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harlot-of-oblivion · 5 years

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A Daisy follows soft the Son of Sparda (Part 3)

You and Vergil spend some time together in your quiet corner of the book café reciting poetry, drinking tea, and sowing the seeds of delightful affection.

So this just popped into my head and I just had to write it down. Hope you enjoy! 💕 Here ya go, @drusoona 😘

Here’s the link to the list of all the flowers featured in this part. 🌹🥰🌹

The city is buzzing with activity as you walk though the city streets. The exhaust pipes of cars clanging loudly as they blur past you, the soft chattering of distant conversations floating through the breeze, and the glittering sunlight flaring off of the windows on numerous buildings…it all just feels exciting and lively as you make your way to the local book café for tea, books, and interesting company that goes by the name of Vergil Sparda.

I wonder if he’ll be grumpy or reserved today, you thought, laughing quietly to yourself because it seems that man is always a combination of both. You do not mind though…in fact, you find his surliness kind of endearing. The little crinkle in between his brow that seem to be there permanently scrunching up as his eyes spark in agitation and his jaw tightening as he clenches he teeth…most people would find him intimating, but you just cannot help but to admire such an expressive face.

Those distinct lines on his face do occasionally smooth out though. Every time you give him your homemade tea blends or a fresh flower that crinkle seems to fade as his lips curve into a grin. The lack of smile lines tells you that he does not smile often, so you feel honored to witness such a rarity. You feel yourself swoon as you remember the day he sought you out in the rain after completely blundering your attempt at conversation, holding your forgotten umbrella over you as he smiles down upon you. The thought of his gorgeous face makes you do a little twirl on the sidewalk, your purple floral dress flaring out as you feel a soft warmth settle on your cheeks. You solemnly vowed to yourself that you would do everything in your power to make him smile more. And every time you are successful you cherish every single one of those smiles, engraving them into your memory so you can look back on them in fondness.

The familiar chime of The Book Nook Café rings as you step through its threshold. You greet the barista with a cheerful smile and order a cup of chai tea before walking over to your quiet corner. You glance over at the chair that is usually occupied by a certain handsome devil, an amused grin spreading across your face as you recall that he claims this spot as his as well. You set your tea and purse down as you examine the bountiful shelves of knowledge and adventure, trying to find the book that Vergil recommended to you after he found out that you are a gardener and florist extraordinaire.

“Ah!” you whisper as you finally spot The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, sliding it out of its place and placing it on the small table next to your seat. You rummage through your purse, taking out a perfectly pressed pink and white clove gillyflower and remove a book you hope to recommend to him during your chat today. He has returned your books about gardening and botany to you, but the book about the language of flowers has yet to make it back into your hands. There is a chance that he will understand the message your leaving…that you have developed a bond of affection with him.

The thought of him knowing what your little gifts actually mean makes you nervous and giddy as you place the delicate flower into the book. The idea of him reciprocating has you blushing as you recall the snapdragons he gave you. You did not have the heart to tell him that you actually provide those for this particular restaurant, not wanting to ruin the moment as his uncertain eyes soften when you accept them. You may have grown them, but that is not what makes your knees weak and heart throb thinking about that moment...

They just…reminded me of you.

You snap the book closed, the musty whoosh of air blowing against your face doing nothing to cool your redden cheeks. A part of you hopes that he knows what those snapdragons mean, but he is probably referring to the petals since you can never stop your face from flushing pink when his hand touches you in some benign fashion. He may be cool and reserved, not really a man for unnecessary words, but that just means his actions are what your flowers are to you…a way to express the feelings you cannot say aloud. Your heart always quivers when he subtly caresses your hand and fingers. Your belly fills with fluttering butterflies as his eyes glance sideways when he thinks you do not notice.

Taking a deep breath you reel in your swirling thoughts, making yourself the very model of decorum. You make yourself comfortable in your seat as you reach for the recommended book on the table. You crack open the old book and your eyes widen as a pressed purple flower falls into your lap. Funny…I don’t remember putting one this book, you muse as you pick it up and inspect it. Instantly you know it to be heartsease, a type of violet that grows wild around certain parts of the city. It is also known by many other colorful names, such as heart’s delight, tickle-my-fancy, come-and-cuddle-me…warm tingles cascade down your body as its purple petals all but confirm your suspensions of Vergil being well aware of the language of flowers.

You occupy my thoughts.

You bring the flower to your chest as you lay the book on your lap, clutching it close with both hands over your heart. You are still for a moment, doing your best to hold back a squeal, but your lips slowly spread into a bright smile as your body begins to bounce like a bumblebee among the sweetest flowers. You are glad that he does not find your little antics foolish. After you almost ruined your chance with him you knew that conventional means of flirting will not hold sway over him.

So, you started this little ritual of leaving him flowers, then giving him the means of figuring it all out, hoping that your intent was clear. You really like Vergil and do not want to mess up this budding relationship by letting your blunt mouth do all the talking. For the first time since the passing of your family and moving back into the city you do not feel so alone in the world. He can be a bit prickly at times, but you are a very patient gardener and you will tend to the seeds of affection you have sown with him diligently.

When your done dancing in your seat you place the pressed flower next to your cup, a subtle way to let him know you got it his message. You open the book back up and begin to read while you wait for Vergil to arrive. After reading a few pages you fully understand why he suggests this poet to you. The short biography of Emily Dickinson did mention that she was more well known for her gardening and her knowledge of plants than her poetry during her lifetime. So there are many short poems about flowers and nature conveying intricate imagery and metaphor. It makes your heart soar that he knew just the perfect poetry for your personality.

The signature chime of the door has your eyes instantly glancing up to see a tall and imposing figure clad in very distinctive clothing and a charming scowl that only Vergil can pull off. Uh oh…it seems he’s in one of his cranky moods, you observe, wondering what ever present nuisance makes him so easily irritable all the time. Your lips lift into a sunny smile like they always do when he is around and he slightly nods his head towards you as he makes his way to the barista to order his tea.

While he is distracted you mark your place in the book and reach into your purse for the tin of tea you have prepared for him. Guess it’s a good thing I brought him a little pick-me-up gift. You also grab a handful of today’s flowers, sweet alyssums, since it looks likes he could use a flower shower. You hide both beneath the fabric of your dress as you hear him thank the barista and approach the cozy corner. You put on a face of pure innocence as he appears, eyeing you suspiciously while he places his tea on the table.

“What are you hiding this time?” he warily questions.

“Whatever do you mean, Vergil?” you say as you tilt your head to the side feigning confusion. He just continues to stare at you with those striking silver eyes like a leery cat. You try to fight off the urge to smile, but the sight of that little crinkle between his brows bunching up has you grinning impishly in seconds. His eyes narrow at the sight of it and he leans down a bit, reminding you of the tall sunflowers you used to look up at when your were a child…minus the obvious agitation.

Slowly you lift one hand to reveal a tin of cherry blossom green tea. “Well, it seems I can longer take you by surprise, huh?” That crinkle instantly relaxes when he glances down at your hand to ensure that you are indeed holding one of your homemade blends. His eyes soften a little, that lovely shade of blue coming to the surface to blend harmoniously with molten silver. He reaches for his gift and just as his hand grabs the tin you feel his familiar touch, a gentle fingertip grazing one of your fingers. This never fails to make your breath hitch slightly as your heart thrums like a hummingbird.

Before he fully withdraws his hand you stand up to get a better view of his stunning face that you hope will grace you with the presence of his smile soon. “And since I can no take you by surprise, then you already know what comes next,” you say, voice brimming with enthusiasm as you stare up at him excitedly. “Vergil…lose the glower…”

His expression turns weary. “Must you insist on-?”

“And smell the flowers!” you exclaim as you bring your other hand up and toss the tiny white flowers into the air as you give him a big joyous smile.

His eyes never stray from yours as the small blossoms fall down upon you both, even when one lands right on his shoulder. Those lips you so want to smile are in a tight line as he sighs through his nose. “Evidently, you must…” he comments wryly before the corners of his mouth twitch, flashing you a small amused smirk.

Success! You are absolutely beaming as you let your thumb brush against his fingers before releasing the tin. You quickly gather the fallen flowers before the barista notices you have pulled this stunt once again in the café. A soft chuckle reaches your ears and you look over to see him shaking his head at you as he picks up the lone flower off his shoulder. You give him a mischievous shrug as you finish cleaning up and get back to your seat, opening your book to continue where you left off. Vergil grabs a book he has been reading for awhile and takes his seat, placing the one survivor of the flower shower next to his cup of tea.

Out of the corner of your eye you see him pause when he spots the purple heartsease on your side of the table. You can practically feel those keen eyes gazing at you, surely noticing the light dusting of pink on your face as you continue reading while trying to focus on the imagery of the current poem. I’ll have to really up the ante in our quiet flower game, you ponder, the gears of your mind already turning. Something even more bold than the ice plant flower...pff! Who am I kidding? I already went straight past bold with the forget-me-nots...maybe a flower of passion? I hope those hybrid roses I’m working on for him will bloom soon…

“I see you’re reading my personal recommendation.”

Vergil’s smooth voice breaks you out of your frantic flower thoughts. You head snaps over to see him staring back down at the heartsease. Those captivating eyes slowly lift to meet your gaze, openly admiring every inch of you. Hmm...a variegated tulip it is, you mentally note as a fresh burst of tingles rise through your skin. You do not need a mirror to know that your face must remind him of those damn snapdragons. The corner of your mouth twitches into a grateful grin as you reply. “I am! I wish I knew of her poems sooner. The way she describes flowers and uses them as metaphor is brilliant!”

“Do you have a favorite thus far?” he inquires, resting his arm on the table as his hand cradles his head, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment.

“Hmm…” You flip the pages to the table of contents and swiftly skim the list of poems until one sparks your memory. “Ah! The Daisy follows soft the Sun speaks to me,” you inform him with a fond smirk as you meet his eyes again.

“Read it to me.”

You blink bemusedly at what you refer to as a “commanding request” because Vergil has a habit of just not emphasizing the question mark that usually goes at the end of such requests. Admittedly, that is part of his charm, but you are not so easy to command. You quirk an eyebrow at him as you devise an even compromise. “Only if you recite Blake for me.”

Now it is Vergil’s turn to quirk an eyebrow. He taps his index finger on his head in thought, making a few strands of his white hair shift slightly out of its perfectly slicked back style before forming back into place. Does the power of Sparda include exceptional hair care? you mentally quip to yourself as you await with bated breath, hoping he will indulge you with his soothing voice. His finger stops tapping and his eyelids droop ever so slightly as his lips part and he graces your ears with that rather nasal but sensuous timbre.

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threat'ning horn: While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

Vergil flashes you a smug grin as he finishes his reciting of Blake, clearly enjoying the affect it had on you. If he gets his hands on scarlet lilies that’s probably what he’ll give me next…because that’s what my face probably looks like right now! You sigh exasperatedly as you cover your face with the clever words of Dickinson. “Well...now I really feel like I can’t do this poem justice!” you whine, playfully bemoaning your awful luck that the power of Sparda must also include the ability to reduce you to a blushing babbling mess.

You hear his cocky laugh burst through the air. “You should have read while you had the chance.”

Your shoulders slump as you try to pull yourself together for the task at hand. You remove the book from your face and turn to the page with the poem. When you turn your head to make sure you have his attention you notice that he is pensively studying you. “Flower for your thoughts?” you softly ask, bringing him out of whatever ruminations plaguing his mind.

“I wanted to hear you read, and yet I recited a poem at your behest for the privilege…why?” he abruptly asks, his eyes regarding you inquisitively.

You feel your eyebrows burrow in confusion. “Quid pro quo…not everyone is going to listen to your demands unless you do something for them in turn.” Your eyes dart down to the delicate heartsease next to your cup. “And it’s been awhile since I heard you recite poetry.” You blink and meet his intense gaze once more. “Not since that day in the rain.”

Vergil’s eyes drift away as he seems to be lost in thought. They brush over the pressed flower he left for you and the corner of his mouth lifts into a small grin. Then he shifts his gaze back to meet yours as those alluring lips bless you with the presence of his sublime smile. You feel your brain check out as you savor this moment, knowing that if you had the talent for art you could paint this man from memory alone…considering how often he haunts your thoughts as well.

The warm moment passes when Vergil taps his finger on his head again as he quirks an expectant eyebrow at you. “I’m waiting.”

You sigh, resigning yourself to this fate you have brought upon yourself by enacting quid pro quo. Bringing the book back up you toss a loose strand of hair out of your vision as you softly clear your throat, preparing your voice for a reading that you know is going to pale in comparison to his spine chilling voice. You breathe in and hope for the best.

The Daisy follows soft the Sun And when his golden walk is done Sits shyly at his feet He—waking—finds the flower there Wherefore—Marauder—art thou here? Because, Sir, love is sweet!

We are the Flower—Thou the Sun! Forgive us, if as days decline We nearer steal to Thee! Enamored of the parting West The peace—the flight—the Amethyst Night's possibility!

You do not even try to hold back your smile as you read, letting the imagery of the shy and hopeful daisy pull you in as the words spill from your lips. When you finish your head turns over to Vergil to see how badly you butchered this poor poem.

Instead, he is wearing an expression you have only seen twice: once after you made a complete fool of yourself in front of him in this very corner and the other in your garden after he revealed his demon heritage. Your heart aches when you think about that memory, getting the feeling that living a life caught in between two vastly different worlds has taken on toil on his soul. It explains why he seems so different, why he is so defensive about his personal life…but you know how it feels to not belong and you are glad he told you. Because at that moment you do not see something to be afraid of. Staring upon his face now, so openly expressing awe and admiration, you cannot help but wonder if this feeling in your chest is what Cupid felt when he first saw the aching beauty of Psyche before he shot himself with his own arrow.

After a few moments of awkward silence and a bit of fidgeting he compliments your reading and settles back into his chair, burying his face in his book which is his way of signaling you that he needs a break from conversation. You graciously oblige, needing a break yourself from all the tension currently wafting between the two of you. Both of you read together, enjoying the familiar companionable silence as the outside world fades away. At some point you finish your tea and stand up to get another cup, asking Vergil if needs a fresh cup as well. He nods without looking away from his book and you grin as you walk up to the counter, order two more cups of tea, and bring them back to the secluded corner. Just as your sitting back down Vergil speaks while still engrossed in his book.

“That day in the rain…you said you would point out some recommendations of your own.”

“Oh yeah!” you exclaim, bouncing in your chair in energetically. “I did, didn’t I? Well…what are you in the mood for? Tragedy, comedy, philosophy…poetry?”

Vergil’s lips twitch in amusement as his eyes continue to read. “I am familiar with some of the more prolific epic poems of the ancient era, but I am curious about what you would suggest for me otherwise.” You ponder for a moment, trying to figure what he might find interesting when it hits you.

“Catullus.”

His eyes shoot up in astonishment as his eyes finally tear themselves away from his book to look at you. “Aha!” You giggle as you point a finger at him. “It seems I can still surprise you!” Your hand wipes the invisible sweat off your brow. “Whew…and here I thought I could never get one over the Son of Sparda ever again.” His jaw clenches in that signature scowl you have come to adore as his eyes narrow in annoyance. You show mercy and stop your teasing as you smirk with sincerity shining in your eyes. “But seriously…I would suggest reading his poems. They’re very uh…eclectic.”

“In what way are they unique from the others of that time?” Vergil inquires, his scowl lessening as his eyes regard you with genuine curiosity.

“Well, on one hand he wrote affectionate love poems for his mistress…but on the other hand he wrote really angry and very vulgar poems about people who pissed him off.”

A low rumbling hum vibrates through the air as Vergil contemplates your words, a wave of heat rushing through body at the mere sound of it. “Sounds intriguing. I honestly anticipated a more well known poet of that time.”

“Oh? Like Horace? Or Ovid? Or…Virgil?” You list playfully, wriggling an eyebrow as you mention the last one with a cheeky grin. He rolls his eyes as he lets out an irksome scoff, but the soft twitching of his lips lets you know that he is trying not to smile. This makes you laugh as you continue speaking. “Don’t get me wrong…their poems are good too.” You take a calming breath as your laughter dies down. “But I like Catullus because he’s just so honest and some of his poems just drip with raw emotion. You really feel his adoration for his lover and his wrath at the friends that betrayed him. And it is his poems that later influence Ovid and Virgil.”

“Will you do me the honor…of reciting his poetry…for me?” he hesitantly requests as his eyes soften, actually asking you to do something for the first time instead of demanding it. You feel your eyes widen in surprise, but your overwhelming joy of having him show an interest in one of your favorite poets overrides it quickly. You give him your warmest smile as you close your eyes and recite a short one that will hopefully pique his interest more.

I hate and love. If you were to ask how I got this way, I’d have no answer; but since I can recall, I have suffered –I have felt this torment.

You open your eyes and see that Vergil has his eyes closed during your recitation as well. Your heart melts at the sight of his calm face, meditating on the words of the poem as he considers your recommendation. His eyes suddenly snap open after a few moments. “Very well,” he states confidently as he pins you with his intense stare. “I shall see what complexity this Catullus has to offer.”

A victorious grin spreads across your cheeks and it must be contagious because Vergil gives that rare smirk you strive to pull out him every second you are near him. You both spend more time in that cozy corner finishing up your books until you have to depart. Before leaving you set a time and date to meet in the café again, already looking forward to another quiet reading session with your prickly poet. You almost tell him he could always call you if he ever wants to have a rendezvous somewhere else…like a local bistro or even your garden since you do have a nice outdoor seating, but you did not want to push your luck. And it seems he is new to the usage of cell phones, so you did not want to bring it up just in case it makes him crabby. Plus, he might bring up the forget-me-nots you somehow craftily tied around his fancy sword and you have already filled your quota of blushes for today.

Both of you say your farewells and you leave the café feeling like a sunflower basking in the rays of beautiful sunshine. As you pass the café window you spot a tall figure standing up in the secluded corner, selecting the book you put your flower in earlier. Your feet stumble as you stop in your tracks and scramble to take out your phone, furiously pretending to be checking your notifications and texting some nonexistent recipient. Surreptitiously, you watch as Vergil opens the book and he must have went straight for Catullus since his hand picks up the clove gillyflower you left for him. Your heart skips a beat when you see his face light up with genuine tenderness. You decide to end your act before he notices you, swiftly walking away as you put your phone back into your purse.

You do no know what it is about Vergil that draws you to him. It could be his fierce presence that you find oddly soothing, his cool and collected exterior that hides a passionate love for literature, or that little crinkle between his brow that deepens when he is aggravated. Whatever it may be you are glad he let you step through his briars, allowing you to gently pry his thorns apart as you find fertile ground to plant the seeds of trust. And you will tend to them as the seeds sprout and grow...entwining their gentle blossoms carefully among the briars in tenderness.

And you, like the shy and hopeful daisy, follow soft the Son of Sparda.

Read Part 4 here.

Or read them all on my Ao3

My Master List if you want more. ❤

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sunkissedpages · 6 years

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Just Another Thursday Night || Tom Holland x Reader

For my valentine @technicolor-lightning!! this is probably the cheesiest thing I’ve ever written so buckle up lol. it’s been so great getting to know you over the past few weeks, love!! and now I can finally follow you ah!! happy valentine’s day, I hope you like it!!

also!! thank you so much @dtftomholland and @thazypangolin for hosting and putting so much hard work into this I had an absolute blast with it!!

Warnings: swearing

Word Count: 1.6k

As far as commercial holidays went, Valentine’s Day was your least favorite. Corporate America always goes batshit crazy when it comes to profiting off of people’s affection, but they took Valentine’s day to a whole different level and it made your skin crawl. Of course, maybe your bitterness was tied to the fact that you’d only ever had one nice Valentine’s Day in your entire life, but that was only a theory.

You and your roommate Tom planned to spend Valentine’s Day exactly as you always did. You’d order from three different takeout restaurants: Cuban, Italian, and Chinese and spend the entire night watching bad game shows. It’s what you had done for the past three years, save the year Tom had a girlfriend (whom you despised) and had taken her out to dinner instead. You still gave him shit for dating a pathological liar, even a year and half later.

Work had dragged on, but at least you were able to lock up early since patrons had stopped coming in over an hour ago. No one needed to be in a bookstore on the evening of Valentine’s Day, they all had better things to do- or better people to do.

It was raining, of course, and you’d left your umbrella at home. Tom had texted you a picture of it sitting by the door where you’d left it and offered to bring it to you at work, but you knew he was busy so you said you’d be fine without it. You regretted not taking him up on his offer now that you were pushing your way through the rush hour crowd holding your bag over your head trying to stay somewhat dry without much success.

You must’ve made your way around ten couples who were kissing out on the sidewalk. It was hard not to roll your eyes at them. To them the rain was romantic. Apparently they weren’t worried about catching bronchitis.

You were thankful for the blast of warm air that hit you the second you stepped inside your apartment building. It was already an old building when you’d moved in with Tom, but over the years it had really started to fall apart. There were more leaks in the ceilings, which made rainy days like today all the more difficult, the wood floors creaked, and the hot water only worked sometimes, but the rent was fantastic for the location and you couldn’t dream of living anywhere else. The elevator had been out of order for months, but you still weren’t used to taking the stairs all the way up to the sixth floor. You felt like you were dying every time.

“How was work?” Tom asked as soon as he heard you come through the door, completely soaked head to toe. He looked up from his laptop and pressed his lips together in an attempt to suppress his laughter upon seeing your appearance.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “We sold thirteen copies of Romeo & Juliet today.” Tom cringed. “All these boys think they’re so original by getting their lit major girlfriends fucking Romeo & Juliet for Valentine’s Day.” You went on and Tom closed his laptop to show he was listening. “I mean at first I felt kind of bad for them because they don’t know any better so I’d suggest Pride and Prejudice if they wanted something that was still well-known, but also romantic to be a little more original or Mansfield Park if they wanted to seem like they did research or put some actual fucking thought into it, but they always took the easy way out.” You hadn’t realized you felt so passionately about this until now.

“Anyone buy Alex, Approximately?” he asked and you immediately smiled. You always did when he brought up your favorite book.

You still remembered the first time you read it. It’d been a rainy night, much like tonight and you’d brought it home from work. It’d been on your to-read list for a while and you were finally able to get to it.

You’d had plans to go out with Tom and friends, but the weather had turned the five minute walk to the bar into a nightmare so the two of you bailed and spent a night in instead. Tom was curled up on the couch with his script and you with your book. Every time you laughed or smiled at a part Tom would stop working and ask you about it. You’d read the part out loud to him and he’d listen intently, urging you to go on when you’d finished, but you just laughed and told him to get back to work, unaware of his gaze that lingered on you as you got lost in the words you were reading.

“No,” you sighed, kicking your shoes off at the door where they could dry. “No one has good taste apparently.”

He smiled softly. “You still wanna watch game shows tonight?”

“Of course! It’s valentine’s day isn’t it?”

“You shower, I’ll order the food?” he suggested.

“Perfect.”

By some miracle the water warmed almost instantly and you were able to take a scalding shower. You let the water nearly burn your skin as the chill slowly eased from your bones. After your shower you changed into some sweats. Even though it was valentine’s day it wasn’t like you were trying to impress anyone.

Tom was set up on the floor of the living room with one out of three orders of food already on the coffee table. Family Feud was playing in the background. You couldn’t wait to spend the night lounging around and stuffing your face with your favorite person.

You and Tom both waited around until the rest of the food showed up, shouting answers out at the tv and yelling at the contestants when they got the question wrong.

The rest of the food arrived in under and hour and Tom set everything up while you were tasked with grabbing drinks from the fridge.

“There are some raspberries in there too,” Tom called from the living room.

“What?” you shouted back, not completely sure if you’d heard him right.

“I picked up some raspberries from the store, they’re your favorite, right?”

“Yeah, they are,” you replied softly, warmth filling your chest as you looked at the rosy berries in front of you. “You didn’t have to do that, Tom,” you sighed as you brought everything back to the living room.

“I know, but it’s valentine’s day, I wanted to do something nice.”

“But I didn’t get anything for you,” you whined.

He chuckled. “They’re just raspberries, y/n.”

You watched countless episodes of Family Feud, Jeopardy, and Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader until the sound of a buzzer made you both cringe, your brains hurt from all the trivia, and the raspberries in the container dwindled to almost none.

“I think I won,” Tom said at the end of the night with a yawn, stretching dramatically.

You shook your head. “No way, I got seventy points and you only got sixty three.”

“We said we weren’t keeping count this year!” he protested.

“Technically we didn’t. It wasn’t official!” He gave you a look. “You know I can’t help myself!”

“Uh huh, whatever,” he pouted. “I get you raspberries and this is how you treat me?”

“Come on, Tom, don’t be a sore loser!” He stuck his tongue out at you in defiance. “Real mature,” you laughed, stifling a yawn. “Hey, but thanks for spending valentine’s day with me,” you said genuinely. “It doesn’t feel so lonely when I’m with you.”

“Of course, it’s tradition,” he shrugged as he started putting pillows back on the couch.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I would,” Tom said and you froze, heart sinking. Of course Tom would want to spend valentine’s day with a romantic interest, who wouldn’t? But you and Tom had a good thing going, or so you’d thought.

“Oh,” was all you said as you helped him straighten up.

“Wait, no that’s not what I meant- shit.”

“It’s okay, Tom, you don’t have to explain-”

“No hold on,” he said and disappeared into another room returning only seconds later with something behind his back. “So I might have gotten you something else.”

“Tom! Why didn’t you tell me we were doing gifts?” you asked when he handed you a small wrapped package.

“Just open it.” You tore into the paper to reveal a copy of We Were Liars. It was a book you already owned and had read several times. It was one of your favorites. You looked up at Tom in confusion. “Open it.”

You flipped it open to reveal scribbles on the inside cover. “It’s signed?” you asked in disbelief, already smiling.

“That’s not all, read it,” he urged.

Y/n, Tom is too much of a bitch to tell you himself, so he asked me to send this message along to you: He’s completely head over heels for you, girl. Has been for a while. Be his valentine? - E. Lockhart

You looked back up at him, beaming. He was biting his thumbnail nervously, waiting for your response.

“Are those good tears or bad tears?” he asked.

You hadn’t even realized you were crying. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“So...is that a yes?”

“Yes, it’s a yes!” you cried, flinging your arms around him to embrace him.

He hugged you tightly, then leaned back to kiss you tenderly, taking your face in his hands and wiping the remaining tears away with his thumbs.

“Happy valentine’s day, love,” he whispered.

“Happy valentine’s day, Tom.”

“Same time next year?”

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namjoonchronicles · 7 years

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Knackered – [BTS] Husband!Yoongi Au

[A/N] (Thank you, gif-provider.) When Yoongi had a complex he doesn’t share with you, you try to do what it takes to make him realize that relationships are more than just give-and-take.

Every time. Every time you try to reach for his hands, he would shove them in his pocket, or take out his phone, say that it’s cold or that his hands are freezing. Even when it’s summer.

“Will you let me hold your hands please?” You said, mustering a lot of courage after being with him for a while and he paused for a moment. He blinks to the ground, burying his face into the thick muffler he had around his neck, exhaling and you watch the warm puff of breath escaped to the air as he does.

He will never be able to answer this question spontaneously. He will not divert them on the spot. Because Yoongi can’t lie.

So you spent more times, hours, days--watching, observing, and studying him. Sometimes he caught your eyes staring, sometimes he doesn’t. When he did catch you, he scrunches his face and crinkled his nose cutely, from across the room. Or if he is particularly feeling on the grey side of the day, he would look away as quickly as he can but you know that the thought lingered in his mind even though he doesn’t show it.

Yoongi is made up of layered stone and his heart is cast with an unforgiving spell that he cast on his own, from years of trusting people he shouldn’t. He is an ultimate dreamer of success and there devils out there that took advantage of the dreamer in him. They become his nightmare.

The passion that you understood so much is the fire you will keep on protecting. You were the one who catered to the flames, boosting it, sending flares into his darkest nights, with a promise of a brighter morning. You were his stone, as he was to you. Stone, the weight that calls him home whenever he drifts too far, guides him, reminding him what he came here for.

Yoongi’s life was an ambient sea, until your storm came and shook him awake with your overwhelming love. You dented his entire being, and filled them with your screaming affections. You ensured that he won’t be able to live without you. So he was filled, with you.

There isn’t a lot of love like yours. And Yoongi knows this too well to let you go. Today, you surprised him at work. You punched the number into his security pad and it beeped open. His studio was dimly lit, the way you remembered he likes them to be. He spun his chair around to see you bringing him food. He tosses his ramen cup away immediately. “You didn’t have to come so far, I was about to come home.” He said, quickly waddling to the door where you were in wide steps, capturing bags of food you brought while passing a brush of his lips on your cheek. His smiled upon contact of your skin on them.

Sitting down with him on the black couch he had, chatting about the day and how it went, was a sound experience. You get them a lot. He would lay his head on your lap watching you speak endlessly about your co-workers. “And then Lola came and shouted, suddenly, I’m not going to your fucking baby-shower...!’” You mimicked Lola’s voice and Yoongi’s eyes popped out and then crinkled from smiling. “She really said that... Lola is feisty.” Yoongi commented. “She’ll end up in someone’s trunk one day, she’s a good friend but her words is terrible.” You shake your head before snapping to him, “Did you remember Eddie? The Korean who doesn’t speak Korean...”

You feed each other food. “I bought this one because it looked nice on the picture. Is it any good?” You asked, watching him nip some of it into his pouty mouth. He leans back a little, savouring the taste while looking at the opposing wall, knees spread widely, “Hurry up, Gordon Ramsay, I need commentaries.” You rushed him and he tilt his head to one side, “You know I’m not picky with my food.”

“I know but your face looks like you are but surprisingly you’re not,” you took a bite of the same thing and immediately winced, “I am never getting that one again.” Yoongi chuckled but resumed eating. His chopstick digs out some of the veggies on it while he speaks, “I am working some piece...”

“I hope it’s sad.” You shot.

Yoongi licked his lip to get the rest of the residue off of them before asking, “Why would you want it to be sad?” Not looking at you. Yoongi speaks this way. He avoids most eye contact but is often caught staring at you when you’re not talking. It’s adorable. “...because I like music that I could cry to.” You blinked to a piece of chicken.

“Is that why you liked Spring Day so much? And Sea?” Yoongi pursed his lips, the jealousy notion in his words didn’t go unnoticed, and he twisted his lips into a smile after you started whining cutely, reclining to his shoulder and shaking your head to protest, acting cute to coo him that you think his music is the best even though you liked Namjoon’s poetic lyrics more.

“Because Namjoon wrote it? You like Namjoon’s writing ha...more than mine?” You could hear him smiling as you nuzzled your face to his upper arm, taking the faint scent of his cologne in.

“I like your writings too. I like Yoongi’s.” Your voice muffled in his chest. He started to chuckle low and you find it sexy. He draped his hand across your lap as you sat next to each other on the couch. “What do you like about Yoongi? Tell me.” He said in raspy smiley voice. What’s not to like about Yoongi?

He is sitting on the piano seat now, playing sad keys just because you asked for one. “This is not it,” he inhales through his teeth and shake his head before fixing another solemn piano chords because the first one he played didn’t give him satisfaction. “Play a sad version of anything in your mind right now...” you told him. “What’s with all these sadness...” he mumbled a few more words after that but you couldn’t hear them once he started playing the first chord of Sea. The notes tattled the wounds you thought had fully healed, provided with the time you started to have them; but the unexplainable pain that enunciates as the melody progresses, proves that the deepest laceration never mend properly.

Resonance in your ear, as the music filled your ear and your heart, deafening your surroundings. Your eyes started to sting, visions begin to blur, Yoongi’s back became unfocused from sight. The rhythm seeps into your soul like rain on a drought, washing your dryness away; like the first warmth on the coldest night—it was nothing like you’ve ever felt before. Laying on your side watching Yoongi’s back—appearing to be a little slouched when he plays the piano, a habit he has—tears falls across your nose bridge and to the leather couch. The way Yoongi’s fingers danced on the keys, the little nods and movement of his shoulders—it was a sight you would want to keep in your heart, till the final moment of your life.

Memories began to rush through your translucent mind as guilt, anger, fear and loneliness took place. Your heart is at war and your brain refuses to tame. Logic and dream becomes so different. Choice and fate became a gamble. The things you went through without anyone knowing, the words that cuts through your skin, coming from people you call family, how they cast their steely gaze on you, mock you behind their sorely tight lips, the blame they put on you, the things they never said but always show.

“In love with a boy!” “You still hadn’t gotten over your high school phase?” “Grow up!” “Think about your parents...” “I am ashamed of you.” “Leave this house and don’t call me father!”

The tears falls uncontrollably, but you made no sound. It pooled to your palm and seeped into the leather chair only to fall to the wooden finish. You shut your eyes and let the memory play in the back of your head, those moments where you only had yourself. And how deathly lonely you felt. It was so easy to have given up back then. It was easy to just fall. The breeze was in your face that spring night, the strong current underneath your feet—all you had to do was, let go. But the hands that are serenading you a lullaby right now, was the hands that saved your frozen soul. You fallen over and over again, just to get up, stronger and taller than before. You fought for the love you have for yourself. You gave Yoongi a chance.

You give that troubled boy a chance to become a man. You believed in the change he is capable of and he took the rest of the faith, and mark up his own path. And this time, he wasn’t alone. You were there. And when the darkness comes, you had him. And he, had you.

Yoongi turned around after the piece ended. He already started dragging your name, scolding you in the sweetest way. “This is why I never I wanted to write a sad song. You were like this when I wrote ‘The Last’ too. I’m so angry. Who is it this time? What made you sad?” He plopped on the floor next to you, gathering both of your hands to his lips, kissing them relentlessly with slow murmurs of ‘I love you’s’ as he tries to coax you away from whatever that is making you miserable. You started to laugh and cry in the most adorable way. Wiping your tears with your sleeves, you giggled at him as he remained rather sad, watching you crumble in the most beautiful a person could ever afford to. “I was...reminded by the times where you saved me, from myself. And you just did it again, just now.” You peeped at him through your lashes and he puts his face closer to yours.

“Please tell me what you’re upset about… We can do this.” He assured, brushing baby hair from your forehead, tucking a lock behind your ear and thumbed your supple cheeks as his eyes dropped to your nose and chin, worried. “...Min Yoongi.” You called. He hummed. “…Min Yoongi.” You called again, this time a bit sweeter. “Yes?” He whispered under his breath. “… Min. Yoongi.” You took his hand in yours this time, “It’s my time to save you.” You brushed thumbed against his knuckles, looking at his nails and then to him. The corners of his nail were dark red, suggesting a trauma resulting from being bitten, and they were shorter, smaller in size compared to before. And these were signs of anxieties.

Yoongi had been keeping his hands away from you because of this. He doesn’t like how it looks against your pretty pairs. Your nails, the shape it has, smooth and petite. It was a complex he had since then. He hated the rough skins his palm had against your silkier once, he despises how it looks against yours, and that was why he never hold your hands. Because he didn’t think he was worthy of the gesture. Despite being your lover for years, now.

Today, Yoongi stared at his computer screen for an hour. He stared at his initials and thought of you. He had a picture of you in his wallet, traces of you in his studio, the curtains you put on, the two red and black ‘Supreme’ stickers you placed on his air-conditioner, and you would have touched his keyboard if there was a chance. You wrote, “Recording Engineer, Mr. Min Genius Jjang Jjang Man Bboong Bboong,” on a post-it notes once when you had the studio on your own, and you thought he would have discarded it right away when he saw it, but you came back to see them framed where you placed it. Yoongi even had another copy of it as a fridge magnet on the small fridge he had in his studio. Bothered by the thought of you not being here, he grabbed his phone and reclined to his chair. He typed a few words and then took a selfie with his hand covering his eyes. Leaving his pouty lips for you to see.

The phone buzzed for you at work, and you tapped them open.

Message from ‘The King’.

You almost awed out loud. His cute pouty lips and his text that said, “…I did absolutely nothing to your work.”

“Yoongi always surprises me,” you saw the picture he sent through the messenger. His nails were polished bright red and you wrapped each of his finger with a Band-Aid so that he won’t bite them. You did it when he was in deep sleep. He woke up and told you that he liked the colour. And because of that, you came to work in a good mood. That would stop him from biting them poor nails. And if he did, you’ll know from the nail polish. You replied a simple red heart emoticon and placed your phone facing down before resuming work. But it buzzed again. You took it again, and Yoongi replied.

“…Can’t wait to do this again.” Along with a picture of your neck, a bright angry hickey on your nape. You scrambled to the bathroom and pulled down your turtleneck black blouse, staring at the mirror.

“…Damn it, Yoongi.” You urgently trace your finger on them. No wonder he insisted to choose your outfits today. “I should have known.” Bad boys don’t really change, do they? At least in this sector, they don’t.

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