#self expression polaroid project

[zvdvdlvr]

— Drive All Night

— 🖊️. Synopsis. You’ve been quiet; more quiet than normal. Gibbs wants you to know that despite as stoic as he is, he does care. (inspired by ‘call your mom’ by noah kahan and lizzy mcalpine)

— 🖊️. Warnings. Ooc Gibbs but idc. Comfort fic kinda. I self project. Mentions suicide. Mentions Shannon and Kelly Gibbs.

— 🖊️. Tracklist. Track One Track Two Track Three Track Four Track Five

Gibbs looked over at your form, slumped over. He looked at his watch: 23:37. You were usually the person to stay late, to work on the things that were undesirable for everyone else. You hadn’t left the building earlier than 20:00 in months.

He knew why- or rather, knew of why you stayed late. Jenny had told him you had problems, problems taking care of yourself and neglecting yourself; sometimes choosing to take out your own anger and depression on yourself. But you were the best of the best. In fact, you were the best and the youngest. Aged twenty eight.

“Y/n.”

You snapped up, eyes landing on your boss’s. “What’s- what do you need?” You asked, setting your pen down and closing the file.

Gibbs watched you watch him, rigid in your chair.

He knew you were scared to trust; to open your heart and let people in. You had been working for NCIS and had only went out for drinks with the team thrice- Ducky’s birthday, Ziva’s birthday, and Abby’s birthday. You were included, but you seperated yourself for reasons unknown.

“I want to go for a drive. Come with me,” Gibbs said.

Lately, Gibbs had noticed how tired you were, closing your eyes for longer amounts of time, straight chugging your coffee, and getting in and leaving althe office after Gibbs got there. But you were efficient, getting not only your paperwork done, but working on most of Tony’s as well (something that made Gibbs unusually mad).

You were literally working yourself to death and chose to add more to the pile. Was it to get away from your thoughts? To get away from your home situation? What were you running from?

“I have work to do-“

Gibbs chuckled. “You’re the fastest agent to complete their paperwork. You do Tony’s. Tim’s, even. You’re more than ahead on your reports.”

You gnawed at your lip. “Sir, I’m getting ready to go home.”

Liar. Gibbs shook his head in amusement. “That’s an order, y/n.”

At that, you shut off your light and grabbed your coat. “Ok.”

The walk to the elevator was quiet. You wondered what Gibbs wanted. Were you getting fired? You had not done anything out of the ordinary recently… what could Gibbs want?

You climbed into the passenger seat and prayed you were keeping your job.

Gibbs started the truck and drove out of the parking lot. “So,” he started.

You didn’t say anything. You just looked out the window, taking in the life. “What do you want?”

“To know,” Gibbs replied. He turned down the radio and kept his eyes trained forward.

“Know about…?” You prompted, cutious as to what he wanted.

Gibbs shrugged. “You.”

“Y/n l/n, aged 28. My eyes are-“

“Not from your file.”

Silence fell. You didn’t have amything interesting to say about yourself other than the fact that you went to the gym and had an extensive collection of sunset polaroids. And there was no way Gibbs wanted to know about your childhood. That sould be disappointing. Disappointing to tell him about how ordinary and unimportant you were, your own family leaving you. It’s disappointing- exactly the reason why she did what she did: to be more than disappointing. In fact, you had a new reason not to be a disappointment: Gibbs. He, in your time at NCIS, had become one of the few people you never wanted to disappoint.

“Well then… I don’t know what you want to know,” you mumbled dully. Please, you thought, don’t let this change your opinion of me.

Gibbs looked over to see you already looking at him. He couldn’t see your expression, but you looked like you were already thinking about what he would say next.

“Tell me something, y/n. Anything.” Gibbs stated. He slowed down and turned left. He himself didn’t seem to have a destination, making you wonder how long Gibbs would drive around.

You didn’t want to talk, but you yearned for Gibbs to know, to look at everything you’ve gone through and done and understand why you are the way you are.

Of course you trust him, though. That’s not the problem for once. The problem is you don’t want Gibbs to get the wrong impression of you, or come to the conclusion that you’re a fraud or something.

“Tell me something about you first,” you shot back easily, relaxing a little bit into the seat.

So, Gibbs told you about a woman named Shannon and a beautiful baby girl named Kelly. He told you about Shannon’s rules, how he knew that she was the one. A young Leroy Gibbs knew that Shannon Fielding would be the love of his life.

And Gibbs also told you about the case that killed them: the gun, the bullet, and the casing. He told you about his habits after they died, how cold and snappy he was. He told you about- despite his madness- a certain Donald Mallard kept forcing his way into Gibbs’ life, making sure Gibbs knew he wasn’t alone.

“What I’m tryin’ to tell ya is… we are here for you, kid. You aren’t truly alone in this miserable world,” Gibbs finished quietly.

By now, Gibbs had parked in front of a house- his house?- and completely torn down the barrier between boss and coworker.

You weren’t gonna lie, you were crying by now. Tears silently streaming down your cheeks as the man you most admired and looked up to told you about the best and worst days of his life- all the while he had no idea about who you are.

“I didn’t-“ you started, sniffling. You turned to look at him, tears blurring your vision. Some of the phrases he had used to describe his pain rang in your ears and Gibbs knew it- he knew you could relate to some of the things he said and felt.

“Stay the night, kiddo,” Gibbs said, reaching over to pat your shoulder.

As he exited the truck, you felt more tears burning in your eyes: that pat on the back literally gave y/n a reason to live.

Maybe, y/n thought, all the lights that had shut off could turn back on.

[runninriot]

Love Is A Polaroid Steddie ficlet | ~2k | cw: implied/referenced self-destructive behaviour, drinking, a little heartbreak before it gets better | happy sappy steddie & platonic stobin

inspired by the insanely talented @inklessletter 's #polaroid series (go check out their art right now!!!)

   "Steeeve, please!" Robin begs. Literally begs.

Like, hands folded together as if in prayer, a pleading look in her eyes, expression as if she's in pain.

   "Robs, no! I don't- that's stupid. I don't feel comfortable with you following us around to take pictures for your- whatever it is." He waves a hand at her dismissively.

   "It's a project, Steve. For my Photography Studies course."

He should know, she already explained that. Told him something about visualizing love in its purest form. Told him she wants to take polaroid pictures of him and Eddie. No posing, just random shots whenever she feels like it. Pictures in black and white - something about using dark tones and deep contrasts to enhance the beauty of simple moments in their day to day life.

   "Whatever. I still don't get why it has to be us?"

Steve is a little frustrated. She's been going on about her wonderful idea for a good few minutes now, not willing to drop the subject no matter how adamantly Steve declines. She knows how shy he gets when he knows someone is taking a picture of him. He hates how he always looks a little off, has never felt very photogenic. So, the mere thought of Robin capturing him in possibly awkward situations with his boyfriend makes his skin crawl.

   "Well, first of all, you are my best friends, so it would mean a lot to have you be part of it. Plus, we live together so I wouldn’t be around you any more than I already am. You wouldn’t even notice. And you two are the perfect motive because-“ Robin’s eyes flicker down to her own feet, unable to hold his gaze.

Her face is suddenly painted with a faint crimson blush. Steve's furrowed brows smooth out and his expressions go soft again when he looks at his best friend's bashful little smile as she looks sheepishly back up at him.

   "You are the perfect motive because I've never seen two people being so in love with each other. Makes me sick how soft and cute you two are, if I'm honest."

Robin chuckles and Steve snorts loudly, both rolling their eyes at the same time because God, when did Robin become such a sap?

   "What you and Eddie have is love in its purest form. It’s unapologetic, honest, and real. It's all I ever want to find for myself. I'm fucking jealous of you, Steve!"

They laugh and Steve ignores the violent tug in his heart caused by her words.

What him and Eddie have really is special. He knows it's some kind of miracle that they've ended up where they are now. It wasn't always that easy. There were times when Steve wanted to just give up. When the world tumbled down and buried him under its weight. When he thought he could never have Eddie like that, wanted to rather die than live life without him.

When Steve realised he had fallen in love with his best friend, his best male friend, he panicked. Finding out he likes boys like he likes girls wasn't even the scariest part. What really took him out was the fear of losing Eddie if he ever told him the truth. For weeks he tried to push his feelings down, tried to cage them behind his ribs but all it did was make him suffer even more. Every time Eddie looked at him, he felt a sharp pain in his heart. Every time Eddie touched him, it left a searing sensation on his skin. Every time they were alone, Steve felt like he was losing his mind, desperately trying to fight the urge to kiss the boy so blissfully unaware of the heartache he caused him. He fought and suffered in silence until he couldn’t take it anymore and succumbed to the tormenting ache in his chest. Until he fell into a dark hole.

Steve drifted apart, dulling his feelings with unhealthy amounts of booze. Hunting for warm, willing bodies to sink into. Starving for touch and affection just to feel anything other than the grief-stricken pain of losing the lover he never even had to begin with.

Of course, his self-destructive behaviour hadn’t gone unnoticed by his friends. Robin tried everything in her power to get through to him. Offered advice and help for all the wrong problems because she couldn’t have known that the real issue was his own fucking mind and his inability to talk about what kept him up at night. What made him so angry and distant and numb.

And then there was Eddie. Sweet, kind, and caring Eddie who couldn’t keep watching his friend ruin his own life anymore. Who gave him an ultimatum – stop hurting yourself or I’ll leave.

Eddie’s words felt like a pistol held to his head, the determination in his teary eyes like a finger ready to pull the trigger. Steve knew he meant it, knew this was his last chance. He would lose the one person that meant everything to him.

   “I can’t lose you, Eddie.”

   “Then let me love you instead.”

He said the words like it was easy. Like it hadn’t nearly cost Steve his sanity to even think them.

Love.

Love you.

   “I love you!”

Steve felt like he was startling awake from a nightmare. One of those where, once you’ve opened your eyes, you instantly forget its horrors. That’s what it felt like when his confession found its way out of his mouth, making the pain of the past months disperse into nothingness.

Eddie had been right there all this time.

Eddie, with tears running down his beautiful face, smiling lovingly at Steve. Eddie, who brought his hands up to each side of Steve’s face before he leaned down and sealed his lips with a bruising kiss. Despair and pain spilling from his mouth as he licked his way inside, forcefully pushing something else in their place. Filling Steve’s insides with warmth and light and happiness. Passion running through his veins, pumping love into his heart, restarting the rotten organ to pick up its once steady beat. Its rhythm hard and fast, growing in size so big Steve felt like it would burst right through his chest.

I. Love. You.

Three simple words were all it took.

All the pain, the suffering, the loveless nights, and dreadful days – they all vanished in the seconds it took to say them out loud.

Three simple words, that seemed so frightening in his mind, so loaded with too much meaning and not enough weight to truly express what he felt.

What he still feels.

Loving Eddie and be loved by him in return is so easy. It’s easy because it just comes naturally. It’s what makes their love so pure, so honest, and true. They have one heart beating in two separate bodies. They are a two-piece puzzle, their curves and edges shaped to fit. A perfect match.

Steve holds out his hands, waits for Robin to take them in hers, and pulls her into a hug.

   “Eddie already said yes, hasn’t he?” Steve says through a defeated smile.

   “Well, his exact words were ‘You’re gonna regret it, Bucks.’ And then he said something about being extra nasty and insufferable just to wind me up. But yeah, he’s on board.” Robin huffs out a laugh.

Steve pulls her tighter, laughs when he practically hears Eddie’s voice in his head, sees his mischievous grin before his inner eye.

Eddie loves to be the centre of attention. Loves to be in the spotlight. Of course, he would be happy to provide himself as vessel for Robin’s artistic outlet.

    The things you do for love, Steve sighs before he agrees.

 

Polaroid #1

Movie night. The three friends are watching some old, trashy horror movie. Steve had a very stressful day at work, can barely keep his eyes open when they’re not even 15 minutes into the movie. He falls asleep on the couch, unbothered by Robin and Eddie’s bickering and laughing. When the movie comes to an end, Eddie leans down to Steve’s resting body, foreheads touching as he takes a moment to just listen to the other man’s calm breathing. ‘Hey baby,’ Eddie whispers softly, ‘time to get up.’ He kisses the tip of Steve’s nose, waits for him to slowly drift out of his deep slumber.

Steve smiles sleepily when he opens his eyes and sees Eddie’s face hovering over him, accepts the gentle press of Eddie’s lips against his own.

   ‘C’mon, darling. Let’s get you to bed.’

   ‘I’m not even tired anymore,’ Steve says, his face scrunched up when he yawns loudly.

   ‘Hmm, I know a way to tire you out, baby. Don’t worry,’ Eddie answers smugly, brushing their noses together before he kisses him again.

Robin makes a gagging sound, but smiles as she takes a picture to capture this soft little moment.

Polaroid #2

Sunday morning. They are all a little groggy from Robin’s early birthday celebrations last night. They’ve been out dancing, downing shot after shot, having an awesome time. Now, the buzz from the night before is gone and makes way for headaches and hangover munchies. Steve promised Robin pancakes in the morning and she’s desperate for him to finally get up and make them. She knocks on their bedroom door and steps in without waiting for an answer. The boys are still in bed. Eddie looks like he just woke up with his frazzled hair hanging into his face, lying half on top of Steve, rubbing his eyes. ‘Just five more minutes’, Steve grumbles, refuses to turn and get up.

It’s her Birthday, sure, and he promised her food she absolutely, definitely needs to soak up the remaining alcohol in her system – but she can give him another five minutes.

When she returns (exactly five minutes later), she captures Eddie and Steve still in bed. Eddie’s lips grazing the skin on his mole-speckled back with a dreamy look in his eyes, while Steve sighs in defeat ‘Alright, Robs. You win.’

The shutter clicks just before he turns around to throw a pillow at her head, causing Eddie to tumble to the side and nearly topple off the bed.

Polaroid #3

Robin sorts through the pile of polaroid pictures she’s taken over the last two weeks:

Steve and Eddie dancing in the kitchen to some dorky love song.

Steve resting between Eddie’s thighs where they lie cuddled up on the sofa, Eddie reading his favourite book to Steve.

Eddie trying and failing to make a handstand, Steve beside him, holding his belly from laughing so hard.

A picture of all three of them on Robin’s birthday, faces covered in whipped cream and chocolate syrup after devouring their pancakes like starving animals.

Eddie with his guitar in his lap, Steve sitting on the floor across from him. They share a loving look, eyes full of desire and devotion.

And then- Robin startles in shock. How did that get in here?

She knows she didn’t take that picture. She couldn’t have. Not with the way she already feels the deep blush creeping up her face because- Jesus! That’s entirely too personal. She feels like she’s invading their privacy just by looking at that. This surely isn’t meant for anyone’s eyes but theirs.

It’s not like they’re visibly naked but the position of their bodies leaves literally no room for speculations. One of Eddie’s hands wrapped around Steve’s throat  and Steve looks like- well, he looks absolutely fucking blissful. Robin can practically hear the soft moans escaping his parted lips (How she knows what he sounds like, you ask? They swore to never ever talk about that incident ever again).

It looks like Eddie is kissing him. Or maybe he licks his skin. Maybe he whispers some dirty words into his ear, tells him how he’s going to wreck him – who knows? The point is, Robin doesn’t want to know because as much as she adores them, as much as she’s been prying on their sweet moments over the past weeks, there are things that should be kept between them.

She’s going to frame it and surprise them with it. (What she doesn’t know, is that Eddie sneaked that picture into her folder just to tease her. What she also doesn’t know is that there’s a whole collection of more of these kind of pictures hidden in a shoebox under their bed.)

[thisfairytalegonebad]

Polaroid - Whumptober day 9

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Character: Prompto Argentum Rating: Teen and up Warnings: Implied Eating Disorder/General Unhealthy Relationship with Food

Read below the cut or on AO3 here.

Noct’s never managed to go to Prompto’s house before. It’s not like he hasn’t tried before, even asked Ignis to get the place cleared so he could visit, but Prompto, while never outright rejecting the idea, always managed to distract Noct enough that they just ended up hanging out at his own apartment again.

So when he finally gets his chance - he may or may not have started a small fire while trying to make himself a midnight snack and now his kitchen has to be repainted, so they can’t do their school project at his place - he’s dying of curiosity. He’s not even sure why he’s so excited. Maybe it’s just that he’s never had the experience of visiting a friend at home, excluding Ignis and Gladio of course, which is different because he’s known them both from birth so they might as well be his brothers.

Noct is fascinated by the neighbourhood alone, the little gardens, the old lady waving at Prompto when they walk by, the cat staring at him from someone’s window. It’s… nice, and so full of life, especially compared to the almost sterile atmosphere of the Citadel and even Noct’s apartment building.

When Prompto opens the front door and lets Noct into his house, it’s immediately clear why he's always tried so hard to prevent Noct from coming over. It’s not that the house is ugly, or dirty or anything. It’s just a house, small with well-loved furniture and a fine layer of dust on the shelves. A normal house, or at least what Noct imagines to be a normal house. But that’s exactly the problem seems to have. He thinks Noct will be, what, disgusted? Offended that there is no red carpet for him? It’s stupid, and Noct’s not about to let Prompto beat himself up over it.

So he beelines for the couch where he spies two game controllers and plops down onto it, snatching one of the controllers before he sinks back into the couch.

“Now that Specs isn’t here to nag, wanna get your ass kicked before we do our stuff?”

As he hoped, Prompto grins and throws himself onto the couch as well.

“No way, dude, you’re gonna get your ass kicked!”

----

When they finally do reluctantly move over to the big table to get started on their project, Noct asks if he can get himself something to drink because like hell he’s going to have Prompto wait on him in his own house.

He’s already by the fridge when he hears Prompto jump up from the couch and shout, “Shit, no, wait-” but Noct has already seen what Prompto's trying to prevent him from seeing.

There’s a photo taped to the fridge door, surrounded by sticky notes containing Prompto’s handwriting. The photo is of a boy, around twelve years old, and Noct recognises him immediately, but the sticky notes are the real shock here - they're... they're just so mean, why would Prompto write these things about himself?

He doesn’t manage to catch much more than a glimpse of the self-deprecating words on the sticky notes before Prompto’s hand catches his shoulder and pulls him away from the kitchen entirely.

“I’ll get it, you just go sit down, our fridge is weird, it gets stuck sometimes, just tell me what you want dude and I’ll get it for you.” he rambles, fake smile plastered on as he all but manhandles Noct back onto the couch.

“Prompto-” Noct tries, but Prompto pretends he doesn’t hear him as he rummages around the kitchen. He tries again, louder, but when that too goes ignored, he stands again and tentatively pads back to the kitchen.

Prompto’s torn the photo off the fridge and is just pulling off the last of the sticky notes, and when he turns around, his eyes, Noct notices with horror, are red and his expression crumbles.

“You… weren’t supposed to see that,” he says weakly. He’s clearly trying not to cry, and he refuses to meet Noct’s eye.

“What, the photo?” Noct says stupidly, because of course he means the photo, but Prompto shakes his head.

“ Me, ” he says, miserably, and suddenly everything clicks into place.

Prompto’s weird around food. He’ll eat junk food with Noct, but he’ll whine about how he’ll have to make up for it, and make up for it he does - they’re friends on that fitness app Gladio makes Noct use and he sees the insane routes Prompto runs.

When Noct refuses to eat his veggies, Prompto rescues them from his plate and then claims he’s too full to eat the carbs remaining on his plate. And more than once, Noct has watched him reading the small writing on food packaging just a little too intensely.

“Prompto, did you think I didn’t know that about you?” he asks, very slowly, because surely Prompto can’t be that much of an idiot.

Apparently, though, he is, because he gapes at Noct for a good few seconds because he manages a high-pitched, “You knew?! ”

“Of course I knew!” Noct snaps, confused and feeling out of his depth. “We met back then, don’t you remember?”

“Well, yeah! That’s when I decided I needed to lose weight if I wanted to befriend you!”

Noct freezes. “What?”

“Dude, you wouldn’t have looked at me twice back then!”

That… shit, that hurts more than Noct could have expected, and to his utter horror, when he reaches up to rub his suddenly itchy eyes, his hand comes away wet.

He quickly turns, but it’s too late - Prompto has seen it.

“Noct-" he says, but Noct strides out of the door without looking back, only barely managing to snatch his bag on the way out.

Prompto doesn’t follow him.

----

They don’t talk the next day at school, and then it’s the weekend and for the first time in weeks, Prompto doesn’t spend it at Noct’s apartment.

More than once, Noct reaches for his phone, only to remember how much it stung, the implication that he’s so shallow that he wouldn’t be friends with someone based on their appearance.

Ignis tries to talk to him but Noct shuts him out until he gives up, leaving him alone with a quiet promise to listen if he finds he does want to talk about whatever has occurred.

For most of the weekend, Noct allows himself to wallow in his misery, but by Sunday evening, he’s both sick of being mad at Prompto and dreading the next school day without his best friend to spend it with.

His best friend. That’s who Prompto is, and wouldn’t it be stupid to throw it all away, just because he got his feelings hurt? His first friend who isn’t an employee of his father’s, who spends time with him because he wants to and not because he’s stuck with him.

He… he doesn’t want to lose that.

So finally, he opens his messenger app and starts typing.

You [20:13]: can we talk?

He tries not to be relieved when his phone vibrates with a reply barely a minute later.

Prompto [20:14]: probably a good idea yeah

Prompto [20:14]: can i come over?

You [20:15]: yeah

Prompto [20:15] gimme 30 mins

It barely takes Prompto 20 minutes. He rings the doorbell instead of barging in like he usually does, and when Noct goes to open it, Prompto gives him a crooked smile.

"Hey," Noct says and awkwardly gestures at the couch. "Let's just get it over with?"

Prompto nods and follows him to the couch, and once he's sitting, he says, "Noct"

"Prompto," Noct says at the same time, and then they pause and say simultaneously, "You first."

Ironically, that breaks the tension immediately and they both start grinning.

"Okay, but really," Noct says, "Wanna go first?"

"Sure." Prompto studies his hands for a while before he takes a deep breath and starts talking.

Noct listens, really listens, and then he talks, and then Prompto kind of cries a little and Noct tries very hard not to cry, and then it's close to midnight when they both fall asleep on the couch, legs entangled and sort of leaning against each other.

They've got school tomorrow and Noct knows he's gonna wake up with one hell of a backache, but the relief over not having lost his best friend drowns out everything else.

----

Read all of my Whumptober prompt fills here.

[spellbindingnights]

More aura memes that no one asked for

muses: the Sullivan family

liam & cara: ivory

lace, marble, china dishes, doves, paper, bones, vanilla shakes. your essence is ivory: you are a piece of history, sturdy and eternal. others believe you to be gentle; they don't see the pressure that is threatening to crack you. you seek control and organize your life into rows. you are the overseer. you are the porcelain. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of grey, noir, pearl, and ashen, who share the pressure you put on yourself. you are also drawn to the expressive rose and lilac, who will help you grow and learn that things will be okay even if they don't go right. however, you may struggle to get along with the indulgent personalities of sky and apricot who need too much stimulation and decadence.

declan: crimson

rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewelry. your essence is crimson: you are the strong, defiant and avoidant. you crave some sort of deviation; to walk in another's footsteps feels mundane, a waste of your time. you are possessive and never look back at the things you've lost or forgotten. you are the rebel. you are the one who will change the world. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of red, blush, garnet, and bronze, who share your impassioned existence. you are also drawn to the confident souls royal and gold, who will help you grow and show that not everyone seeks to break you. however, you may struggle to get along with the slow-acting personalities of navy and umber who never seem assertive about anything.

brooklyn: blue

blueberries, canals, gatorade, denim jackets, stationary, coastlines, bluebirds. your essence is blue: you are as deep as the seas, but sensitive to the slightest ripple. you attach meaning to your emotions; they guide you, but also blind you to how things truly are. you act misunderstood but shy away from telling anyone who you really are. you are the poet. you are the sorrower. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of sky, navy, mauve, and jade, who share your need for authenticity. you are also drawn to the self-actualizing green and orange, who will help you grow and open up during hardship. however, you may struggle to get along with the linear personalities of grey and red who seem overly focused on structure.

colleen: indigo

cold water, tile, masks, constellations, dyed fabric, macaw feathers, night sands. your essence is indigo: your emotional depth consumes all who dip their toes. you are sensitive but enigmatic; you project an air of mystery, and deep down are confident no one could ever solve yours. you are darkly romantic and mesmerizing. you are the mystique. you are the widow. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of periwinkle, mauve, royal, and navy, who share your quiet intuition. you are also drawn to the driven souls amaranth and garnet, who will help you grow and learn how to leave your mark on the world. however, you may struggle to get along with the uncommitted personalities of bronze and hickory who seem to lack true depth.

finnegan: yellow

daisies, road signs, bumblebees, lemon merengue, bicycles, polaroids, awnings. your essence is yellow: you are precise yet shy, putting band-aids on your cuts alone. you demand much of yourself; your self-expression feels tempered by a mold you're intended to fill. you seek an anchor to hold and keep your doubt at bay. you are the dutiful. you are the one who rises after you fall. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of cream, gold, honey, and chartreuse, who share your loyalty and compassion. you are also drawn to the sturdy red and brown, who will help you grow and learn to not question your own judgment. however, you may struggle to get along with the overly-involved personalities of pink and green who are unconscious of their own feelings.

[jackokinnies]

What colour is your aura

Doing for each muse, below the cut because I didn't think each muse would be different.

Ivory; Jack lace, marble, china dishes, doves, paper, bones, vanilla shakes. your essence is ivory: you are a piece of history, sturdy and eternal. others believe you to be gentle; they don't see the pressure that is threatening to crack you. you seek control and organize your life into rows. you are the overseer. you are the porcelain. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of grey, noir, pearl, and ashen, who share the pressure you put on yourself. you are also drawn to the expressive rose and lilac, who will help you grow and learn that things will be okay even if they don't go right. however, you may struggle to get along with the indulgent personalities of sky and apricot who need too much stimulation and decadence.

Yellow; Kurt daisies, road signs, bumblebees, lemon merengue, bicycles, polaroids, awnings. your essence is yellow: you are precise yet shy, putting band-aids on your cuts alone. you demand much of yourself; your self-expression feels tempered by a mold you're intended to fill. you seek an anchor to hold and keep your doubt at bay. you are the dutiful. you are the one who rises after you fall. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of cream, gold, honey, and chartreuse, who share your loyalty and compassion. you are also drawn to the sturdy red and brown, who will help you grow and learn to not question your own judgment. however, you may struggle to get along with the overly-involved personalities of pink and green who are unconscious of their own feelings.

Beige; Charlie lattes, dry fields, footprints, easels, cat fur, pottery, fresh-baked cookies. your essence is beige: you are an even-tempered and comforting presence. you take refuge in your sanctuary and creature comforts; the warmth you exude flees from spontaneity or change. you are consistent and indulgent. you are the sleepy. you are the satiated. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of brown, umber, tawny, and ashen, who share your patient nature. you are also drawn to the expressive souls sky and cream, who will help you grow and teach you to explore new ideas. however, you may struggle to get along with the spontaneous personalities of blush and lilac who seem too frivolous.

Orange; Jackie guitars, fanta bottles, sunglasses, orange peels, butterflies, popsicles, paper lanterns. your essence is orange: dreams hold you aloft and inspire you to be better. you thrive on creativity; there is always a new inspiration that moves you and takes your heart. you draw friends but may show all of them the same smile. you are the restless. you are the adventurer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of apricot, amber, fire, and terracotta, who share your enthusiasm. you are also drawn to the pensive souls blue and green, who will help you grow and see which projects and emotions are worth your time. however, you may struggle to get along with the headstrong personalities of grey and purple who are too rigid in their perspective.

Hickory; Harry felled oak, brass, sunken ships, olive pits, graphic shirts, splinters, dark rooms. your essence is hickory: your intensity brews beneath your sensitive and melancholy exterior. you lose yourself in the ideal of how things should be rather than how they are; reality seems to disappoint you. you craft together your identity out of pieces of others' that have inspired you. you are the cobbler. you are the shaper. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of chiffon, ashen, umber, and noir, who share your aspirations of a better future. you are also drawn to the vibrant amethyst and bronze, who will help you grow and learn to appreciate your own happiness. however, you may struggle to get along with the aggressive personalities of indigo and garnet who are stubborn about their own perspectives.

Chartreuse; Glamrock Bonnie handbooks, spring buds, bamboo, forest ponds, glass, vintage sofas, fairy circles. your essence is chartreuse: curious and thoughtful, you are a surveyor of patterns. you enjoy your introversion; you feel most in your skin when you're alone, autonomous and uncontrolled. your enthusiasm comes through when expressing your passions to your close companions. you are the analyst. you are the detailer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of moss, honeysuckle, green, and yellow, who share your natural inquisition. you are also drawn to the intense souls jade and fire, who will help you grow and not be so dependent on your knowledge. however, you may struggle to get along with the people-pleasing personalities of pink and yellow who seem too disingenuous.

[sweetscenes]

 what color is your aura? 

tagged by: @undeadasshcle​

tagging: @robinsforhire​ and all ur other blogs 

 Brown

 wicker baskets, bookstores, wood rings, chocolate bars, suitcases, mochas, teddy bears. your essence is brown: you are a strong-hearted worker afraid to burden others. you are persistent, and thankless; you will be the wielder that your loved ones need and will fight for what they deserve. your tenderness only seeks to belong. you are the martyr. you are the unyielding. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of umber, beige, chiffon, and terracotta, who share your devotion to others. you are also drawn to the bright pink and yellow, who will help you grow and show you how to speak up for your needs. however, you may struggle to get along with the aggressive personalities of purple and red who look after themselves first.

 Yellow

 daisies, road signs, bumblebees, lemon merengue, bicycles, polaroids, awnings. your essence is yellow: you are precise yet shy, putting band-aids on your cuts alone. you demand much of yourself; your self-expression feels tempered by a mold you're intended to fill. you seek an anchor to hold and keep your doubt at bay. you are the dutiful. you are the one who rises after you fall. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of cream, gold, honey, and chartreuse, who share your loyalty and compassion. you are also drawn to the sturdy red and brown, who will help you grow and learn to not question your own judgment. however, you may struggle to get along with the overly-involved personalities of pink and green who are unconscious of their own feelings.

 Crimson 

 rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewelry. your essence is crimson: you are the strong, defiant and avoidant. you crave some sort of deviation; to walk in another's footsteps feels mundane, a waste of your time. you are possessive and never look back at the things you've lost or forgotten. you are the rebel. you are the one who will change the world. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of red, blush, garnet, and bronze, who share your impassioned existence. you are also drawn to the confident souls royal and gold, who will help you grow and show that not everyone seeks to break you. however, you may struggle to get along with the slow-acting personalities of navy and umber who never seem assertive about anything.

 Mauve  

 shooting stars, grapevines, velvet curtains, evening skies, mirrors, tarot cards, bookmarks. your essence is mauve: you are enigmatic, a professional surface riddled with deep emotion. you indulge in teamwork only when you surface for air; you project a fractured image, just a glimpse of what others consider admirable. you are well-spoken and a cultivator of hobbies and projects. you are the aristocrat. you are the virtuoso. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of periwinkle, indigo, purple, and blue, who share your need for a guided purpose. you are also drawn to the determined wine and terracotta, who will help you grow and see there are others worth opening up to. however, you may struggle to get along with the aimless personalities of fire and chiffon who struggle with social savviness.

[grad716georgiafiaola]

Brigid Berlin

Brigid Berlin, an artist prominent in the New York art scene during the 1960s and 70s, continuously challenged conventional boundaries, leaving an indelible mark on the artistic landscape. Her extensive body of work spanning photography, collage, performance, audio recordings, and film reflects a remarkable dedication to artistic expression and experimentation.

Berlin's upbringing as a privileged girl born into high society adds a layer to her work. Despite the opportunities afforded by her background, Berlin chose to “go against the grain”, rejecting societal norms and embracing her queer identity and feminism. This defiance against societal expectations of her time plays a huge reason in why I find her art-ventures so intriguing.

A distinguishing feature of Berlin's work is her ability to blend "high and low culture," effectively challenging artistic elitism. By incorporating elements from everyday life alongside traditional artistic mediums, she created art accessible to a broad audience. This inclusive approach democratized art while critiquing the exclusivity of the art world.

Among Berlin's diverse portfolio, her double-exposure photographs stand out for me visually. These images, often featuring vibrant flowers on top of quite dull-looking portraits, are captivating for viewers with their striking composition. 

Berlin's commitment to authenticity is evident throughout her work, resonating deeply with viewers on a personal level. Each piece reflects herself, in an authentic and very real way. 

Authentic, that is what I can take away from whenever I view pieces of her work. And I believe that relates to me personally because that is what I like to capture, authenticity. Moments in everyday life mixed with a lot of collage work, I want to be able to mix my graphic design background with photography. I felt like a good way of mixing the two would be to have it shown more in a digital collage way, using bright colours, and double exposure, all things used to create something from different pieces but coming together as one cohesive piece. 

Just like the photo series of Brigid Berlin’s polaroids I am wanting to have the different works, using certain things over and over again, the same motifs seen all throughout the different pieces. I am wanting to create three images that work as a cohesive piece together.

I want to add that every aspect of these digital collages are important aspects of my life today. From the use of self portraits of me with no makeup and no editing, to the use of the lightstreaks used from failed film rolls, even to the background that is almost unrecognisable but it’s flowers from my backyard. Essentially all decisions made will be stemming from my own genuine personal experiences.

For my project, “Floating” I want this to be a body of work that people can come and just see. I will want to put myself as authentically as I possibly can, I will do this with my self portraits, the use of colours, the use of textures, and the use of text. But I still want to give the viewer a chance to come and interpret it their own way as a creative who is still finding their footing on what my “style” is as an artist/designer/photographer, I want these three pieces to be a stepping stone onto something bigger or something that can help me get one more step closer to what I want my “final destination” to be.

[ardn716viviandoan]

Week 2 SDL: Developing a draft pitch for a test idea

Big dream ideas/where I want to go with my career, work?

As a communication design major, I aspire for my photography to make a big impact alongside my design work. As a communication designer, I believe it's my job to use my graphic and visual communicator skills to step into the role of a visual storyteller to convey the idea of brands, personas, and individual identities.

Moodboard/Ideas

Following up with my big dream ideas. My photography is based around the idea of personas, self expression and storytelling. Over the summer I've been involved in the creative art scene in Auckland, going to gigs, photoshoot, modelling for fashion brands and I find myself being interested in different artists across various creative fields like fashion, photography and performance art and how they represent themselves. There are also aspects of sexuality and gender norms in and outside the creative industries, of how people should wear and act so I want to explore this idea further.

Andy Warhol - Self portrait in drag (1981)

Overview: Andy Warhol in drag, taking self-portraits polaroids of himself in different personas and expressions.

Target audience: People who are into the postmodern art world, and artists that are in need of inspiration for their projects

Goals & deliverables:  The themes of sexual identity, the idea of being who you want to be. Self expressions and storytelling.

2. Kristin-Lee Moolman (Photographer) and Ibrahim Kamara (Stylist) - 2026 (2016)

Overview: Photographer and stylist duo Kristin-Lee Moolman and Ib Kamara styles and photographs young Africans on the streets of London. A sense of expression and a lot of underlying issues about gender blend fashion was shown through his "2026" exhibition in 2016.

Target audience: People who are interested in gender blend fashion and the creative world.

Goals & deliverables: Clothes don't have gender. Breaking the stereotype of societal norms of what men or women should wear. An expression and appreciation for personal styles and Ibrahim Kamara's position in the industry of trying to create a new wave for creatives to tell stories that are authentic to themselves.

2. Harry Styles for Beauty Papers (2020)

Overview: Harry Styles, a famous singer appeared wearing fishnet stockings, make ups for a fashion magazine, and beauty papers. The idea of defying gender norms. Harry Styles expressed his point of view on his style and the idea of gender fluid aspect in fashion:

“What women wear. What men wear. For me it’s not a question of that,” Styles told The Guardian in the accompanying interview. “If I see a nice shirt and get told, ‘But it’s for ladies.’ I think: ‘Okaaaay?’ Doesn’t make me want to wear it less though… I think the moment you feel more comfortable with yourself, it all becomes a lot easier.”

Target audience: Harry Styles fans or music supporters. But also those who embrace gender-blending fashion.

Goals & deliverables: Exploring fashion as a means of expression while challenging gender norms, this project celebrates the playful versatility of clothing, and the idea of freedom of self-expression regardless of societal expectations regarding gendered attire.

[artinthesolace]

Art Project (Self-Portrait)

For this assignment I decided to create a virtual collage that depicted the things in my life that define who I am as a person. I chose the background to be Claude Monet's "Water Lilies". This oil painting and its beautiful color scheme I felt gave expression into how I view the world. "La vie en rose." Which translates into "life in pink" or how I would also describe it as seeing the world in rose-colored glasses. In this collage I created polaroids to depict my love for capturing the moment through film. I share photos of my family and sweet boyfriend, my love for the sunrise and sunset. Visiting my favorite coffee shops and bookstores. And I also share a photo of me singing, which is easily one of my favorite things to do. Music truly gives my life purpose and meaning. And hopefully this photomontage can give you a lens into what makes me: Dawn.

[selfexpressionpolaroid]

Jamie Campbell Bower

twitter: @bowerjamie 

instagram: @bowerjamie

[exhaled-spirals]

« Several layers of nostalgia are at play with these images [old Polaroids]: not just for the 1980s style on display—the gelled hair, the jean jackets, the oversize T-shirts—but for a time before the internet and phones, before everyone could carry a camera and instantly distribute the images. Sometimes this manifests directly in the images’ content, when someone is talking on a corded phone or listening to a boombox or sitting in a bedroom whose walls are covered with pictures cut out of magazines. You can see how everyday life was saturated with analog media, which makes the relative absence of screens palpable.

But pre-digitality also comes across as a nostalgia for the technology of print photography itself. Its limitations now read as stylistic choices, particularly since they have become filter options for us in contemporary camera apps. In the old photos, the fading colors, the flashbulb glare, the imperfect focus, the chemical blotches and anomalies from the developing process can seem at once both accidental and deliberate, or as accomplishing the deliberate capture of the incidental.

Looking at images like these—a kid sleeping in the back of a Ford Escort; a woman in a bathing suit sitting on a lawn chair in the driveway smoking a cigarette, a guy with a mullet in an apartment complex living room crouched beside a tower of Carling Black Label cans—I’m tempted to romanticize that mystery as a kind of grace that enchants the people in them, who don’t know yet that they are living in the before. None of the images are selfies, which feels strange in itself. The subjects usually know that they are being watched, [...] but they can’t imagine, even in theory, that it could be everyone watching. They can’t even frame that as an aspiration, which, to me looking back on them now, seems to animate their behavior with a guileless innocence, an indifference, an aura they’re unaware of, an absence of self-consciousness that I could trace in their faces, though I am certainly projecting it.

An illusion arises that in these snapshots people are somehow more present, more themselves, as though the camera were capturing something more elemental about them because they had less wherewithal to stage the image or manipulate it after the fact. It is as though who they were in general was more fixed and objective, less fluid and discursive. Though they are anonymous, they register more concretely as specific people, unpatterned by the grammar of gestures and looks that posting images to networks seems to impose. [N]ot every image of them will be taken to define them or will be seen as expressing something they were trying to say. The photos appear not as assertions of reality but reality as it was. This is all tantamount to a nostalgia for denotation, for a time when images were less rhetorical, less overtly intentional [...].

A photographer once could make an occurrence into an occasion by recording it. Accordingly, one can be nostalgic for the way film cameras could sanctify mundane experience, rather than making experience seem mundane. Cameras are ubiquitous now; they can no longer be added deliberately to a situation. All of [the above] has been displaced by the ability to send things to the network. No longer is it magic to represent and preserve, but to circulate, to influence and tally up the proof of it. Photos that document “reality” as it was are necessarily trapped in a drawer somewhere or in an album buried in an attic. Photos that document intentionality are everywhere and nowhere, disappearing into the way we see everything. »

— Rob Horning, “Found images: On the nostalgia for image scarcity”

[dvesinthewind]

Phases | Enedina Arellano Félix

As Enedina's right-hand woman, you've seen it all. You've been by her side for many milestones and memories, including the murder of her recent husband. As you remain by the Arellano sister's side while she heals, a new kind of milestone enters the picture.

warnings: murder, loss of a loved one, language, mentions of drug use, smoking, compulsory heterosexuality, angst with a happy ending, wlw relationship, also, most of my wlw fics are about the reader struggling with their identity... cue self-projection, but if internalized homophobia is triggering for u please proceed with caution, alcohol consumption, mentions of religion, timeline is off, spoilers, stages of grief

a/n: WC 4.3k mayra hermosillo!enedina, not the irl one. forgive me, spanish is my second language so I did the best I could with my brain & resources. if anything is incorrect don't hesitate to msg me.

In life, you believed everyone needed someone like Enedina- a ride-or-die type partner that stuck alongside you for life. In your younger years, you feared never having the chance to attain a girl best friend. You dreamt about having someone in your life for the long run, a strong woman to share your life with-- the good, bad, and the ugly. As you grew older, you began to learn what you derived from all this; perhaps it wasn't a friend you were searching for after all.

But in Enedina, friendship was far from what she offered to you. The brunette became as close as she could be to a blood relative. You spent every waking moment in the Arellano Félix household to the point where the guest bedroom just a few feet from Enedina's became your bedroom. The family business wasn't a secret to you either, in fact, Benjamín suggested letting you in on accounting and filing paperwork if you wanted to. That alone was shocking, considering the distance Benjamín placed between himself and outsiders.

It was easy for newspapers to demonize the people you called family, but to live amongst them, smile beside them in polaroid pictures that ended up framed among the walls, and eat at the same dinner table, it was easy for you to see past it.

But, you couldn't see past how in love Enedina was with Claudio.

Initially, somewhere deep in your selfishness lay a striking pain, perhaps now you'd admit it was jealousy. When Enedina broke the news with crinkled brown eyes and a bright smile, you felt guilty for being jealous. Exactly what were you envious of? After attempting to give your best congratulations, you hid behind a champagne glass and slipped away to the nearest bathroom as soon as you could. You felt exposed under the natural sunlight and studied yourself closely in the mirror to be sure your skin didn't actually turn green. Enedina was observant, and you wouldn't allow your nasty habit of being over-expressive to fly above her radar. She had done so much for you, the least you could do was be happy for her.

Naturally, she had you assisting in wedding planning. Any moment you could, you attempted to claim to have paperwork to file, but Enedina didn't take no for an answer and would threaten to have Barrón throw you over his shoulder if he had to. You knew exactly what your issue was, but confessing to it was entirely different. To sacrifice the relationship you had built with not only Enedina, but her siblings and even the participating guards and Junior Narcos, was foolish, especially right before one of the most important days of her life. So, you did the best you could. You gave real, honest advice. You set up meetings with florists and made appointments to explore venues, and pick a church for the engaged couple. Occasionally, Claudio would tag along, and you would sit idly on the opposite side of the restaurant booth during lunches as Enedina laughed like he was the funniest thing on earth.

Once again, you hid your bitterness behind whatever you were drinking and silently wished the contents were a little bit stronger.

-

On Enedina's wedding day, a pesky headache was lingering from the moment you woke up. You carefully caressed your temples in an attempt to soothe them and quickly cursed God for the ridiculous irony. Today could be the worst day of your life, but it needed to be the best day of Enedina's. As la dama de honor, the bride chose something slightly different for you than what the other bridesmaids were clad in. Your dress was hardly as flashy and vibrant as 80s fashion tended to be, and opted for a more subtle pink shade in comparison to her sisters. Your hair was swept up neatly, and you felt the cool breeze stroke your neck as you strutted towards the room Enedina resided in. You graciously let yourself in with a set of soft knocks against the wooden door.

The room was largely sized, but seemingly empty save for the beautiful bride that sat quietly at the vanity. Her dress spoke volumes-- extravagant and perfectly, purely white, soaking up any sound bouncing off the interior walls. Perhaps the rustle of your dress, or the careful footsteps of your small heels approaching, calmly brought her attention to you, and a wide smile overtook her features.

"Te ves hermosa," you spoke carefully as if the words weren't meant to be spoken at all. The simple statement sucked the air right from your lungs, and the glitter upon her eyelids nearly left you blind. [You look beautiful.]

She smiles, almost shyly, and you gesture for her to give you a spin. The wedding dress has a mind of its own, and rocks along her body as she slowly turns. You swallow harshly. "Estás nerviosa? La salida está clara en caso de que quieras huir." A grin creeps along your face. It's easy to hide the truth behind a joke. [Are you nervous? The exit is clear in case you want to flee.]

Enedina laughs wholeheartedly and raises a brow. You've never seen her so happy. It's a shame you're hiding such a dirty secret from your best friend. "Es casi como si quisieras que corriera." [It's almost as if you want me to run.]

With that, you take a moment to answer-- at first not sure if you will. You pull a cigarette from your handbag, flick the lighter, and glance over to the clock hanging on the wallpaper. Enedina looks curiously at your frame and notices your posture. You appear in thought. Before she can speak, you slowly approach her and give her a cigarette of her own. As the butt grows vibrant in a cherry ember, the soon-to-be bride inhales a shaky breath of tobacco. "Sólo deseo que seas feliz," you state slowly, inhaling a drag for a moment before continuing, "Como sea que se vea". [I only wish for you to be happy. Whatever that looks like.]

You leave shortly after the rush of bridesmaids come in to let Enedina know it's time. She had opened her mouth to respond to you, but her sisters and friends didn't allow her to. She was swallowed up whole by her wedding party in an awry of compliments and awe. The sound of gasps and squeals was the last thing you heard as you quietly closed the door behind you, and stepped into the grand hallway with audible clacks.

When the ceremony started, you walked before the bridesmaids with a hand-selected bouquet within your manicured grasp, and your opposite arm clutching del padrino. With the cue of classical music, all eyes in the venue turned to watch as each of you slowly progressed down the aisle in practically methodical steps. With each set of eyes upon you, the pit of your stomach grew. Your eyes searched for familiar faces, catching Ramón's as he offered an encouraging smile. Perhaps Enedina hadn't seen his outfit quite yet, you'd thought. You gave him a smirk, gesturing towards the fur coat as he sneakily flipped you off. By the time you had reached the end of the aisle, Claudio had remained just a few feet before you, hands clasped in front of himself. You shared a look of understanding, a polite smile even, and departed from the man you had walked with as you went to your respective placements.

This isn't to be portrayed as a rivalry between you and Claudio, though. It was simply tolerance. You were sure Claudio didn't mind you at all, perhaps he was even fond of you. You didn't mind him either, it was just the fact you had wished today was your wedding day. And not in the circumstance where Enedina wouldn't be getting married, but where she would be marrying you instead. Incredibly selfish, and even unrealistic, you knew.

You regained social awareness when the tempo changed and the top of Enedina's hairdo was seen amongst the crowd. A proud smile was offered to her guests, all hundreds of them. Enedina caught your eye as you winked at her, tears carefully brimming your waterline. You admired Enedina, as she admired Claudio.

Once the ceremony was over, you were all hauled into a limousine and rushed over to the reception where bottomless margaritas were offered, and you couldn't resist. Enedina cheerfully danced with her bridesmaids and her new husband, and even managed to get you out there halfway through "Como la Flor". For the most part, the night did remain celebratory-- despite Ramón nearly dragging Rayo by his hair and out to the parking lot where he likely met his fate. In the crowd, were numerous politicians, lawyers, colleagues of Claudio's, and even men you assumed the Arellano's must've screwed over judging by the sour looks embedded on their faces. Even if this was Enedina's wedding, it was still something akin to a political campaign. Any given moment was used to protect and further glamorize their image. You'd watch the Junior Narcos follow the fur-clad Arellano with little resilience. You'd see Kitty fumble with his newly bloodied knuckles and stalk off to the nearest bathroom where he'd rinse the evidence right off. But then there was Enedina as she did her 'rounds, traveling to each table to offer agradecimiento. The guests would ask her to show off her gown and she would, just like she had hours ago for you in her secluded dressing room. You hadn't given much thought to getting married, but maybe it was time you did so. Enedina had since tied the knot, and perhaps it was a sign you needed to move on. For real this time.

You were sure they would set you up with a man-- likely involved in the business, who they were fond of, and who made them a lot of money. You pictured yourself playing house for a man you never loved, but pretended to for your own sake, and maybe even the Arellano's. The thought alone made you sick to your stomach, but you couldn't overstay your welcome forever.

-

The night after the wedding, the ongoing feud with the Sinoloan cartel reached a peak. Just hours before, Enedina encouraged her husband to attend Christine with the rest of the guys. He tagged along, much to his dismay, and seemingly wouldn't make it home that night.

This was unbeknownst to all of you. Initially, Enedina had gotten a phone call from a frantic Benjamín about a shooting at the nightclub. He didn't disclose much information over the phone and had purposely not mentioned the death of her new husband that remained in the hands of El Chapo. It wasn't until you were hauled into the cars with packed suitcases and adrenaline rushing through your veins did you notice someone was missing. More than just someone, Claudio wasn't present. You sat beside Ramón in the very back seat, as your tired head lay on his shoulder, and Dina wept. None of you could console her with words, so you made comfort in the silence.

She slept beside you that night, curled into a ball, and pressed against your chest. She had shut her brothers out, refusing to hear the condolences and promises she knew you wouldn't offer her. You just remained silent. She cried for hours, sobbed until there were no tears left, and peacefully drifted off to sleep like a child exhausted from a tantrum. An intense form of rage bubbled in your chest and nagged at the strings of your heart as it ached. Ramón could promise whatever he'd like, but until Chapo's head was resting on a stake, you couldn't rest. You knew you couldn't. But it wasn't up to you, and as of now, your new responsibility was to heal Dina-- just like she had done for you. Her frame was still, save for the rise and fall of her chest, and her eyes swollen from crying. You were to pick up the pieces the way you knew how to attempt to fix what's been broken. That, you could manage.

-

After Claudio's death, Enedina is expectedly not her usual self. She allows Benjamín and Ramón to deal with the narco business and gives herself some time to disappear. She gets noticeably thinner, skips family meals, and stares at you blankly when you ask her when she last ate was. Her eyes lose a lot of life. It's a drastic comparison to her wedding day when her eyes had shined brighter than you had ever seen them do so before. There's an increase in the darkness underneath her eyes as well as if she isn't sleeping. But she's spending most of her nights restlessly tossing and turning, while she's unconscious during the daytime. She will periodically take walks around the grounds, but get lightheaded from dehydration to the point where she returns quicker than she left. She ignores the plates you leave on her bureau or bedside table, and you consider having Barrón and Kitty strap her down so you can force feed her.

Benjamín looks to you with great concern, and you feel a rising pressure on your shoulders. If you're unable to fix Enedina, who will? As the months grow, and the Arellano sister remains quiet, you fear she'll never be the same again. You imagine what it would be like to lose your spouse the day after your wedding day, the day after you'd been on cloud nine. Though Enedina might never be the same, you can attempt to help her create a new normal.

Everyone has experience with grief, but your lack of understanding creates a barrier between you and Enedina that's unwilling to fall. You decide to somewhat invade her space, and instead of allowing her to spend her days constantly holed up in her master bedroom, you lock yourself in with her. She's reluctant, which is evident, but eventually, she finds a way to move around you.

Just a few feet into Enedina's room is one of the only balconies in the entire mansion. You suspected that was why she had picked the room, to begin with. Her bedroom was sort of secluded from the rest of the house-- technically yours was as well. It was a safety thing, not having many windows, but Enedina didn't care much. She was a nature enthusiast, just like you were, and prioritized being able to see the sunrise and hear the birds chirp even if it meant putting herself at risk.

That same balcony was shaded by the curtains now, refusing any sunlight from pouring into her room.

You started by pulling the curtains back, Enedina hissing in response, and opened up the balcony doors to provide both light and air to the dark room. You had two comfortable chairs put onto the patio where you decided the two of you would share meals from then on. At least this way you could be sure she was eating.

It was a strange feeling. You felt a great sense of responsibility, a desire even, one you hadn't felt before. The urge to not fix, but aid her on her journey came from the absolute depths of your heart and the overwhelming truth of love. You realized you would have never done this for anyone else.

Surely, she starts healing. The progress is slow, but you notice it. You know Enedina like the back of your hand.

She stops holding you at arm's length and starts embracing you completely. She lets you play music on her radio and even allows you to pull her from her seated position and up to dance along to the chorus. She smiles more often, and it pulls directly at your heartstrings. Dina makes herself present at family dinner for the first time, and Benjamín thanks you graciously with his eyes, though he doesn't need to. Your time comes with no cost, no expectation of something in return.

The stages of grief have seemingly treated her well, bringing her to a state of somewhat acceptance. Of course, she has her moments of sadness, but they are no longer prolonged. When she dreams of Claudio, they are no longer nightmares, but a blissful remembrance of a life she was once able to share with him.

One night, when you're reading underneath the golden lamp shade in your respective bedroom, a few soft knocks caress your door. You mark your page quickly, and pull a silk robe over your shoulders before calling out, "¡Pasa!" [Come in!]

A head full of soft, brown locks peeks in carefully before the rest of her body, and Enedina smiles cheekily while holding up two bottles of red wine and two glasses. One for each of you. Your lips stretch at the sight. She's clad in her own silk nightgown that leaves little for imagination. You swallow that thought down harshly before mentally cursing your immaturity, and rush to pat the empty spot next to you on the bed.

She makes herself comfortable, and it reminds you of the sleepovers you used to have in each other's bedrooms many years ago when you had just moved in. A sight for a pair of sore eyes that indulge in nostalgia often, much like your own. The room is quiet, save for the sound of wine being poured into your glasses. Enedina leans back into the bed frame and takes a generous sip.

"Que parece uno de mis camisones." Dina breaks the silence, and gestures toward your silhouette with a manicured fingernail. It probably was, you were never a nightgown girl before meeting Enedina. "Se te ve bien." [That looks like one of my nightgowns. It looks good on you.]

"Tienes buen gusto," you smiled. Despite the fact that Enedina had come to you that night, you still felt partially guilty for not allowing her to have personal space. You knew if she wanted to leave she would have. A part of you just wanted to make sure you hadn't overstepped. "Espero que no estés cansada de mí." [You have good taste. I hope you aren't tired of me.]

Enedina's face scrunches in bemusement. Though you've picked your words carefully, she doesn't seem to be doing the same. She was never one to hold back. "Nunca podría estar cansada de ti," she states truthfully. [I could never be tired of you.]

You thought you hadn't ingested much alcohol, that it wasn't affecting you much. Perhaps Enedina meant what she was saying, but perhaps she was still grieving over her dead husband. She could've been lonely and desperate. It was unfair to think the way you were thinking. But as she leaned further into your space, you didn't rush to push her away. As her eyes flickered between your eyes and then not-so-subtly to your lips, you didn't protest. When her big, brown eyes softly closed and you watched her lashes caress her skin, you placed a hand on her cheek. As the softness of her lips grew closer to yours, a flame erupted in your abdomen. It was selfish. You were a glutton, and could feel greed being added to the list of your sins. As if Enedina was the sole key to heaven, you desperately pursued, defying all humanity and perhaps any morality you had developed over the years. It was so wrong, but it had felt righteous.

That was when you pulled away.

You kept her face tenderly within your grip still, as her eyes screwed open in what resembled impatience. You tilted her chin so she could see the sincerity in your lustful eyes. "Por mucho que te quiera, no está correcto," you spoke gently, enunciating each word like you were mostly trying to convince yourself. Was it not right because she was still grieving? Was it because she wasn't entirely sober? Or was it because she was another woman, and in your soul, you felt as if that couldn't be right? You weren't sure. [As much as I want you, it isn't right.]

Enedina relaxes from your grasp, settling back into her original position against the bed frame. Her posture still tilts towards you, and she remains comfortable, but somewhat defeated. Her features don't express anything akin to anger, perhaps she came to her senses about what would become. Regardless, she puts her wine glass onto your bedside table and fluffs a pillow underneath her head. You mirror her actions.

You're both laying down underneath the comforter, and you turn off your lamp to fully engulf yourselves in darkness. A few minutes pass, and Enedina seems determined to be sleeping in your bed tonight. Within the silence, you make no effort to whisper. The words are still lowly kept as you speak, "¿estás bien?" [Are you alright?]

"Seré," she replies and knows you aren't just talking about the moment previously shared. [I will be.]

-

As you slowly stirred into consciousness, the lack of radiating body heat from the woman there just hours prior had simmered away, leaving you puzzled and slightly disappointed. The bed sheets were cold to the touch, and the mattress no longer sunken in to engulf the curvature of her body while she rested. At one point of the night, Enedina buried herself into the snugness of your collarbone, and if you hadn't been so lucky to wake up just momentarily during the night, perhaps you wouldn't have ever known. You had relished in that moment for around a half hour, listening to the sound of Enedina's lungs coaxing air in and out of her body through her nose. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern--not that you could see it, but feel it as it collided with yours. If you slowed your breath down just enough, you could focus on the steady beats of her heart as it thumped, as if each beat was an attempt to reach closer to yours.

Benjamín tells you she isn't at home and hasn't been for hours, that she's at the warehouse. That's exactly where you go. The warehouse wasn't a typical visit for you, but you needed to see Enedina urgently, almost like your life depended on it.

On the ride there you convince yourself the way you felt wasn't a crime, that it was normal for her to appeal to you that way, that Enedina offered you something no one else had; security.

Your feet find a rhythm on the cement floor and you're suddenly speed walking to your destination. You wonder if she can hear the clacks of your footsteps over all of the noise, or perhaps the anxious hitch in your breath as you reach the office door. Regardless, you twist the knob and let yourself in.

The brunette sits quietly at the desk, her head still indulged in the paperwork. There's a subtle furrow between her brows, and she rests a cheek on one manicured hand. You wait just a moment, before slipping into a seat that's been placed in front of her. Enedina's ambitiousness was admirable, but it's unclear whether your presence wasn't totally welcome, or if she had yet to recognize it was you. Judging by the perfume you had sprayed onto yourself, it unfortunately might've been the latter.

"¿Prefieres que yo vaya?" You asked, hesitance glazing the question as it enters the air. [Do you prefer that I go?]

Dina picks her head up rapidly, and a softness caresses the prior crease on her forehead. It was possible she really hadn't noticed who had sat down, or that anyone had at all. She shakes her head. "Me alegro de que estés aquí, pero no lo supongo." [I'm glad you're here, but I didn't expect it.]

"Cuando me desperté esta mañana no estabas conmigo." [When I woke up this morning you weren't with me.]

She scans your expression, and then her eyes drop down to the arms crossed over your chest. As if finding your confrontation humorous, she gestures towards the thick pile of paperwork and offers a coy smile. It actually did feel much better to see Enedina working after months of refusing to even step foot out of the house, let alone back into the business that caused her so much pain to begin with. "Lo siento, pero estoy contigo ahora, no?" [I'm sorry, but I'm with you now, aren't I?]

"Claro, excepto podrías estar en cama conmigo en su lugar," you shrugged. Enedina's eyebrows raised in surprise as you continued, "supongo que prefieres trabajar que pasar el tiempo libremente en casa." [Sure, except you could be in bed with me instead. I guess you prefer to work than pass time freely at home.]

The brunette smiles playfully, and you nearly forget this is the first time you've spoken like this to one another. Toying with Enedina is as natural as it comes. She reaches for your hand across the table, which you willingly give, and with one squeeze she promises to wrap up soon. She's yours for the rest of the evening, and once again spends the night in your bedroom. This time, Enedina falls asleep in your arms, and as you slowly gain consciousness the next morning, the utter warmth of her skin is hard to miss. She reads peacefully with her head resting on your shoulder, the bookmark tucked into your last read page marking as a finish line for her to catch up with. She tilts her head back, mumbling a buenos días, and you're quick to press your lips delicately onto hers. That was certainly neither your first nor last initiation of non-verbal commitment to Enedina. With every moment spent, and every action done on behalf of the well-being of your lover, an expertise of patience is mastered. You'd never considered yourself a rather tolerant person, but in terms of Enedina, there are no boundaries. It seems that with each revelation brings a new vulnerability beyond emotional; areas of skin you had yet to explore, and the way her hair looked when worn down or ruffled during slumber. Regardless of whatever phase Enedina entered, you mentally swore to continue to remain as loyal as you had been, relying on fate to bring her back to you.

[ticktockmyclockworkhart]

Happy anniversary to the only dating sim ever

Though for real happy anniversary monster prom!! The game means a lot to me, it’s the first thing I really got to connect with my very first group of queer friends with. To me the series stands for all the good things that have happened since I’ve left my conservative shithole hometown and I wish it a prosperous life!

Originally the plan was to draw sketches of all of my ships for this incredibly queer euphoria inducing series and post them for today, but I ran into issues on this one alone when just this, an uncolored sketch, took several really tiring hours to get to a state I (kind of) liked, and as an art student I have a lot of other drawing projects that really need my attention like… for grade reasons.

So I’m spreading these posts over a couple days with one ship per day and my thoughts about it!

Now this one… CalOz.

I am very much like Oz in personality, so I sort of naturally shipped him with the character I fell for, but I also think he has some of the best chemistry with Cal. When you read the polaroid info for Oz’s pairings, a lot of the relationships don’t really seem like they work well for him (mentioning Liam and Damien both can stress him out and get frustrated with his general meekness, or how Miranda’s need to control him is labeled as “not healthy” or something, it’s been a while since I read those descriptions) but Cal just seems to be among the best matches for him. Sure they’re no opposites attract pair, but they’re both very nerdy goody-two-shoes types who really struggle with social skills. There’s also the fact that Cal always wants to learn from organics, and he makes for a nice pillar of comfort for Oz to express himself in a judgement-free environment, because be it his interests or just feelings, Cal wants to listen and learn from it all. So having a neurodivergent partner seems good for Cal, to me at least, because it can show him the brain doesn’t have to all think one way, and Oz is so gentle and sweet, if Cal’s ever confused about something he has no issue explaining it to him, and in turn Cal is very patient and understanding of Oz’s anxiety. They share a lot of the same issues but can also give advice to one another that they can’t take themselves, and I feel like Oz and his wide array of emotions have really taught Cal a lot about both the organic mind, yet also himself and his capabilities to feel. I think the pair empathize with each other a lot, especially from a social front when it comes to awkwardness or burnout, and speaking as someone with legit debilitating anxiety, even if self-doubts and negative thoughts will never go away having the presence of a really patient person who doesn’t mind reassuring you that you’re okay and loved is really, really valuable. Also having someone who has the same struggles as you is both comforting, but seeing your issues through someone else can really help the both of you understand yourselves better at times and I think these two definitely do that for each other. I mean, Cal’s a computer, but… I mean, look at literally anything he’s done. That’s a neurodivergent-ass computer. That and Cal is just the brand of calm, kind and sane that literally no one else in the cast is lmao

VERY long story short, they’re my top pair and as someone who resonates so deeply with Oz (and is relentlessly bullied by my friends for being a robotfucker) they’re a huge comfort ship as well.

Tomorrow will be my preferred ship with Brian! I am so sorry if this kind of infodumping isn’t what you signed up for.

Happy anniversary again, Monster Prom!

[snackhobi]

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

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

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

--

“It’s time to get up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why had she ever expected anything different?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then.

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

It’s cheesy and cliché and you know it.

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

“Haha, yeah,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you like one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yoongi? Is that your boss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lily smiles. “I would love that.”)

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s so beautiful,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

Yoongi squints at you. “Boutonniere discount?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s incredible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook pauses. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook blinks. “Guy Fieri said that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook smiles. “I knew you would.”

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

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

Jamais Vu. Your most recent novel.

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

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

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

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

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

Then you lie face down on your bed.

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

Oh, shit. Is it a signed copy?

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

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

You muffle a scream into your hands.

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

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

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

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

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

He picks up after one ring. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your puns are so crumby,” Jin replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As a friend.)

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

Why can’t you write?

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

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

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

“Hi,” he says. “Wow, you look good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kookie! Hi!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure enough, Jungkook is blushing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook laughs and squeezes your hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit.

You’re in love with Jungkook.

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

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

You’re in love with him.

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

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

Jungkook blinks. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jungkook? Are you okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(He loves you.)

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

No, actually— it’s just the beginning. 

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

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

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

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

“What made you come around?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(“I love you.”

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

Yunhee opens her mouth to reply, and says:

-

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

[aqua2fana]

Batfam Aura Quiz

based on firstginger’s aura quiz

accuracy may vary lol

Gotham Rogues auras

Bruce: Grey- window panes, fog, old sweaters, clouds, cobwebs, ash, owl feathers. your essence is grey: you seek to bear the truth for the betterment of others. it is at the sacrifice of your own feelings; you stomach anything that would make you small. you adapt when change is certain, but your pillars never falter. you are the role model. you are the statue. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of ivory, noir, chiffon, and wine, who share your polished conduct. you are also drawn to the vibrant pink and purple, who will help you grow and teach you to see other facets of yourself. however, you may struggle to get along with the introspective personalities of blue and yellow who will question their self-worth.

Dick: Honey- friendship bracelets, beehives, school busses, children's books, flower petals, honeyed toast, polaroids. your essence is honey: you are devoted and endlessly enthusiastic. your friendships are your security; you shroud yourself with people who make you smile and feel lost at sea without them. often you are quick to dedicate yourself to whatever hand feeds you. you are the companion. you are the confidant. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of peach, marigold, yellow, and orange, who share your love of teamwork. you are also drawn to the streamlined souls terracotta and chiffon, who will help you grow and discover your own confidence. however, you may struggle to get along with the heedless personalities of orchid and chartreuse who seem like fair weather friends.

Jason: Blush- lollipops, warm cheeks, lip gloss, flowers, flamingo feathers, painted nails, heart glasses. your essence is blush: you are outspoken and protect your heart by never offering an apology. you seize your desires; there is a particularity to your passions, and not many are privy to your reasonings. you are protective and extend your heart in a way you will never accept in return. you are the trend-setter. you are the defiant. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of crimson, red, tawny, and coral, who share your aspirational intensity. you are also drawn to the honest souls lilac and cream, who will help you grow and realize you are not always under critique. however, you may struggle to get along with the internal personalities of sky and beige who are too self-effacing.

Tim: Moss- marshes, microscopes, crocodiles, green juice, grid notebooks, long socks, algae. your essence is moss: it is you against the mysteries of the world. you are an impassioned problem solver; it is natural for you to depersonalize, absorbed in your interests rather than in your skin. others find you unconventional yet genuine. you are the investigator. you are the scientist. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of chartreuse, honeysuckle, forest, and gold, who share your immense focus. you are also drawn to the intense souls teal and bronze, who will help you grow and uncover new passions. however, you may struggle to get along with the pandering personalities of magenta and marigold who seem too demonstrative.

Damian: Periwinkle- knit hats, candies, tiny flowers, beads, teacups, washi tape, clouds. your essence is periwinkle: you are patient and centered in your self. you are gifted, but in no rush; your dreams are large enough that they'll take time to climb. independent and meticulous, you create your own security. you are the crafter. you are the thorough. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of mauve, indigo, lilac, and sky, who share your sense of expression. you are also drawn to the impassioned souls pearl and tawny, who will help you grow and motivate you to complete projects. however, you may struggle to get along with the uncommitted personalities of coral and ashen who have no singular core desire.

Cassandra: Chiffon- stone walls, sweaters, moths, dusty lace, animal tracks, incense, throw pillows. your essence is chiffon: your soft heart disarms those who meet you. you willingly swallow your feelings for everyone else; it is easier to hide your sensitivity. you may be a mirror, reflecting the best back at others, and not knowing quite who you are inside. you are the compromiser. you are the recaster. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of ashen, hickory, brown, and grey, who act with patience. you are also drawn to the cheerful orchid and honey, who will help you grow and discover what actually makes you happy. however, you may struggle to get along with the wild-hearted personalities of mauve and terracotta who act on their whims.

Stephanie: Amethyst- earrings, violet corts, parades, gemstones, insect wings, grape bushels, outer space. your essence is amethyst: you are passion and pride, impulsive to the core. you thrive on experiences; attention naturally suits you, and having all eyes makes your best traits glow even brighter. you wish to live freely and without regrets. you are the performer. you are the charmer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of orchid, lavender, magenta, and royal, who share your confidence. you are also drawn to the reticent souls amaranth and hickory, who will help you grow and see that you are worth admiration even without success. however, you may struggle to get along with the perfectionistic personalities of moss and marigold who attach too strongly to detail.

Barbara: Red- leather jackets, cherries, bruised knuckles, roses, lipstick, fast cars, rose petals. your essence is red: you are a spirit of intensity who effortlessly inspires others. you struggle to slow down; there is always another goal, another prize, to prove you are strong enough to them. you cannot stop speaking for the voiceless. you are the torch-wielder. you are the rebel. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of crimson, blush, terracotta, and fire, who share your unapologetic nature. you are also drawn to the free-spirited souls purple and yellow, who will help you grow and see that you can lighten your heart sometimes. however, you may struggle to get along with the internal personalities of blue and brown who are too methodical.

Duke: Amber- autumn days, freckles, torches, cabins, fossils, unbrushed hair, enamel pins. your essence is amber: you are a passionate idealist embracing a dream. you live outwards, not inwards; your enthusiasm drives you -- for if you stop, your negative emotions will creep back in. you blur the boundaries of imagination and reality. you are the fantasizer. you are the optimist. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of orange, apricot, bronze, and marigold, who share your extroversion. you are also drawn to the contemplative navy and forest, who will help you grow and learn to analyze your actions deeper. however, you may struggle to get along with the perfectionist personalities of noir and royal who accept nothing less than the best.

Alfred: Hickory- felled oak, brass, sunken ships, olive pits, graphic shirts, splinters, dark rooms. your essence is hickory: your intensity brews beneath your sensitive and melancholy exterior. you lose yourself in the ideal of how things should be rather than how they are; reality seems to disappoint you. you craft together your identity out of pieces of others' that have inspired you. you are the cobbler. you are the shaper. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of chiffon, ashen, umber, and noir, who share your aspirations of a better future. you are also drawn to the vibrant amethyst and bronze, who will help you grow and learn to appreciate your own happiness. however, you may struggle to get along with the aggressive personalities of indigo and garnet who are stubborn about their own perspectives.

[awsugawara]

bnha hcs with an artsy s/o [2/?]

part two of this series! i will continue with maybe 2 more sets of bnha characters, so if i don’t touch basis with one you really like, then don’t be afraid to send a request! i can also do pt. 2s or scenarios for these, if y’all want as well :)

note: your quirk will be the same all around, if implied you have one!

Quirk: AMBIENT ILLUSION - with a single touch of your hand or glance, you are able to make your opponent think that they’ve been taken to another “realm,” but in actuality their body movements mimic those in the illusion; it’s a quirk that can be used for good or for bad; your creativity isn’t limited, but the side effects are headaches, nausea, and sometimes insanity for a short period of time until your stamina runs out or unless someone knocks you out

Hero Name: Chiaroscuro or Chiasu [for short]- referring to the major contrast of light and dark in an image; in italian it is said to literally mean light-dark

enjoy :)

---

i. midoriya

> you both go way back to childhood years, but you moved away

> you two only reunited because you knew mirio and he told you about izuku

> “wait- does he have a broccoli like hair?” 

> nevertheless, izuku was ecstatic to reunite with you and vise versa

> he noticed the subtle changes to your appearance, such as your choice of clothing

> you talked a lot about your newfound love for art and aesthetics, he found it cute

> he told you about all might and his new quirk becuz something seemed off about him

> being quirkless, you make the most of being kind to people all around the world and to those you meet

> that’s one of the qualities that izuku likes a lot about you

> he isn’t really there after moving to the dorms, so you try to make the effort to come see him and that’s how the rest of his friends met you

> he feels bad you’re always spending time alone, while he was training really hard

> as an artist, you do get insecure, so losing deku to his dream was kinda a harsh reality check and you needed to find another outlet

> you worked at a nearby art teacher at the night painting sessions and you loved it

> gaining better critiques and learning about different potential styles made you so much more confident

> when izu saw you after long grueling training for the provisional license exam, he saw you were glowing with confidence and he was convinced he was going to one day marry you

---

k. bakugo

> he keeps you a hidden secret from the rest of his nosy friends. PERIODT.

> katsu is kinda embarrassed to admit he has a BIG soft spot for your artsy self

> you work at an art store and one day kirishima and kaminari decided to grab some materials for an art project that aizawa assigned

> you happened to be there helping out a flirty kaminari and an enthusiastic kirishima

> he was just kinda there...staring at you and your cute HANDMADE grenade earrings

> “you good bakugo?” -kirishima asked when they left

> “tch whatever.” 

>  he was forced to go BACK THE NEXT DAY because he broke some of the markers when he was getting riled up

> he ACTUALLY made a compliment to your flame earrings that day and you wrote your number on the back of his receipt

> fast-forward, he takes the time to escape the dorms during the weekends to see you

> his mom LOVES you to DEATH

> she knows you’re the one and pesters baku about marrying you NOW

> neway, you’ve made cute little charms for your boom boom boi as good luck

> BONUS: you have matching charms that he keeps in a display case in his dorm room in his desk drawer

---

s. todoroki

> since he’s fairly quiet, he never really mentions you, except to his sister or izuku

> he collects the scrapbook pages you put together in a safe scrapbook

> for once, his dad is actually proud of his son’s gf and as he proclaims “his-future wife”

> your quirk is something that his dad practically fangirls about

> your family doesn’t really like the idea of quirk marriages just because they value trust and love

> shouto loves that and so he can be seen coming over often on the weekends

> he admires all the art pieces you draw in your sketchbook that you carry around for your quirk

> the more details you can memorize of a scene, the more the victim becomes more entranced

> he admires the fact that you like making art not only for your hero courses, but because you value making others happy with your gift

---

d. kaminari

> den asks himself how and why he ended up with such a cute and gifted girl

> you like making him small gifts and art pieces because it brightens his day

> but you attend seiai academy, which you extremely dread

> but when it comes down to it, you aren’t one to associate yourself with saiko intelli, just because she’s kind of in over herself with her fancy teas

> you spend a lot of time drawing and such that you never really socialize with the other girls

> you only attend seiai because you had gotten a recommendation from your old art teacher, and suddenly...you feel out of place

> all the girls in seiai seem to be snotty rich girls with nothing else better to do other than gossip and drink leaf juice

> denki tries to make you feel better after talking about his day and then asking about yours, which you respond to as “the same old lonely dorm room day”

> he feels really bad and tries to make you happy

> the day of the sports festival, he invited you to attend a week before since it was a really big deal coming from class 1-A

> you met his friends and eraserhead at the provisional license tournament, which you had finished pretty quickly, considering how you broke away from your peers and kinda just went for some unlucky chump

> eraserhead was impressed oop-

> anyway, when you saw their performance, you got literal chills and was pretty jealous of denki, you made some excuse to go home

> you ended up crying by yourself, but that crying sess ended when you found den at your dorm room, hugging the daylights out of you

> “i have a suggestion for you...how about you ditch these rich girls and come eat the rich with the rest of us at U.A.?”

---

f. tokoyami

> edgy boi + soft aesthetic s/o = b a l a n c e

> fumi isn’t one to outwardly express himself in the love dept, so how he ended up with you was simply being classmates

> being a transfer from shiketsu high school was probably the most nerve wrecking

> after everyone had gotten their provisional license, your dad came back from overseas and didn’t like that you weren’t at U.A., so...yea

> ANYWAY, fumi is soft edgy boi for you, and really admires your pieces

> he gives you ideas for some dark pieces that could help you spook more people 

> fumi does little thoughtful things to help you through commission surges like bringing you flowers, snacks and dinner

> when you moved into the dorms, the rest of class 1-A had convinced you to let them into your room, which consisted of a lot of ORGANIZED art supplies and...PETS????

> apparently you had gotten permission from aizawa to bring some of your pets to the dorms, such as a cat, a puppy and a couple of birds

> “i couldn’t possibly come up with my pieces without having them”

> **cue cuteness overload**

> class 1-A didn’t pick up on your relationship with him and when they did, they were like......!!!!

> it was all thanks to your polaroid and printed photos of all your friends and some of your dates with fumi

---

e. kirishima

> you met during one of his patrols with fatgum and tamaki

> fatgum recognized you as you frequently came from seiai to visit, since fatgum was your relative

> kiri was curious about you since you go to seiai, an all girls academy

> fatgum had taken you along with his two interns to patrol and let me say kiri began simping after seeing you in action

> as a prep girl, you spend quite some time in the art room for your quirk

> having been prepared, it wasn’t any big deal to have you take down the bad guy within mere 15 minutes

> you were close with tamaki, but even closer with kiri

> at one point, you both started dating and you met his friends when you came from seiai to drop off some food you made for him

> “you go WHERE???” -denki

> lemme say that a lot of class 1-A was skeptical of you, but kiri convinced them that you meant no harm and was just visiting him

> “it’s okay, kiri! i’m sorry to intrude! i’ll be heading out now!”

> **cue dejected kiri for the rest of the week**

> his classmates felt bad seeing him in such a downer state, and apologized to him

> “nah, it’s okay...i was kinda hoping you guys would like her too and i’m sorry i’ve been down lately...so not manly.”

> but they learnt that kiri’s gf had been getting bullied for dating someone from U.A. and they had to go and make it worse

> “kirishima?” -mina

> “oh hey, what’s up?”

> “how’s s/o?” -denki

> “do you think that s/o would want to come to U.A.?” -midoriya blurted out

> mission: get s/o to attend U.A.

---

SORRY SOME OF THESE ARE LONG! I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF AOAFNOANF