”- you walk away

————————————————————————

That night

You were sitting on your couch snuggled up in your cozy blanket watching Gossip Girl when your phone chimed.

You opened it to see a contact you never thought you would see in a million years. Joe.

Your heart fluttered

Hey, y/n! It’s Joe.It was nice seeing you again today. Hope brunch was good. I just wanted to see if you wanted to come to my game on Sunday? I understand if you can’t or busy. I just feel like we always used to joke about you coming to my games in the NFL when we were kids and now that I am I feel like it’s right to have you there this weekend. You can bring kelly if you want.

You decided to text him back

Hi! I would love to come! And I know kelly would to. And those were some pretty funny jokes we made. They still make me laugh to this day when I watch you guys on tv.���

————————————————————————

Hey guys!!!!! This is a new series called sparks!!! Can’t wait to put more out for you guys! Hope you like and always welcome to send requests!!🩷

[violletleduc]

The Terror flower shop AU (from a former florist!!) because it wont leave my mind

–> three shops (Terror, Erebus and the mutineers) are part of a franchise own by Franklin

– Crozier : boss, is losing his personal life to this job, handle well the stress of big events (except during weddings, no one can stand him and he can stand no one), don’t really like that dry flowers are coming back in people’s commands, LOVE lilies (white, pink, orange) and try to put them everywhere, always try to lower his prices but Franklin don’t want to hear about it

– Little : really good with plants (especially exterior ones like citrus fruit), is told that he don’t have a lot of creativity with his fresh flower arrangement but is amazing with dry flowers (king of crown), make most of the delivery, his fingers are always covered in tiny cuts, can't stand the scent of mimosa but it's his favorite

– Hodgson : great with customers, awful color harmony that drives Irving mad, run to be the one picking the phone, make really pretty shop window to everyone surprise, stay way too long talking with elderly people, always have stains of lilies’ pistils on the tips of his fingers, love doing the handling part of the job, carnations are his favorites

- Irving : say "hello" to the plants when opening the shop, nail all the big funeral arrangements but hate being the one taking the orders, break a lot of vases, really great with flower arch, can’t stand mold, hydrangeas are his favorite (especially blue ones)

– Jopson : not a florist but Crozier’s accountant, always in the back of the shop so he kinda see how everything work, make delivery to help Little during holydays, love cleaning roses for Valentine’s day (they are always all grateful for his help), tulips are is favorite

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

What else could Day Fourteen of BuckTommy Fluffebruary be but Valentine's Day? Happy Valentine's Day, you lovely folks. Here's an extremely fluffy fic for all of you. Once again, Tumblr doesn't believe in total HTML formatting and I had to use a fake iMessage thing for the texts. You can also read this on AO3 over here. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

Tommy’s always outwardly been a “Valentine's Day is a commercialized bullshit holiday” kind of guy, but inwardly wants to love it. The problem has been that he's usually working or just wasn't in a serious relationship when the holiday rolled around. Twice, he'd done the whole wine and dine thing with Abby and another ex, Ben, who had actually been a “fuck commercial holidays” guy, as Tommy had found out over a very stilted Valentine's Day dinner just before they’d officially broken up.

He's working until midday, because Jerry on B-shift had needed to switch so he could take his daughter to an appointment and go to her gymnastics meet. That had given Tommy a few days to try to figure out what he could do for Evan, who's off all day. He'd decided on making dinner at the house and then taking him to the movies, since a theater near his place is showing Princess Bride, which Evan’s never seen. He starts a grocery order to get to the house when he should be getting home so he can start right away. He already has a card that he’d drawn and painted along with a set of tickets for an outdoor light show at a botanical garden in Palos Verdes and an itinerary for a trip to Napa, and they’re all safely in his glove box where no one can stumble on them.

When he's helping Sherri clean one of the engines, there's a call at the front for a delivery under his name. He frowns, looking at his watch. Even if he'd mistakenly ordered the groceries to his job, the driver's about three and a half hours early.

“Be right back,” he says, and she waves him away.

He opens the app on his way, wondering if he'd missed a message, but it's still telling him that it'll let him know when his shopper gets to the store. That's when he reaches the front desk and sees a huge bouquet of flowers. There's red roses at the center, but there's also pink hydrangeas, calla lilies, and peonies scattered throughout. Some sort of greenery with round leaves is poking through between some of the flowers. The entire bouquet is at least eighteen inches in diameter, and a card is standing in a holder with his name on the envelope.

“Tommy Kinard?” the delivery guy asks, and Tommy nods slowly. “Can you sign here, please?”

Tommy nods again and signs the paper without really looking. When he's done, he takes the card from its holder and opens it. It’s printed with a message that says:

For my Valentine:

I love you For sentimental reasons I hope you do believe me I've given you my heart

Evan

Tommy's breath catches. It's from the song they'd danced to in his kitchen just after they'd gotten back together last month. It was while that song was playing that Tommy knew he'd ask Evan to marry him one day. He remembers looking at Evan’s gentle smile and twinkling eyes and quietly singing along and feeling his heart ache with how much he loved him.

He holds the card to his chest with one hand and reaches out with the other to stroke his thumb across a soft, delicate rose petal. It's the first time anyone's ever gotten him flowers. He takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Evan.

“Hello?” Evan says, picking up on the first ring.

“Evan…” is all he can really say, his voice valiantly not shaking, though it’s a near thing.

“Do you like them?” he asks, sounding nervous.

“They're perfect,” Tommy says, his voice soft. He knows there's people milling around, but he just wants to exist in the bubble of Evan’s voice and the beautiful flowers. “Thank you.”

“Happy Valentine's Day, baby.”

Tommy smiles, his face warming at the term of endearment and with just how sincere Evan sounds. “Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.”

They can only talk for a bit, because Tommy's supposed to be cleaning and doing a stock check before he hands the keys over to the next shift, but they confirm their plans for that night. Before they hang up, Tommy tells him he loves him, and he huffs out a laugh when Evan sighs and replies in kind, sounding so happy.

He takes a picture of the bouquet and scoops it up to bring to the kitchen so he can temporarily keep them in a large ice tea pitcher. He knows he has a vase big enough for the bouquet at home, because he has a lot of his Nonna’s and Zia’s things, but it’s packed away. He’s never had a reason to use it.

An hour later, there's another call for him at the front. This time, it's cupcakes from one of the only bakeries Tommy likes nearly as much as his boyfriend's baking. The note that's attached is handwritten and signed by Evan, and he wonders when he'd actually planned all of this.

For nobody else gave me a thrill With all your faults, I love you still It had to be you Wonderful you

Love,

Evan

Tommy laughs, because it's a bit of a private joke between them. He'd shown Evan A League of Their Own in the week after they'd gotten back together. When Marla Hooch drunkenly sings to her future husband, Evan had pointed at the screen and said that would've been him if Tommy had shown up to the karaoke night Howie had organized before Christmas.

“I would've tried to woo you back with sad, drunk love songs. I was so close to calling you and doing it anyway.”

“I mean, that might've worked.”

“Now you tell me.”

He calls Evan again, but his boyfriend texts him that he's picking Jee-Yun up from preschool.

He gets a picture from inside Evan’s Jeep of him making a kissy face from the driver's seat and Jee-Yun in her car seat in the back doing the same. She's wearing a pink sweater with little red and white hearts all over, and her cheeks are extra puffed out from the face she's pulling. Tommy wants to press kisses to them and blow a raspberry and make her shriek with laughter. It's one of his favorite sounds in the world.

There's no reply, likely because Evan is driving, and Tommy goes back to his end of shift duties. He's getting gently ribbed for getting two special deliveries, and more than one person is lamenting that Evan makes them all look bad. It’s the kind of thing he’s been able to say to other people, he’s never been on the receiving end of it. He can’t even pretend to be annoyed or over any of their comments, he’s too busy being happy.

It's when he only has forty-five minutes left that the B-shift captain comes up to him with a smile on his face.

“Delivery at the front, Kinard,” he says. “Delivery girl's real cute, too.”

Tommy snorts and sets down his clipboard. “Yeah, I'm sure she'll be just my type.”

“You never know.”

When he jogs to the front, he doesn't see anyone for a moment, but then he hears a giggle and Jee-Yun peeks from around where the bay doors are open. Tommy’s face splits into a grin, and he's on his knees to squeeze her close.

“Cap said the delivery girl was cute, he didn't say she was the prettiest in the world!” he exclaims as she giggles into his shoulder.

“Uncle Tommy!” she says loudly, pushing his shoulder and looking at him sternly. “I'm s’posed to give you a present.”

Tommy sits back on his heels and gestures for her to continue. “My apologies, please continue.”

She smiles and looks back just before a distinctly Evan-shaped hand reaches around to hand her a colorful piece of paper. She hands it to him, and Tommy unfolds it to reveal a wonky heart covered in crayon scribbles, several smiley faces drawn with marker, a flower (or sun) in marker, and words written by an adult hand that had been loosely traced over in crayon. They read:

Will you be our Valentine?

Love,

Jee-Yun Buckley Han and Evan Buckley

Tommy hugs the valentine carefully to his chest and smiles. “Yes. I'd be honored.”

“He said yes!” Jee-Yun whispers loudly over her shoulder.

And then Evan steps into view, and he has a single red rose in his hand and a smile on his face. Tommy stands and kisses him, plucking the rose from his grip, nearly lifting his boyfriend off his feet. He feels like he could float away at any moment.

“I love you,” Tommy murmurs, nuzzling their noses together.

“I love you, too,” Evan says softly, smiling and looking at Tommy with so much warmth radiating from his entire being. It always feels like Evan’s got a ball of sunshine inside just beaming out of him.

Tommy kisses him again before picking up Jee-Yun and pressing kisses to her cheeks and grinning when she does the same.

“I love it,” he tells her. “And I actually have something for you at my house that I can give to your uncle tonight.”

“Really?” she says, looking shy and happy all at once. He wishes so badly that he'd thought to put the stuffed dinosaur (store bought) and matching card (handmade, full of puns) in his truck.

“Of course! I had to get something for my favorite Valentine,” he says, finally blowing the raspberry on her cheek. When she laughs so loud it almost hurts his ears, he squeezes her to his chest and feels his eyes prickle when she throws her arms around his neck and squeezes back.

“Happy Valentine Day, Uncle Tommy,” she says, and he twists his mouth for a second so he doesn't cry.

“Happy Valentine's Day, Jee-Jee,” he says softly, kissing her hair.

She straightens up and looks around the bay they're in, and Tommy turns to see that they've accumulated an audience of people glancing over from whatever they’re doing. He instinctively tucks her close, but all he sees are smiles.

“Do you want to see where Uncle Tommy works?” Evan asks, and Jee-Yun nods. “I think he'll give us a tour if we ask really nicely.”

She turns her big eyes on him. “Uncle Tommy, can we please see your work?”

Tommy kisses her temple. “Absolutely. Let's go, baby girl.”

Everyone is charmed by her, especially when she starts pointing at some of their ground equipment and calling it by name, telling them that her Daddy uses it, too. It's when they get to the hangar that she looks excited, almost wiggling out of his arms to get a look at one of the helicopters.

“C'mon,” Tommy says, handing her to Evan before climbing into the cockpit. He reaches out for her and settles her on his lap while he points to different instruments and tells her what they do. She whispers the names of some of them quietly to herself as if she's trying to memorize them. Hell, she might. She's got the recall ability of both parents and her uncle.

When he looks out at Evan to check on him, his boyfriend has a phone pointed at them.

“Don't mind me,” Evan says cheerily.

It's past the end of his shift when they get back to the front.

“I gotta get her home,” Evan says, reaching for Jee-Yun. She goes with some reluctance, looking longingly back at the door out to the tarmac.

“Before you go,” Captain Marsh says, holding out an LAFD folder. “A present for our special visitor.”

It's the coloring pages and stickers they give out to kids, but theirs are cooler than most LAFD swag, because theirs also includes Air Ops stuff. Tommy had personally illustrated the helicopter and plane pages, and Melton’s husband, who had a side gig writing kid’s books, had written out the captions and a little digestible explanation of what made Air Ops so different than a regular unit.

“Thank you,” Jee-Yun says, hugging the folder to her chest. “I like your station.”

“I like it, too,” Marsh agrees, grinning. “Have a good Valentine's Day, Miss Han.”

Tommy walks them out to the lot, his arm around Evan as they make their way to the Jeep. “Thank you both. This is the best Valentine's Day I've ever had. I really mean that.”

“Me, too,” Evan says, grinning and leaning over to kiss him on the corner of his mouth without breaking his stride.

Tommy helps get Jee-Yun strapped in, gives her another cheek raspberry and a smacking kiss, receives both in return, and then Evan decides to do the same when Tommy leans in for a good-bye kiss.

“You are such a brat,” Tommy complains, wiping slobber off his cheek.

“Well, yeah,” Evan says, grinning. “But I'm your brat.”

Tommy pulls him close and rubs a hand down his back. “Yeah, you are,” he murmurs, smiling at the flush of Evan's cheeks. “You can come by a little early if you want.”

Evan bites his lip and nods, smoothing down the fabric over Tommy's chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tommy confirms before kissing him, sucking gently at Evan's bottom lip and feeling a bolt of heat shoot through his belly when Evan lets out a soft noise against his mouth. When he releases him, Evan looks a bit dazed. “Get her home safe.”

“Y-yeah,” Evan breathes, bumping into his sideview mirror as he backs up toward the driver's side door. Tommy raises an eyebrow at him, and Evan flushes, ducking his head as he gets into his car. As soon as it’s on, he rolls down the window. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you,” Tommy says, raising his hand in a wave.

He waits until the Jeep is gone before going back in. He takes twenty minutes to finish the stock check that had been interrupted, hands it off to Lucy, who had arrived mid-tour for her shift, and tries to ignore the knowing or sappy smiles pointed his way as he gathers his stuff and heads out to his truck. They don’t bother him, he’s just not used to it. He thinks he could learn to get used to it, though.

When he gets home, the groceries are waiting for him on the front step. He takes everything inside and goes to the kitchen, ready to make aroz con pato, since Evan has been reminiscing about the food in Peru on their last date.

While the duck is simmering, he goes into the guest room closet where he has the few boxes of things he hadn't found a place for in the house. Some of it is old paperwork, old uniforms, photos that need to be put into albums, mementos he should probably part with, and one has carefully packed china from his Nonna along with a hand-painted vase that had passed from Bisnonna Valia to his Prozia and then his Zia and now it's his. His Zia had never had children of her own, so he’d ended up with a lot of the Carlevaro family heirlooms when she’d passed. He’d never used the vase, though. The closest he'd ever come to receiving flowers was when people sent them after his mom died.

He wipes down the colorfully painted vase with a damp cloth and then with a dry one before filling it with water and putting the flowers in. He props the card against it and puts the other two on his fridge.

It's quiet in his house, but he knows that soon his doorbell will ring and he'll let in a man who talks almost unceasingly about whatever's on his mind, who will laugh and make Tommy laugh, who will fill the house and Tommy's heart with so much beloved noise that he'll feel it echo in the time they're apart.

And one day, maybe, he won't have to say goodbye unless it's followed by “I'll see you when I/you get home.” And they'll add to the collection of Valentine's Day cards every year until they’re old enough to have to think long and hard about the story behind each one. And inevitably, one of them will remember or someone—Jee-Yun, her children, their own children—will chime in because they've heard it a million times before.

When his doorbell rings, Tommy gets up to answer with a smile on his lips and a lightness in his heart that he doesn't think he's ever felt before.

[locsandletters]

ᯓ petals; l.colwill

──one shot

pairing ➜ bsf!levi x black!fem!reader

word count ➜ 1.4k

warnings/notes ➜ none

summary ➜ after you casually mention you've never gotten flowers before, levi makes it his mission to send a bouquet every day. he's a little extra like that.

it started out as a joke, really.

you were curled up on the couch, legs draped across levi’s lap, watching some cheesy romantic movie that he insisted he didn't like but somehow was way too invested in. you could see the way his brow furrowed slightly at the more dramatic scenes, how he'd sigh under his breath when the dialogue got too corny. but he didn't move. didn't suggest switching to something else. just sat there with you, his arm resting casually over your shins.

the movie was predictable, the kind where the girl gets swept off her feet by the guy who does all the grand gestures. serenades, dramatic confessions, and, of course, flowers. there's always flowers.

you weren't even really thinking when you said it. the words just slipped out, casual, almost absentminded. “i’ve never had anybody buy me flowers before."

levi had looked at you then, eyebrows raised. "what, ever?" he asked, as if the idea of someone never receiving flowers was absurd. which, to be fair, it probably was. but somehow, no one had ever thought to do it. not for you, anyway.

you shrugged, adjusting yourself on the couch. “i mean, it's not really a thing, is it? like, flowers are pretty, but they just die in a few days. seems kinda pointless."

he didn't say much in response, just nodded like he was thinking it over, and the conversation moved on. you didn't think about it again — at least not until the next morning.

you opened your front door, ready to step out for a coffee run, when you were greeted by a bouquet of lilies sitting on your doorstep. soft pinks and whites that were almost too pretty to touch, with a small card tucked into the stems. you picked it up, turning the envelope over in your hand before pulling out the card.

“you said you've never had flowers before. thought i'd fix that. - l"

you had smiled, shaking your head at his handwriting, a little messy, but undeniably his. you figured this was just levi being levi, being his usual thoughtful self, and so you set the flowers in a vase and went about your day. thinking maybe it was just a one-time thing.

it wasn't.

the next day, it happened again.

this time it was sunflowers. big, bold, unapologetically cheerful sunflowers that seemed to fill up the entire space when you opened the door. the same little card was attached, and you couldn't help but laugh at the message.

"they reminded me of you. bright and slightly dramatic. - l"

you rolled your eyes at the dramatic comment, though the grin on your face betrayed any mock annoyance you tried to muster. because, of course, levi couldn’t give a compliment without sneaking in a jab.

but it didnt stop there.

by wednesday, you were staring at the growing collection, wondering if this man had lost his damn mind. a new bouquet greeted you every morning without fail. roses, tulips, daisies—you name it, he sent it. your apartment was beginning to look like a florist's fever dream, and you were quickly running out of vases.

you'd tried texting him, something light and teasing, like, "okay, levi, you can stop now. i think the neighbours are starting to think i've won the flower lottery or some shit." but his reply was nothing but a string of white heart emojis and a "don't act like you're not loving it."

and the thing was—you were loving it. probably a little too much.

by thursday, your entire living room was flooded in soft pastel hues, the scent of fresh flowers lingering in the air. there were daisies scattered on your coffee table, a bouquet of orchids taking up space on your kitchen island, and you were pretty sure you saw a single rose — deep red, classic — perched on your nightstand, courtesy of a sneaky delivery you hadn't even noticed.

and the cards? they kept getting more random, more ridiculously sweet.

"because you said you like blue and i think that means i need to buy every blue flower in existence. - l"

"my baby cousin helped me pick these ones. - l"

"no reason today, just thought of you. - l"

by friday, you had to call him.

"when i said i've never had anybody buy me flowers before, i didn't mean for you to turn my apartment into a flower shop," you said the moment he picked up, no greeting, just the disbelief in your voice carrying through the phone.

you could hear the smile in his voice. "what, too much?"

you walked through your living room, surveying the sea of petals that seemed to grow by the day. "levi, i literally don't have space to sit down anymore. i'm drowning in flowers."

"that's an exaggeration." he chuckled, and even through the phone, the sound of it made your chest warm. "again, dramatic."

"no," you deadpanned, moving aside an empty vase you had abandoned by the door. "i’m being very literal right now."

he didn't answer for a second, and you could almost picture the grin on his face, the way he always seemed so pleased with himself whenever he did something ridiculous like this. "well, you said no one ever bought you flowers. figured id make up for lost time."

"you really didn't need to go this hard, though," you said, though the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. "a single bouquet would've been fine."

"yeah, but where's the fun in that?" he asked. "besides, i wanted to see you smile."

and there it was. that thing he did. levi had a way of slipping under your skin, getting past your defenses before you even realised it. he could be so casual, so easygoing, and yet, he always found a way to say something that made you pause. made you feel.

because he wanted to make you smile. and that's what made it different. it wasn't about the flowers, or the grand gestures—it was the thought behind it. the way he listened, remembered, cared in these small, almost insignificant ways that added up until they felt overwhelming.

"you're ridiculous, you know that?" you said, voice softer now.

"i've been told," he replied, but his tone matched yours—there was something in the air between you two, something unspoken but undeniable. a shift.

the line went quiet for a beat, and you could feel the words you weren't saying hanging there, suspended in the space between you. because as much as you wanted to pretend this was all lighthearted and fun, you knew that wasn't the whole truth.

you weren't just falling for the flowers, for the sweet notes. you were falling for him. for the way he made you laugh at the smallest things, for the way he seemed to understand you in ways most people didn't. for the way he showed up—physically, emotionally, in all the ways that mattered.

you were falling for him, and as terrifying as that thought was, it was also inevitable.

"so," levi said finally, breaking the silence, "should i stop?"

you blinked, caught off guard by the question. "stop what?"

"sending flowers. i mean, i wouldn't want to overwhelm you or anything," he teased, but there was an edge of sincerity there, like he was testing the waters, waiting for your response.

you hesitated for a moment, thinking it over. but then you glanced around your apartment, at the vibrant bursts of colour that had turned your space into something out of a dream.

"no," you said softly. "don't stop."

"good," he replied, his voice warm and light, and you could hear the smile in his words again. "because i wasn't planning on stopping.”

you laughed, shaking your head. "of course you weren't."

but as you hung up the phone, your heart felt lighter than it had in a long time. because maybe this was more than just a silly gesture. maybe it was levi’s way of showing you something bigger, something you weren't ready to admit just yet, but were starting to understand.

because maybe you were falling for him.

and maybe—just maybe—he was falling for you too.

[theemporium]

the golden retriever and black cat was soooo cute, could you do part 2 please?

thank you for requesting!🖤

part one

.

“Does my hair look okay?” 

“Yes.” 

“And my outfit?” 

“Also yes.” 

“What about—”

“Fucking hell,” James let out a long groan as he fell back onto his bed, shoving his face into his pillow. “You have already asked me three times!”

“Well, now I’m asking you a fourth time!” Sirius snapped back. “Are you sure I look okay?”

“You look perfect, mate, she’s gonna think the same,” James told him, his voice a little more sincere this time as he lifted his head up. “Now go before she thinks you stood her up.” 

Sirius frowned as he glanced over at the clock, noticing the time and letting out a panicked ‘shit’ under his breath before he reached for his jacket and bolted out the room with James’ laughter following him down the stairs.

It had taken Sirius asking a handful of different students to pinch him on his way back to Gryffindor Tower to realise that he hadn’t, in fact, dreamt up the interaction with you. It had taken James literally slapping him across the face to prove he was awake for him to realise the date planned with you tonight was also very real. 

He had spent the rest of the day spiralling over every little detail you could have possibly managed, and it often resulted in either Remus or Lily having to talk him down from an edge when he got too panicked. 

And now he was racing towards the Three Broomsticks with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, eager and determined to reach the pub at least fifteen minutes early so he could grab a good seat and be ready for when you arrived. 

However, Sirius didn’t think you would have the same idea as he burst through the door, only to see you already seated in a booth with a somewhat smug look on your face.

“You’re early,” Sirius muttered, his shoulders falling as he made his way towards the table you were sitting at.

“Is that a problem?” you asked with your brows raised. 

“No, no!” Sirius quickly exclaimed, his cheeks flushed a light pink and it was no longer due to the fact he ran from the castle. “I just…I wanted to be here so I could pull out your chair and stuff.” 

“Lucky for you, you can’t really do that in booths,” you teased lightly before patting the spot next to you. 

Sirius quickly slid in, flashing you a sheepish smile as he held the flowers out for you. “Here. These are for you.” 

You blinked. “Oh.”

Sirius’ face fell. “You don’t like them.” 

“No, I—” you stared at the flowers with an odd expression before looking up at him. “I’ve just…never had someone give me flowers before.”

“Well, baby, you gotta get used to it with me,” he said with a widespread grin on his face. “Coffees aren’t the only deliveries you gotta prepare for.”

“You’re confident this will go well,” you noted, watching the way Sirius’ arm fell onto the back of the booth with his fingers brushing against your shoulder, but you chose not to point it out.

“I’ve charmed you this far, love, I reckon a few hours with me and you’ll be smitten,” he answered with a sure nod of his head. 

“Smitten?” you repeated, your lips twitching up a little.

“Downright besotted,” Sirius confirmed. 

“If you say so, handsome,” you murmured, biting back your own smile when you watched his cheeks flush at the nickname. 

“I could get used to hearing you call me that,” he muttered with a wolfish grin. And something about it made your stomach twist, in a good way. In a way that made you want to keep that smile on his face.

.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 38

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I've been awake since 2am.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

After breakfast, you get ready to go into town with Frigga and Hela upon their vaunted ladies’ trip. An air of uncertainty persists around what exactly that means. Flowers, shopping, and what else?

You try not to let the mystery overshadow the Odinsons’ hospitality. You’d hate to come across ungrateful after all they’d done. Odin and Frigga hadn’t asked for anything in return all while receiving you with an open hand. Just like with all things, you go along to get along.

The drive has you in a sort of trance as you watch the landscape pass. The lush greens and speckles of violet and pink across the fields, thickening to looming forest of coniferous pines and towering oaks. Finally, the wilds thin into even ground and open into a township with a painted wooden sign.

The buildings are old but well-kept. Not like the large city with its pitted brick and steaming sewers. Every street here is like those that surround Laufeyson’s own estate. Curated and pristine. Just like the Odinsons themselves.

You pull in at a large gated lot. The iron barrier is overgrown with flowers and as you enter, you gape around at the expanse of petals and stems. You’ve never been anywhere so spectacular.

You trail behind Frigga as she browses the selection. You shy away from Hela but she’s hardly concerned with you as she admires a bunch of dark roses. You peer around as an assistant approaches at Frigga’s signal.

“What do you think, dear?” Frigga calls to you, “we want white for the event. Lilies, baby’s breath, gardenia?”

You blink and give some thought, “what about daisies?”

She smiles, “daisies, so simple but pretty.” She turns to the assistant, “do you have many?”

“We should have a few boxes ready for delivery,” she answers.

“Wonderful, we will have some daisies. Oh, and we could have some wisteria hanging. Mm, and miss, white tulips? You have those too?”

The assistant scribbles on her pad, “we can do those as well.”

“Hydrangea,” Hela insists as she approaches, standing behind you, “for the posts.”

“Yes, certainly, hydrangea,” Frigga repeats with a sharp point to the assistant. “Oh and lastly, I spoke with Val about the moonflowers, tell me they’re ready.”

“Yes, Mrs. Odinson, we have those set aside already.”

“Good, good,” Frigga remarks, “well, we’ll look around a bit more and let you know if anything else is required.”

“Yes, Mrs. Odinson,” the assistant nods and prompts strolls away.

“You wouldn’t like a splash of red, mother? Maybe some black?” Hela muses, “this Walpurgisnacht will be blinding.”

“Oh, tosh,” Frigga dismisses, “we have a theme. Which reminds me, darling,” she turns to you, “do you have a white dress packed?”

“White?” You blink, “um, no, I didn’t…”

“Not to worry, it’s why we came to town,” she tweets.

“Oof, mother,” Hela cringes. 

“Well, I know you certainly don’t have suitable attire,” Frigga reproaches.

“Actually, I’ve a marvelous white jumpsuit selected for just the event,” Hela challenges, “I can listen, I just often choose not to.”

Frigga gives a pinch look before she returns her attention to you, “well then, our task will be easier. I think chiffon might be nice…”

“You know, mother, I do feel as if I’m being replaced,” Hela snickers. You send her a guilty look but her smile holds no malice. She winks and arches a brow. “And yet I do think this little creature will look delectable in white.”

“Mm, yes,” Frigga side-eyes her daughter, “you do have a way with words, don’t you?”

“Oh, pardon me, I should be more like my brothers, would you prefer Thor,” Hela mocks and reaches for your hand, taking it as she caresses it emphatically, “oh lady, you are beautiful, I should wonder if what you hide under your skirt is equally as stunning–”

“Hel,” Frigga exclaims, mortified as she snatches her grasp away from you.

“Ah, alright, Loki,” Hela clears her throat and stiffens her posture, adjusting a non-existent tie, “yes, you are rather adequate. Hm, very acceptable.”

“Don’t,” Frigga commands, “you didn’t have to come if you’re only going to make a joke of it.”

“Oh, mother, that’s simply what it is, a joke,” Hela bats her lashes, “loosen up. Is that not what this day is for? To enjoy ourselves?”

Frigga sighs and shakes her head as she turns away. Your mouth slants as you watch after her nervously. Hela clucks and flicks her fingers dismissively, “once she has a taste of wine, she’ll let go.”

✨

You stand in the fitting room, staring dreadfully at the two hangers. One chosen by Frigga, the other by Hela. They are both beautiful but you’re not certain either of them suit you. You feel the long chiffon as you mull over the choice.

“Well, darling, let us see,” Frigga calls through the curtain.

You wince and recoil. You pull down the longer of the two, the flowy chiffon that caught Frigga’s eye. The one-shoulder cut cinches to draped skirt which drowns you. You look at yourself in the mirror and frown. The fabric seems to drown you.

You turn with a swish and pull back the curtain, stepping through awkwardly as you tug the skirt out of the way of your feet. Hela makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a gasp. Frigga fawns and daintily touches her cheeks.

“Oh, gods, that is gorgeous, isn’t it?” She comes forward and pinches a fold in the skirt.

“She looks like she’s caught in a snowstorm,” Hela muses, “please, she won’t be able to do much in all that.”

“I suppose,” Frigga backs up and folds her arms, “but I like the style, perhaps we might find something similar with less length.”

“Try mine,” Hela demands.

You look between them, not daring to argue with either. They seem to do enough of that. You spin and sweep behind the curtain once more. You shed the chiffon layers and pull on the satin sheath. There isn’t much to it. Thin straps and not much length, a slit up your thigh. It’s more lingerie than a dress.

You peek out shyly before you make yourself come out. Frigga’s face flushes and her lips part. Hela smirks and tilts her head as she bites her lip.

“Oh, fabulous,” Hela remarks.

“She cannot wear that,” Frigga throws a hand up.

“Why not, she has nice legs.”

“That isn’t… appropriate.”

“Well, mother, she can’t dress like an old matron either.”

“It was a perfectly nice dress–”

“For 1912,” Hela shoots back.

You shrink before them and let their back and forth fade into the background. You glance over the rack of white garments and zone out. You just want this to be over. You’re tired of being pulled back and forth like a game of tug-of-war.

Your name draws you back and you focus on the women watching you. You wince and teeter on your feet, “sorry, I was distracted.”

“I was saying,” Hela intones, “we should let you choose.”

“Me?” You blanch.

“Well, it is your dress,” Frigga utters reluctantly.

“Oh, but I… don’t know much about… clothes.”

“Never too late to learn,” Hela insists, “go on, have your pick. Surprise us.”

You glance back at the rack and wiggle your fingers. You slowly approach as the two other women retreat, still muttering to each other. You push through the hangers; too heavy, too stiff, too sheer.

You think you like this one. A simple sheath lining with a mesh overlay, little crepe flowers sewn into the out later. The straps are slender but the bodice is straight cut. It’s wonderful and dreamy. You take the hanger and quickly scurry back behind the curtain.

You switch out the short dress for your pick. You look at your reflection and nearly stagger. You love it. It’s adorable. You go to the curtain and brace yourself. What if they don’t like it? You exhale and ready yourself for disappointment.

You step through and the women face you. Neither say a word as they look at you. They consider you, eyeing you head to toe. Oh no! It’s hideous, isn’t it? You have no taste.

“I love it,” Hela chirps, “what about you, mother? Isn’t it gorgeous on her?”

“I… it’s so… you,” Frigga squeals, “yes, it’s perfect. And the little flowers. Ugh, amazing.”

“Really?” You stand on your toes nervously.

“You must have it,” Hela insists, “next, shoes… the pairing must be perfect.”

“Shoes…” you murmur. Does it ever end?

✨

Your day doesn’t end after the boutique. The tumultuous night slumps in your shoulders and droops in your eyelids as the hours stretch on. Your next stop is a sleek white building with sparkling glass doors. As you enter, the sterile lobby has you minimizing yourself in fear of staining the pure white tile or breaking the crystal counter.

Frigga and Hela strut towards the woman who stands behind the glass table and greet her breezily. She welcomes them by name as you trail behind like a mouse. You don’t belong here. Not a place like this. You might be with them but you’re not one of them.

Once more, you sink into a daze, trying to distance yourself from the present. From those feelings of unbelonging. Those old wounds from the schoolyard when you stood by the fence and kicked rocks, not daring to provoke anyone with an errant gaze.

“Dear,” Frigga jars you as she gently touches your arm, “did you have ID?”

“ID?” You say dumbly, not processing her request at first.

“They serve alcohol so it’s required to check-in,” she explains.

“Oh, um, yeah,” you clumsily grab your purse and unzip the top. You dig out your ID card and hand it over. Frigga has a brief glance at it before handing it over. The twitch beneath her eye worries you; has it expired?

You wait as Hela taps her short nails on the counter top. Finally, the woman behind the counter approves you for entry. You still don’t really get what this place is. There’s no signs aside from the marquee in swoopy cursive; Hvergelmir.

Another woman appears and takes you through an angular doorway. You’re guided to a private room with robes on hooks, cushioned benches and small cubbies. You watch Hela and Frigga as they remove their heels and set them on the low rack. You do the same, doing everything they do at a delay.

They tuck their bags into the cubbies and undress without shame, keeping only their underwear on as they wrap themselves in the silken robes. You face the corner as you strip and pull on a robe yourself.

It isn’t until you move on to the next room that you realise what this place is. A spa. You’ve never been to one but it’s exactly like you’ve seen on television. You recline as a woman smears your face with a mask and places cucumbers over your eyes. It’s relaxing even if it feels a bit strange.

After laying there for what seems like forever, a woman comes in to offer stemmed glasses of sparkling wine. You remove the sliced veggies from your eyes and accept one in kind with the other women.

“I think I might get a wrap,” Hela declares, “I need the cleanse.”

“Mm, I think I might do the steam room,” Frigga drawls before she sips from her glass. You take a tiny sip, reminding yourself of your last indulgence and the disaster that followed. Hela downs half the glass in a single gulp.

“What about you?” Hela looks at you pointedly. “Would you like to join me for the seaweed wrap?”

“Um, what is that?” You ask.

“Oh, darling,” Frigga sits up and grabs a leather folio, “have a look. You can choose whatever you like.”

You accept the little booklet and open it up to the laminated inside. You read through each item and the description below. The steam room sounds uncomfortable, you’re not a fan of sweating, and the seaweed thing sounds slimy…

“Mud bath?” You read allowed.

“Good choice,” Hela praises, “I might join you after my wrap.”

“Oh, okay,” you close the book and put it on the small round table close to you.

Frigga picks up the small golden bell and rings it. The same woman appears and Frigga lists off the treatments for each of you. She’s led away first, then someone comes to fetch Hela, and finally, you’re taken away by another woman with a high ponytail.

The woman helps you cover your hair with a towel and hands you back your wine glass. She leads you into a room with long rectangular tubs filled with reddish brown muck. She points you to one at the end and you put your glass on the little ledge that juts out from the side.

She helps you remove your robe, “you can keep your underwear on if you like. We can provide a fresh pair after, but you may want to remove your bra.”

You nod and dip your head down to unhook your bra. She reaches to take it and you hesitantly hand it over. She hangs your robe from a hook on the wall and leaves you there. Alright, so you just get in?

You step over the high wall of the tub and lower yourself into the warm mud. It doesn’t feel too bad. You slide around slightly before you’re able to find your bearings and reclining against the slanted back. Is this relaxing? 

You close your eyes but not for long. You end up staring at the lines between the ceiling tiles. You stir the mud with your fingers. You feel childish, like you're making mud pies.

You stop as you hear voices. You peek over for just a moment as someone else enters. A tall woman with a swirl of black hair escaping the towel on her head strides in, her tall figure draped in one of the ivory robes. The attendant takes her to the tub across from yours.

You try not to watch as she opens her robe, revealing her sleek body shamelessly. She eases into the tub with a sigh and the attendant leaves. You keep your eyes up as tension fills the space.

“The mud is nice today,” she says, startling you.

You nod and look at her as she stretches her arms around the walls of the tub. Her chest is barely concealed by the muck.

“You don’t come here often. I’ve not seen you around.”

You shake your head, “first time.”

“Ah,” her blue eyes gleam, “special occasion?”

“Erm, not really, I… Walpurgisnacht,” you pronounce the word delicately.

“That’s not for a few days,” she intones.

“You know it?”

“Yes, of course, everyone around here does. And this year, with Frigga hosting, it will be a spectacle.”

“You know Frigga?” You wonder.

She laughs, “of course I do. Who doesn’t?” Her tone is dry and her expression haughty, “how do you know her?”

“Um, I… work for her son,” you utter flatly.

“Thor?”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you correct her.

“How amusing,” she smirks, “what’s your name?”

You answer, your chest binding up tightly. You feel like you shouldn’t be talking to her. Something about the way she grins.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she purrs, “I’m Sif. You might tell my ex-husband I send my regards.”

You swallow dryly and stare at her. Your heart is pounding and your ears ringing. Sif? In the flesh? She’s absolutely gorgeous. You can see why she haunts the Odinsons. She’s perfect. 

Now you know why you will never live up to Laufeyson’s expectations. Why he’s so hard to please. Compared to her, well, you can never compare to her. She is immaculate.

[razorblade180]

Strategic Confession

Kirara: knock knock knock

Gorou:*opens door*

Kirara:It’s me! Your favorite delivery girl with a prestine package for you!

Gorou:Oh, so now you’re my favorite?

Kirara:Must be. I get told when I’m requested~ hehehe.

Gorou:Nobody can deny you do good work. Is the box okay?

Kirara:Of course! Same day freshly snipped flowers in a vase; vertical standing box with reinforced packaging for bumpy sea travel. You really know how to sweat the details.

Gorou:If I don’t then floral and vegetation don’t survive the trip. Growing things over here is already quite the challenge with healthy crops.

Kirara:Living in a place where fresh water still smells salty is probably why. Anywho, here ya go. Please sign.

Gorou:Wanna see what they look like? You’ve already been through all the trouble.

Kirara:Oooo I’m game!

She uses one of her claws to cut along the box seam to open it effortlessly. Inside was a lovely brown and light mosaic vase that held the most luscious tiger lilies anyone has ever seen. Her gaze was captivated as Gorou pulled one out to show its glory in full bloom.

Kirara:Wooooow. I didn’t even know the petals could get this wide! You must’ve paid a good amount for this quality.

Gorou:It’s all worth it. They’re hard to come by. Here, take it.

Kirara:I can have one!?

Gorou:Of course. After all, *red* they’re all for you anyways.

Kirara:…Huh?

Gorou:These flowers are for you, because you were right. You are my favorite delivery girl; also my favorite friend, and I think about you a lot. I’d like you to think about me a lot too. The way I think of you, Kirara.

Kirara:*blushing* You….made me deliver my own flowers?!

Gorou:Well you’re always busy and I didn’t want to rob your time of work! This was all I could think of!!

Kirara:Well…that’s very thoughtful! *holds flower*…. There’s absolutely no way for me to carry this vase back now.

Gorou:I was thinking you could come back for it later this evening; after it’s done being a center piece at my dinner table tonight?

Kirara:You…You really thought ahead huh?

Gorou:I am a general. So, Kirara, well you go out with me?

Kirara:….*swaying* I get off really late. Also my hours can get long.

Gorou:That’s fine.

Kirara:I also really, really like attention despite being so carefree and independent! *swaying* Like you wouldn’t believe how much I-

Gorou:Perfect.

Kirara:….I can be back at nine.

Gorou:Your food will be warm and ready.

Kirara…..You seriously made me carry my own flowers.

Gorou:You’re getting five stars!

Kirara:Pffft hahahaha!

Gorou:Hehe, look, I get the plan was a little convoluted but-

Kirara:You’re a real dog, y’know that~

She leaned in quickly, taking hold of his face gently and giving the young man a kiss. Kirara sneakily slid the flower back into his hand while taking her clipboard before walking backwards with a smile on her face.

Kirara: Thank you for the tip.

She transformed into a cat and darted off to finish her shift on time. Gorou’s plan was a complete victory, yet as he silently looked at the flower, he felt as if Kirara has once again gained the upper hand. His face burned bright pink as his tail wagged.

Gorou:I’m so doomed.

[laniuchiha7]

The Baker and The Farmer

During the weekly farmers market Naruto rushes over to the Uchiha Farms display clutching a bouquet of lilies in one hand and two pieces of honey cake in the other.

“A new bakery opened up in the town square!” Naruto informs Sasuke while eating one of the cakes. “The woman who owns it is at Ino’s stand handing out free samples to everyone who buys a flower arrangement.”

“Ok?” Sasuke isn’t sure why this matters since he’s not a fan of sweets nor does he have a reason for buying flowers.

“Here.” Naruto shoves the remaining confection at him. “Try it! I bet you’ll like it more than you think!”

Reluctantly, he takes a bite. Not bad, actually Sasuke thinks it’s really good. Still too sweet for his personal tastes, but he can tell someone who really cares about their craft made this. “It’s fine.”

“I’m gonna give these flowers to Hinata,” Naruto says. “The cute baker girl, Sakura I think her name is, mentioned coming around later and introducing herself to the other vendors later. She’s hard to miss so be nice to her, alright?” With that the blonde runs off, leaving Sasuke to finish the honey cake without complaint.

At first Sasuke wonders what his friend means by she being hard to miss until he spots someone with blossom pink hair speaking with his brother by the wooden containers of cherries and strawberries.

“Sasuke,” Itachi waves him over. “This is Sakura, the owner of the new bakery in town.”

“Hi!” Her singsong voice pleasantly says. “Nice to meet you!”

“Likewise. I had one of your honey cakes earlier, it was good.”

“That’s high praise coming from him,” Itachi adds.

“I’m glad you enjoyed them,” she’s smiling from ear to ear, a tinge if blush spreading across her cheeks. Must be from the sun, he thinks, just like the burst of warmth climbing up the back of his neck.

“What were you talking about before I came over?”

“I’m interested in having produce from Uchiha Farms delivered to my shop, maybe two or three times a week.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Itachi assures. “I can add you to my route. Just let me know what you want and how much.”

Before she can answer, Ino calls her back to their stand for a moment. “I’ll be right back!”

Sasuke turns to his brother as soon as she’s far enough away. “I can do it. Handle her order,” he clarifies.

“Are you sure? I already have a few deliveries in that area.”

“Hn. I don’t mind. If you want you can take my stop at the schoolhouse near the edge of town.” Bait Sasuke hopes his brother takes since the teacher who runs the place is Izumi, the girl Itachi has been eyeing for weeks.

The corner of his lips curve into a smirk. “Ah, I guess that’s a fair trade.”

Over the course of the next few weeks, Sasuke gradually learns more about Sakura when he delivers her order and when she stops by his stall at the farmers market — her parents own a bakery back in her hometown and she wanted to start her own, she and Ino attended the same school as children and continued to keep in touch, she loves strawberry mochi, and is very single.

Whenever he stops by she gives him an extra piece of cake or fruit pie she made, although she soon learns he isn’t a big fan of sweets. “I noticed your nose scrunches up before taking a bite. It’s cute,” she says to him one day, “I’ll cut back on the sugar when you’re here again.”

Next time he stops by she gave him a delicious cheese tart instead, causing something to bloom in his chest. Something he doesn’t want to name just yet.

“Why haven’t you asked Sakura out??” Naruto is loitering around the Uchiha Farms stand during the weekly market. “She’s popular, ya know.”

“Hn. None of my business,” Sasuke mutters under his breath, throwing a glance across the road at her set up only to see Idate chatting her up. Of course he’s aware of Sakura’s reputation around Konoha of being the sweet baker with even sweeter goods. Yet he doesn’t believe she treats him any different than a customer or their friends, she’s just naturally friendly to everyone.

“Do you really think she’s giving the rest of us free food?” Naruto brings up. “She only started adding savory options at her shop after learning you prefer them over her usual stuff. Trust me, she likes you.”

From the other end, once Idate finally leaves, Sakura meets his gaze with a bright expression.

Perhaps Naruto has a point and he needs to get out of his own head. He can try a more subtle approach, buying her a pink and yellow dahlias should convey his sentiments, even if it means having to withstand Ino’s prying questions.

“What are those for?” Sakura asks as she’s packing up her table for the day.

“I got them for you.” The tips of his ears begin to burn.

“They’re beautiful Sasuke!” She takes them thankfully. “They smell wonderful too.”

He takes her basket so she can hold the flowers as they walk back to the bakery.

“I-um-had something I wanted to ask you too,” Sakura goes on. “I heard from Itachi that you really like tomatoes. I found this recipe for a tomato and goat cheese tart. If you’re not too busy tomorrow, I was thinking we could make it together and have it for dinner….as a date? Unless you’d rather do something else?”

“That sounds perfect,” Sasuke says. “I’ll look forward to it.”

[armpirate]

Soundleasure | Choi San || CH. 15

Pairings: Soft!San x fem!reader || Strangers to lovers, fake dating

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, online sex, ghosting

Warnings: inexperienced!San, fem!reader, masturbation, online sex, camboy, first times.

Summary: You can do whatever you please and be whoever you want on the Internet. And San knew that a little bit too well.

After finally following all the signs the universe was throwing at him, he started living a double life that no one was aware of. Everyone in his daily life knew him as Choi San, the reserved and quiet boy who wouldn't raise his voice, and would barely communicate with anyone outside of his comfort group. But only a few knew him as Soundleasure, the man with a sexy voice and a filthy mind that had their toes curling just with his narrations.

He never thought of the possibility of those two lives ever meeting, he had always tried for them to follow a parallel route and had always played safe to keep his friends from ever suspecting that side even existed. But his plans will start to crumble when he gets a little too close with one of his subscribers and she invades his real-self and altergo's universes without being able to stop it.

Y/n will not only help him to keep his secret from his circle, but will also show him there's more of Soundleasure in him than he'd like to admit. 

Previous || Next

MASTERLIST

Aprox. time of reading: 13 minutes

The tap of her fingers on her desk reached a rhythmic sound, after doing that same movement for almost two hours. Her head was resting on her other hand, while her eyes stared into the empty space of one of the cabinets at the left and the areca plant. That damned thing had been replaying in her head, finding a place in one corner whenever she tried to focus on something else. She was convinced she didn't have any nightmares with it because she hardly ever had any dreams at all.

What the hell did San mean when he said he was sorry?

He felt sorry about kissing her with no previous warning? Or was he sorry it happened?

The two knocks on the glass door broke the trance, having her blinking and lifting her head to the side of the room where that sound came from. Her eyebrows slightly frowned when she saw Jennifer carrying another big bucket of flowers, while her hand just stopped the dry tap to motion her to come in.

The bucket was a similar size than the others she had received in the previous weeks. But that one, unlike the others, had a variety of different flowers that only were similar among one another because of the pink and purple tones standing out from the green of the leaves underneath.

She wondered if she had been so focused on her own thoughts that she didn't even see Jennifer talking with the delivery man, or if she went out to look for it at reception.

As it was placed on her desk, on the small space she had made as her secretary walked towards her, she could point out the orchids, lilies and anemones, mixing so well with one another that it was almost pleasing to see -if it weren't for the fact that she still didn't know who those came from.

—No information about the sender again? —Y/n asked with no hope.

—Nothing —she shook her head, pointing at the bucket—, but I think there's a note.

She could only hope that time it was indeed San's, trying to make up for whatever text he had sent in a sudden need to apologize for his sudden apology, when flirty messages with second meaning should've started to be sent. That was why she reached for the small yellow note under one of the orchids, careful not to break any of the flowers.

"Sometimes you need to live different things to know what you want, kiss different lips to find out you've just been wasting time. And when you reach that point, you'll know it's me what you've been waiting for".

Her lips puckered in disgust, leaving the note back in the bucket before she looked up at Jennifer.

—Can you throw it away? —Y/n asked.

She had done the same with the three buckets prior to that one. It creeped her out to think about someone watching her so attentively that they knew every move she made, to the point of even congratulating her for a relationship that had only been exposed for people in the company -and that also made her believe that those flowers could be coming from someone in the office. But she always ended up being annoyed at the idea of someone just pulling up a prank at her, enjoying it every single time they imagined her uncomfortable face as she read those notes.

—You don't want to keep them?

Jennifer looked at her confused, extending her arm to the desk to pick up the bucket again. She was so confused, and it was the same expression she had the other times she was asked to do the same thing.

—Wait, can I ask you something? —Y/n stopped her before she was able to turn on her tracks.

As she nodded, Y/n motioned her to close the door to her office, so no one else would be able to hear what was going to be discussed inside. Her hand moved in the air, inviting Jennifer to walk closer to her desk so she could hear comfortably the doubt that had been going through Y/n's head since the previous night.

She had no one to discuss that with. Absolutely no one she could rant to whenever something bothered her, and it made her feel bad for her secretary to make her hear her problems as if she was her therapist. But she was the only person she had.

—Let's say... A friend was kissed by someone. Clearly, there's attraction between them two, they get on well, they're building some trust... and they kissed when they least expected it. But he said he was sorry right after kissing her. What would you make out of it?

—Miss, did someone who isn't your boyfriend kiss you? —her tone was worried, while her thin eyebrows slightly furrowed— Or... did your boyfriend apologize for kissing you?

—Huh? No, it's not about me. It happened to a friend. A friend —she repeated.

But by Jennifer's playful smile, Y/n could tell she wasn't buying it, but would play along either way to make her feel better.

—Oh —she nodded—. I mean, the most possible scenario is that the boy was scared of crossing a boundary with your friend —her shoulders shrugged, after she dropped her arms to the sides—. I guess it plays a big part if it was their first kiss or not. At least that's how I would see it.

—Hmm, right —she scratched her chin—. So you don't think the boy regrets it.

—It depends on how he apologized exactly —she tilted her head momentarily—. If your friend is doubting whether he regrets it or not, it's mostly her projecting her fears onto reality.

—Right —she repeated—. Thanks for your attention —she smiled at Jennifer—. Could you please...?

—I won't tell anyone what happened to you... your friend —she instantly corrected—. If you need anything else, let me know.

After Jennifer left her office, and she found some peace to focus back on her work, a text on her phone had her quickly rolling on the office chair to reach the device, placed on the other corner of her desk, thinking it was San. Disappointment came back to her when she saw her father's name instead.

It was Monday, it was supposed to be a chilling day, but instead she kept finding things that filled up her mind with anything but peace.

She held back from rolling her eyes as she opened the door to her father's office, and found Tim sitting in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. She was sure she was dealing with enough that morning, to be forced to deal with the pain in the ass that man was. Even his sided smile as he saw her was making her blood boil.

—Good, you were fast —her father cheered.

—Yeah... what is this about? —Y/n asked first, taking the seat next to Tim.

—Tim had an idea to get influencers to promote our cars —his tone sounded so excited that Y/n wondered what that idea could be.

—Contacting them and offering them deals? —she asked, as if it was something obvious.

It was how it always worked. Not only with influencers, but also with known people in different areas of entertainment.

—An exposition —Y/n frowned at that idea.

—An exposition? —her eyes kept shifting between the two men— What makes you believe influencers that are in their early twenties would care about a car exposition?

—Offer them music, free food and alcohol, and they all will show up shoving their phones up your face —he shrugged—. It could certainly help with the little problem you've had with sales in the past few months.

—I didn't know you were part of the Marketing team, actually —Y/n mentioned in between her teeth.

—Yet he's doing more than those lazy idiots —her father stated—. Not a single time they've come up with good ideas like that one. The head of the team has decreased their productivity even more after the two people on their team were kicked out.

—Aren't you a bit too involved in our business? —Y/n clapped back, looking at Tim— Anyone else would think you don't own your own company to apply these ideas.

—And anyone else would think this won't be your business at all in the future. Classic Cruise is my main client —he answered, pointing at her father—. Your company is the biggest one we work with. Not to mention the investment we do on it every year. It's not directly my company, but it's as if it was. You should maybe be thankful that others are doing work no one here seems to be doing.

Y/n had to bite her tongue, holding back any impulsive thought that was crossing her mind before she forced herself to relax.

—And since I gave you the idea, you should be the one taking care of it —Tim continued.

—Me? —Y/n suddenly asked.

It wasn't her area, her team had no knowledge in Marketing and events planning.

—It'll be a good way to show off that you can manage more than one area. You know, for the future —he shrugged.

If that was a trick to get her to fail and show everyone how she wasn't ready to take over the company, she was about to prove him wrong.

—Also, I think it'd be a good opportunity to present your boyfriend more formally. So think about inviting him.

What was San even going to do there? He had nothing to do with the business, not even with the sector she was working in. It all just seemed like a lame excuse to prove something she didn't want to know of.

—Unless you're broken up by then.

—Of course he will be there —Y/n answered back without giving it a second thought—. Although my love life shouldn't be the focus of anything. If this is all, I'll go back to my office. There are a lot of things I need to prepare.

And as she walked out that door, and closed herself back in her office, she realized what she had just done. Falling to Tim's provocations, she involved San into her mess again.

His body curled up tighter under the sheets as the door clicked louder when someone opened it to step inside his room. It took him just a sigh and a click of tongue to know Wooyoung was the one responsible for how it cracked for the past few days.

—Are you still here? —he opened his eyes when he saw the big bulge under the blanket.

San was covered from head to toe, thinking that'd give him the invisibility he needed, and that he was craving.

—Don't you have to go to class today? —Wooyoung asked, standing in front of his bed.

—Yeah, but I'm not feeling well —he whined.

The main reason: his own stupidity.

Why did he even send that text? He thought she'd reply back, or that she'd say anything. But, instead, she just left him on read. He had seen her online several times throughout the day, yet she didn't answer back a single time.

—You aren't feeling well? —Wooyoung's eyebrows raised in surprise.

It wasn't like San wasn't bound to get sick, but out of all those years they had been living together, he hadn't seen him getting so sick to skip a class.

It actually was that big of a deal.

—What's wrong? Do you need anything? —he stepped closer to the bed— I could go out to buy some medicine.

—Can you buy something to cure how dumb I am? —San asked, moving under the blankets to lie on his back.

Wooyoung looked around confused, not understanding where that reaction was coming from. The most logical idea would be to link it to the gathering he attended on Sunday, but even when they saw him right after, he looked happy and satisfied. He walked around as if he had won the lottery, before he closed himself inside his room.

—What?

Wooyoung pulled from the sheets, instantly uncovering San. His body moved to the side, resting on his side so his back would be facing Wooyoung.

—I thought you were seriously sick —his friend complained—. What the hell is wrong with you?

—That's what I've been asking myself since last night —he mumbled.

Wooyoung was left even more confused after that answer, surprised by San's reaction to his question. He was indeed feeling low in energy for some reason.

—Is it about yesterday? —Wooyoung dared to ask— Didn't it turn out well? When you came it seemed like everything went well.

But he didn't know if she had been told something from her family and friends after she came back home, and later communicated that to San. And it wouldn't really surprise him if that was the case. Those things just happened, and there was no way to avoid them.

—It did —he nodded—. But I did something so stupid...

—About Y/n?

His black head moved, visibly nodding, while Wooyoung just waited for San to take his time and speak up. She was his first girlfriend, so it wasn't a surprise he'd react this way at the smallest inconvenience.

—You can tell me. I'm here to help you —he encouraged, sitting on the edge of the bed.

—Really? —San looked at him over his shoulder.

—Really —he nodded.

San carefully rolled on the bed, facing his friend before he sat up on the mattress.

—Let's say I said something, and I'm not sure I should have —he started—. I just overthought what happened, and thought it was the best thing to say, but now I realize I'm a dumbass for it.

At that point, Wooyoung just looked at him expecting the worst.

—We kissed, right? But it was because she told me to take risks, and be more sporadic. And I was —he started rambling—. I kissed her. But the kiss was so bad that I felt bad after thinking about it here. Like seriously, I wasn't at her level and I probably disappointed her. And I felt like apologizing for it.

—You didn't apologize for kissing her, didn't you?

In the wide silence, Wooyoung found his answer.

—Did she look like she didn't like it? Did she tell you anything?

San thought about it for a few seconds, remembering the way she held onto him tighter with every move of their lips, and how she sucked on his mouth like she didn't want to let go. She didn't tell him she didn't like it, she didn't show she didn't like it. Her smile and their chemistry reaching a whole new level kind of proved she did like it.

But somewhere in his head, after he came back home and thought about it, made him believe that, not only he crossed a boundary, he crossed it to give her nothing. Y/n was kind, of course she wouldn't make it obvious she didn't like it.

—Fucking idiot, why? —he hit his arm— You've been dating her for a month and apologized for kissing her?

—It was a bad kiss.

—Did she tell you? —Wooyoung asked— Or did she seem like she wanted to move away? Choi San, you're so stupid it amazes me. How do you tell your girlfriend you're sorry for kissing her? Maybe that kiss wasn't even bad.

—She left me on read.

—Of course she did —Wooyoung stood up—. She's probably confused about why you're saying you're sorry for kissing her. Didn't you think it'd be weird?

It took him a few seconds to realize in his mind it was different from Wooyoung's. To his friend, they were talking about his girlfriend, someone with whom he had probably built up some level of trust. But in reality, and in San's head, Y/n was a girl he liked, and then ghosted, and then forced into pretending to be his girlfriend, only to drag her into a bigger issue where she needed him to pretend to be her boyfriend.

It probably would be easier to get advice from him if he knew the truth.

—You know what you should do? —Wooyoung suggested, getting up from the bed— Meet up with her, talk it out and kiss her to make up for that bad kiss and your dramatic ass. I can't believe you really did that —he huffed.

—Should I? —San puckered his lips, looking at his phone.

—Yes! Also... I was going to do the laundry, do you have anything I need to clean?

It wasn't a surprise Wooyoung was there in the morning. His job gave him the chance to work from home a few times a week, but he didn't know he always took the chance that he and Mingi were gone to clean the house.

—No —he shook his head.

Wooyoung was getting ready to step out of the room again, only to stop at the door frame to turn to him again.

—By the way, after you make up with her, ask her if she wants to come with us to Cape Cod —Wooyoung suggested— Meghan thought it'd be good to go camping this weekend, so the girls also get to know Y/n.

Yeosang's girlfriend was always the one planning all those big trips among the friend group whenever someone new showed up, in order to make them feel included. It happened with Jongho's and Yunho's girlfriends, so it wasn't going to be any different with Y/n.

After Wooyoung left the room, San was left back alone, staring at his locked phone before he slid his finger through the screen to turn it on. Her chat was the first thing that showed up on it as soon as it was unlocked, feeling upset at himself when he saw that text again.

"Sorry for kissing you earlier"

He could've explained further, he would have sounded less cold. Wooyoung was right, he needed to talk with Y/n.

Y/n: Can you meet later today?

It was almost as if he had been manifesting that text, surprised at how it popped up on his screen even before he planned to start typing.

San: Sure. I also was going to ask you to meet up.

Now both of their doubts were: what exactly did the other want to meet up for?

[luvether]

hullo hullo again sweetest kou!!

aweee DDD: well in that case i hope u've been able to get plenty of rest! /gen. but yes i have been doin well too and im nearing summer vacation finally hehe ₍ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ₎ and np hehe! im glad u like the delivery >:33

ALSO OMG THE PINK???? UR SO SWEET????? fdfjdslfd thank u so much for gift i shall hold it in my pocket for safekeeping /silly,, and yes i can confirm that mr fox and i do have baking dates n he does go out of his way to get me flowers

oh!! speaking of flowers, what kind do u associate with u and luocha? :0 (cus u two are very spring coded as well /pos) <- pls forgive me if i asked this before i have a buggy memory ;v;

riverr i hope you are well!! 🤍 i hope you don’t mind such an overdue response T_T but yaayy you’re close to summer and possible rest for you?

honestly i was taking careful considerations when choosing those images for kisaqiu <33 i didn’t know whether to incorporate like the chinese-esque delicacies or stick w the confectioneries and baking stuff but i’m so happy you like it!! and yess!! i took a lil peaksies on kisaqiu lore to make sure i got a few things correct (ꈍ◡ꈍ)

hmm good question too, and no worries i don’t recall you asking this so i can answer it now ^^ surprisingly i don’t have a singular answer to that because i tend to associate / draw koucha with white lilies, irises or gossypium (cotton flowers) soo just think of any white flowers and its them

[wrxsslin-hours]

Hey, Lover (Chapter 1)

next chap |

Bret was only supposed to deliver flowers to Shawn, not fall in love with him.

(Quintessential Delivery Boy x Househusband bretshawn au)

a/n: Hi hello, how y'all doing? Remember that one time I wrote this fic? A year ago, I think? Wild. Since Christmas break is coming along and I don't have classes until the 22nd, I was thinking I should finish this small fic-let. Thank you for readin'

I've rejected affection for years and years. Now I have it, and damn it, it's kind of weird. He tells me I'm pretty. Don't know how to respond. I tell him that he's pretty too. Can I say that? Don't have a clue - "Valentine", Laufey

The flower shop was the apotheosis of all flower shops—small but brimming with buckets and pots of flowers. A tender farrago of lilies, carnations, and hydrangeas filled the room. The floor was a mess of leaves and rogue petals; the shelves above, a nest of ribbons and silk. Wrapping papers crumpled, and the radio sang. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains and bathed the room in warmth; dust and pollen danced in its rays. It was a peek into the world through pink-tinted glasses, a sea of reds and whites. And in the middle of it all, Bret arranged roses as if he were a man on a mission.

Like clockwork, Bret tied a bow around the neck of the bouquet and gently placed it beside the others he had made. He rubbed the underside of his nose to block the overpowering aroma of flowers. The corners of his lips tugged into a frown. Customers would say the scent was heavenly; Bret would beg to differ. Curly black tresses framed his face as the sound of hushed giggles drowned the staccato melodies of the radio. An annoyed huff sliced through the air. Bruce, Bret’s brother, let out an exasperated sigh, his nose buried between the pages of his newspaper.

“Would you two stop poking your noses where they don’t belong?”

Bruce’s reprimand fell on deaf ears. Bret turned his head to Owen and Elizabeth, the sides of their faces glued to the cracked door of their parents’ shared office. It wasn’t too long ago that a tall man came barreling down the shop doors, wallet in his hands like a rifle ready to shoot through every assortment of tulips and orchids. The stranger was a far cry from their regular customers. He didn’t have the caved shoulders of a shy teen or the worried lines of a husband who forgot his anniversary. He was confident and sharp, savvy like a businessman with a heartthrob smile. He wasn’t the average Joe. And after such a slow day of work, his intrusion caught everyone’s attention. It’s been ten minutes since their parents whisked the man away into their office, and Owen and Elizabeth sat fixated on the shadows that shifted underneath the gap in the door.

Owen waved his hand, and his sandy blonde hair swayed as he did so. He reeled his head back to face his brother’s furrowed brows with furrowed brows of his own. “Pipe down, Bruce. I can’t hear a thing over your yapping.”

The older Hart gritted his teeth, ready to crack from the tension of his jaw. Before he had the chance to stand, roll his newspaper, and whack Owen upside the head, Elizabeth squealed and stopped him dead in his tracks. Four pairs of eyes darted to her as she slid her back down the wall, her hands on her flushed cheeks.

“He ordered fifty roses.” She swooned, the skirt of her lilac dress pooling around her as she sat on the floor. Owen scrambled beside his sister, his head cemented onto the door once more. As the conversation beyond the door rambled on, Owen hung onto every faint word his ears could decipher.

“Fifty roses!” Owen gasped, disbelief in his eyes. The blonde turned his head to his brothers and wiggled his eyebrows, “Talk about a Casanova.”

Elizabeth pushed herself to her feet, leaves on her skirt. “Isn’t it romantic?” she mused starry-eyed. “I’d love to get a bouquet like that,” she sighed, her head tilted heavenward.

Jim rolled his eyes at her daydreaming, gaze as dark as the stem-covered marble counter he lay on. He pursed his lips and twirled a flower between his fingers, “Fifty roses are daylight robbery. Pretty sappy if you ask me.” He plucked a leaf from its stem. “This guy must be loaded to make an order like that.”

Bruce sat down on a stool, the soles of his shoes balanced on its footrest. He shrugged his shoulders as he opened his newspaper and went to the page he left off. “That just means there’s more money for us.” He leaned his head back and laughed.

The office door suddenly flew open and thwacked Owen square on the face. A groan escaped the blonde’s lips. But his pain was left muted by the gruff voice of the man that opened the door. “Watch it, twerp,” the man snapped, his face red and his suit white.

Cowboy hat on his head, chocolate-colored eyes pointed to the studded watch on his wrist. The man’s black loafers, shined to perfection, smacked against the checker-tiled floor. Like a tornado, he stormed out of the shop and knocked every pot that stood in his way. Bret stared as the stranger crossed the street, entered his eggshell-colored limousine, and drove off. Bruce grumbled as he, Jim, and Elizabeth picked up the pots the man pushed down. Owen shakily stood up beside Bret with his hands on his nose and redness on his forehead. “I’m not delivering for that jerk,” he sneered. He patted Bret on the shoulder, “He’s all yours.”

Before Bret could retort, their parents strode into the room, an argument along with them. “We can’t possibly have fifty roses ready for today,” Helen bickered as she unfolded the napkin their customer gave, her hair brown like the apron she wore. “We won’t have them restocked until Saturday.”

Stu huffed as his eyes darted around his shop before they stopped on the rose bouquets on Bret’s work table. He grabbed the flowers and began to unwrap them. He piled the roses into a hill and cast everything else aside. Bret sputtered, his shades sliding down the bridge of his nose as he did so, “Dad, those were an order for Miss Mae–”

“Miss Mae can wait, Bret.” Stu wrapped the roses with precision. Helen sighed beside him as she plucked a notecard and began to write down whatever their latest client scribbled on the coffee-stained napkin. “Mr. Layfield is paying big money to have his delivery done today,” Stu explained. “It’s the biggest order we got since we opened, so we should make him happy.”

It didn’t take long for Bret to have a behemoth of a bouquet in his arms and a clipboard tucked under his chin. Bret could feel the dull pinch of thorns on his biceps; the aroma of roses bombarded his nose as it completely buried his upper body. With one last tweak on the bouquet from his mother, Bret was out the door and into the delivery truck. Before he could drive off, his father’s voice rang in the breeze. Bret peeked over the roses to see Stu waving at him. “Take off your sunglasses!” he exclaimed, hands around his mouth to amplify his words. Bret fought to roll his eyes as he dragged his sunglasses to the top of his head and steered the truck into the busy streets.

Bret passed a flurry of saloons and office buildings. The world outside the truck was a blur of greens and grays. White picket fences turned into towering hedgerows, wooden street lights turned into metal lamp posts, and mismatched row houses turned into palatial mansions. Bret’s delivery truck stuck out like a sore thumb in the presence of luxury sedans. A low whistle escaped his lips as he slowed to a halt in front of the rose bouquet’s intended.

A mansion stood tall in the presence of neatly trimmed hedges and surrounded by an army of limousines and cars. Upon the home’s slate roof was an array of leaves connected to twining vines that hugged its brick walls, and behind those vines were large arched windows, like hair that covered soulful eyes. Bret could faintly make out the beige curtains behind the glass panes. He grabbed the bouquet and reveled in the manor’s beauty. It was the picture of pristine perfection, a scene straight from the home magazines his mother would regularly read. Bret would’ve been impressed if the mansion didn’t look like every other house in the cul-de-sac. He grabbed the rose bouquet and slipped his clipboard on top of it. The gravel path crinkled underneath his feet as he walked to the manor’s grand double doors. The sun bore onto his skin as Bret pushed the doorbell with his elbow. He rolled his eyes at the sound of cowbells that echoed in his ears. The doorbell tune was ostentatious as the roses in his hands.

Silence filtered the air. Bret clicked his tongue and pushed the doorbell again, the sound of the doorbell more annoying than the first. He juggled the flowers in his hands as he looked down at the address written on his clipboard. The idea of being in the wrong house filled his mind, but before Bret could turn his back from the door, it swung open. ‘Finally,’ Bret thought. With his eyes still on his clipboard, he tilted his head to the side. “Does Mr. Shawn Layfield live here?” he asked.

“Well, hello to you too, handsome,” a voice drawled, sweet like honey and slow like molasses.

Bret’s head shot up as a chill ran down his spine. His dark eyes landed on the man in front of him, his breath hitched. Bret balanced the bouquet in one hand as he tugged on the collar of his pink shirt with the other. He expected the thick velvet of a butler’s tuxedo, not the glossy sheen of a silk robe. He expected thinning silver hair, not damp blond curls that clung to tanned skin. Bret was ready to smell the musk of dust, not the aroma of cigarettes and Parisian perfume. He shook his head in a vain attempt to escape the other man’s allure. “I have flowers for him.”

Shawn’s smile widened, “Are they from you?”

“They’re from–” Bret read his clipboard – “Mr. John Bradshaw Layfield.”

The blond’s smile left as fast as it came. He pursed his lips like he was chewing on a lemon rind and leaned against the door frame. “A bit over-the-top, isn’t it?”

Bret gave a wry grin. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just the delivery boy.” Bret waited for the other to take the bouquet from his hands. But the door only opened wider. The delivery boy raised a brow; his head cocked to the side.

“What?” Shawn shrugged; his robe slid down his shoulder as he did so. “You don’t expect me to carry all of that, do you?”

Bret blinked owlishly. Shawn seemed perfectly capable of carrying the order. He gazed at the taut muscle underneath Shawn’s clothes for a moment. And at the drop of a hat, Bret’s eyes stayed pointedly on the blond’s bedroom eyes. “You’re a delivery boy,” Shawn continued. He stepped to the side, his brow in a sly arch, “Go on and deliver.”

Bret frowned and took a wary step. Shawn guided him into the living room, and Bret followed as if God watched him. Cautious and guarded, Bret took each step as if it was his last. The shuffle of carpet slowly replaced the sound of shoes against the wooden floor. And Bret caught himself in the company of lush couches and intricate cabinets as Shawn excused himself to get a vase. He tapped his toe against the white tiger rug underneath him as the chandelier shined above his head. To say Bret felt out of place was an understatement. The living space was lavish, just like everything else in the mansion. Bookshelves as tall as the ceiling covered half of the room, each shelf overflowing with novels and encyclopedias. In the corner was a grand piano, free from dust and fingerprints. Paintings upon paintings hung from the walls, bronze candelabras scattered along the corridors. Bret narrowed his eyes. There were no framed pictures or lightly stained patches on the floor. The house was opulent, but it didn’t seem as lived-in as it should be. His contemplation was interrupted by Shawn’s call.

“Tell me, delivery boy, what do these flowers mean?” He asked as he placed the water-filled vase on the coffee table and situated himself on one of the many chairs in the room. “Don’t they have meanings? The language of flowers and whatnot.”

Bret hesitantly unwrapped the bouquet and propped the roses inside the porcelain vase. He handed the notecard to the blond with a rehearsed smile, “That’s what cards are for.”

“You are so boring.” Shawn stretched on the chair; his legs dangled on its cushioned armrest. “Read the note for me.”

The delivery boy exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. Bret would’ve left ages ago if his father wasn’t so insistent about pleasing their clients. Not wanting to waste any more time, he began to read the card. “Love of my life–”

“Is it too late to return the bouquet?”

Bret couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped him. The corner of Shawn’s lip quirked up at the sound of his laughter. He twirled a strand of his golden hair between his fingers, “You should rest a bit before you go.” Shawn stood up and strolled towards Bret, “You must be tired.” He brushed his hand against Bret’s forearm and grinned at the way his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“I should go, Mr. Layfield–”

“Call me Shawn.” He peeked up at Bret through his lashes, “You’ve got a name, delivery boy?”

“What I do have are other deliveries to do.” Bret felt his cheeks warm as he raised his clipboard and offered the other man a pen, “I need your signature, Mr. Layf– Shawn.”

Shawn pouted, his shoulders sagged as he took the pen and clipboard from Bret’s grasp; their fingers brushed against one another. Bret bit his top lip as Shawn signed the paper with a flourish and gave the clipboard back to him. The delivery boy could feel the tension leave his body; this whole fiasco was finally sealed to a close. “It’s been a pleasure, Shawn.”

The blond took an abrupt step towards Bret’s personal space; their chests flushed together. Shawn tucked the pen behind the other’s ear. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he purred.

The tension left Bret, and his soul might as well follow along with it.

A stormy haze engulfed Bret’s consciousness, and it didn’t clear up until he was seated in his truck. The events that transpired minutes ago replayed in his mind like a broken cassette tape. He combed his fingers through his hair, and the pen balanced behind the shell of his ear fell on the passenger seat beside him. His eyes darted to the clipboard on his lap; the name ‘Shawn Michaels’ written on the signature line mocked him. He glanced at the mansion’s reflection on the crooked rearview mirror, and with the thoughts of Shawn plaguing him, he drove off.

Shawn didn’t cross Bret’s mind again until a week later. He was sat on the counter redoing the messy ribbons Owen hurriedly tied beforehand when his dad lumbered into the shop with a box of lavender colored craft paper in his arms. Bret raised a questioning brow at Owen, and their father placed the box on the counter. “Big order coming up,” the older Hart mused.

Bret could already feel the sleepless hours they will undoubtedly spend making flower arrangements. Owen groaned at the very thought. Their father cleared the counter from leaves and petals, letting them drop to the floor. “Mr. Layfield has a soiree in a week and since he loved our flowers the last time, he wanted us to arrange flowers for it.”

Owen groaned even louder and slouched in his chair. “Hate that guy,” the blonde grumbled under his breath, a sour taste still in his mouth from the last time their rich client last visited them. “That guy is paying for our food on the table, son,” Stu tutted.

As both Harts bickered back and forth, Bret gulped. Bret usually didn’t think of the people he delivered flowers to; their faces stay blurred for the short time they linger in his thoughts. But Shawn, with his not-so-subtle interest and that damned silk robe of his, was the exception.

“I bet his husband didn’t even like the bouquet!” Owen complained. Their father scowled but couldn’t disagree. The younger Hart wrapped his arm around Bret, “Right, Bret? The guy didn’t like it, did he?”

Bret ignored his brother, instead feigning nonchalance with a cross of his arms. He turned to Stu, “Say, do you know anything about Layfield’s husband?” Stu hummed, rummaging through the box he carried in, “The boy got married to Layfield the moment he graduated college. Layfield paraded the young man around like a prized diamond to his even richer friends. That’s about everything people know around here.” Owen butted himself into the conversation, “He doesn’t have good taste, then.” Stu shooed his younger son away with a roll of ribbons.

Bret fiddled with the ends of a flower stem, distracting himself. Stu gave him a knowing look, and Bret shifted his eyes to the lone pair of scissors on the floor, far more interesting than the squinted look of his father at that moment. “His husband is coming here later to discuss decorations. I won’t be here—” Owen clapped his hands, already aware of where their father was hinting at. “Oh, would you look at the time, I should really help Lizzy with the groceries. Okay, bye!” Owen bolted out of the store in a breath, the front door bell jingled when he set foot outside and left his family staring at his retreating form.

Stu clicked his tongue before he fished out his notepad from his back pocket. He handed it to Bret, “Just make sure to keep the customer happy.”

It wasn’t that Bret was avoiding Shawn, far from it. But when presented with the chance to flirt back with a man married to someone who could buy all of Bret’s possessions that he’s had or will ever have, he’d rather steer clear of it. But there was something about Shawn that Bret could not stop thinking about. From the beauty mark underneath his lashes to the way he smirked at Bret’s flustered state, Shawn was beautiful, and he knew it all too well. He seemed to know just the right buttons to press to make Bret second-guess his words. And the Hart was trapped between a rock and a hard place when Shawn finally visited the flower shop, an hour late from schedule.

Looking at Shawn made Bret unconsciously smooth out the wrinkles of his shirt and fix his hair any chance he got. Under Shawn’s gaze, Bret felt awfully small. When Shawn entered the store, he brought in an air of sweetness, the type that makes Bret’s mouth water. It was a nice change from the aroma of flowers, and for once, Bret didn’t have the urge to hide his nose behind his hand. Shawn dressed simply, but with the way he carried himself, it proved otherwise. He was fond of silk, Bret noticed, as his eyes trailed from his silk shirt to the jeans that hugged his waist.

“Hi, delivery boy.”

Bret blinked; his eyes shot back to Shawn’s face. “Welcome, Mr. Layfield,” Bret managed to utter. Shawn pouted, “I told you not to call me that.”

The blonde locked his gaze on the array of flowers behind Bret, his pout melting into a grin. “Those are pretty. I wish I got those bouquets instead.”

Bret turned to where Shawn was staring and laughed, “50 roses not good enough for you?” Shawn smiled, “Not even good to begin with.”

[creepy-crowleys]

surprise! a gift is left somewhere conspicuous, a table or counter. a single black rose, pink stargazer lily, and a sprig of baby's breath are tied in a neat little bundle with a purple ribbon and strip of pink lace. accompanying the flowers are a small box of 5 chocolate truffles in a heart shaped box, and a Bluey valentine's card, the kind passed out around classrooms. on the card are two very crudely drawn faces, which would be almost impossible to make out if not for the message penned under them:

Happy Valentine's from Leo & Lily❁

[Oh! Oh... This is a surprise - and a very sweet one at that. Very rude not to stick around to be thanked in person though.

Oh well. She'll just have to send her gratitudes along so they'll be waiting for Leo and Lily when they get back from their delivery run: A fragrant, pale yellow rose and dark purple lilacs, a goodie bag of assorted candies and treats, and a homemade card complete with retaliatory doodle.]