#“oh no this feels a bit boring how do i fix it” “add more plants” “ok” | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sehunniepotwrites · 3 years

Text

sakura kiss | n.yt

PART III OF FOR YOU IN FULL BLOOM: THE HANAHAKI COLLECTION

🌸 synopsis—the four times you noticed yuta’s love for flowers and the one time you realized it was not the flowers he was in love with

🌸 genre— would you be so kind? universe ; hanahaki!au, university!au, flower shop!au, angst, romance, slight fluff, mutual pining, strangers to lovers!au 🌸 pairing— art student/florist!yuta x art student!reader (f) 🌸 word count— 9000+

🌸 warnings — cursing; mentions of coughing, vomiting, hospital visits, death (no one dies!!), two idiots in love

🌸 author’s note—so i finished a fic with my favorite trope in time for my birthday today (dec 11th) and i’m posting to celebrate! it all started with this tweet that said yuta used to work at a flower shop and enjoyed drawing the plants during his free time!

this was a fun write and it takes place in the same verse as wybsk, which is linked above! you can read sakura kiss as a stand alone or after wybsk to get a better understanding of two scenes! to those you came from my mark fic, i gave yn a name (kira)!

but here she is! enjoy and be sure to tell me what you think!! i love feedback uwu

Nakamoto Yuta, you noticed, was an unusual fellow. He was your senior in the art department, a fourth-year preparing for his graduation while you were a couple of semesters behind him. Other than his small circle of friends, the foreign exchange student kept to himself, burying his handsome face in his sketchbook. You had classes together before but those were large lectures with over fifty students in the room— this was the first time you shared a small studio lab with him.

Barely interacting with him in the past, you were determined to change that no matter how intimidating Yuta was.

Were you intimidated by his extremely good looks or his unmatched talents in the fine arts? Both. Definitely both. He turned heads without fail and when he smiled, oh my god, you thought he was the sun. Yuta was pretty, beyond pretty even, with his striking face, brown eyes, and perfect body proportions.

To add on top of his perfection, his art style was immaculate. The artist never failed to steal your breath away with a couple of strokes and a swipe of his blessed hand. Anything he touched turned to gold. Never sharing those thoughts with him in the past, you made a firm decision to tell your senior this coming semester.

Yuta sat at the easel next to you, barely two feet away from your station. His sketchbook and drawing utensils were already splayed out on the holder. He was fiddling with his phone to pass the time, his painted nails rapidly hitting his touchscreen. How did Yuta make something so mundane as checking his phone look so ethereal? The inner most thoughts in your head cursed whatever beings lived in the beyond for not endowing you with such looks.

You gulped, gathering up the courage to talk to him. “Hey,” you greeted shyly.

Hey? That was the best you could do?

Yuta turned towards you, gaze shifting away from his phone. “Hey,” he said back with a slight curve of the lip.

“I don’t know if you remember me but we had a couple of classes together last semester,” you forced yourself to say with an awkward smile.

He grinned and his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, almost like he was holding back a laugh. “Yeah, no, of course, I remember you.” Your name slips from his mouth, causing your awkward smile to turn into a genuine one. His tone is kind and his voice is low, sending shivers down your spine.

You tried your best to keep the conversation going, wanting to finally compliment him on his work but your professor entered the room and called for everyone’s attention. He handed out the syllabus to a student upfront and around the papers went, signifying the start of your first class. Yuta shot you an apologetic look, conveying that you could always continue the conversation later.

The overview of the course’s syllabus was always the boring part of the first days. Your eyes glazed over, still not fully awake from rising early, and you tried to shake the sleepiness away. Stealing a glance at Yuta, you almost laughed at how his easel was angled in a way to hide that he wasn’t paying any attention. His syllabus outline was discarded off to the side and Yuta’s hands were moving rapidly, sketching out a large tree in full bloom in a page of his notebook.

It looked like flower petals raining from the branches and a person leaning against the tree trunk, hiding underneath the shade. His sketching speed and quality amazed you— how exactly did he sketch that fast and that beautifully?

You made sure your professor wasn’t looking in your direction before nudging Yuta’s side to grab his attention. He snapped out of his drawing daze and turned to you with widened eyes. A red seeped into his ears and pale cheeks, but you missed it completely, eyes zoned in on his quick draw.

“Hm?”

“That’s really good,” you whispered.

He rubbed the back of his neck at your compliment. “It’s just a quick sketch,” Yuta tried to play it off. He was never one to take compliments so well.

You leaned over to get a closer look. Noticing you almost falling off your stool, Yuta shifted his easel slightly closer to yours. “Is that a cherry blossom tree?”

He nodded, “Yeah, they’ve been on my mind a lot.”

“Do they remind you of home?” you asked. You couldn’t imagine being an exchange student in a foreign country— you would miss home too much.

“Yeah but that’s not really the reason why I’m drawing them,” he replied. His eyes shifted to a look of pain or discomfort as if he was reminded of a scarring memory. You watched him closely to make sure he was okay. He cleared his throat before letting out a couple of concealed coughs, face digging into his shoulder.

“You alright, Nakamoto?” You were too embarrassed to call him by his first name.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just a little cough.” Yuta gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “And you can just call me Yuta, you know?”

“Right, noted,” the name felt so foreign on your tongue.

“I have cough drops in my bag if you want some,” you offered, already reaching down to grab your backpack. He quickly dismissed you, telling you it wasn’t necessary.

Continuing to watch him sketch, you admired the way Yuta fussed over the smallest details— the lining, the shading, etc. It was nothing more than a simple sketch but if it was gifted to you, it would be framed and hung for the world to see.

He really was an artistic genius.

“Cherry blossoms are my favorite flowers,” you said.

You were too absorbed in his drawing to hear him mutter, “I know.”

“You say something?”

Yuta cleared his throat again with a pained expression. His hand held his neck for a second before shaking his head. “I said, they used to be mine too.”

Huh, you never really picked him as the flower loving type.

—🌸—

This was the third time Nakamoto Yuta had flowers growing in his chest and he hated it.

It was less painful the first two times around, probably because they were nothing more than fleeting crushes. He was in high school then, wholly infatuated with two different students during those years. Yuta followed them around like a lovesick puppy, all smiles and waiting on their hands and feet. He coughed a couple of petals out and it caused some uneasiness, but after being rejected harshly, Yuta pushed himself to move on.

The pain of high school rejection could never compare to the dull ache he was feeling as he looked at you. There you were, the person he secretly admired for the past two semesters, merely two feet away at your own easel.

You looked so in your element, eyebrows knitted and pencil in hand as you sketched away. A sight so captivating, Yuta almost forgot to breathe. Being an artist himself, he wanted to preserve that image on a canvas but he didn’t think his hand could do you justice. No pencil sketch, no painted canvas, no marble or clay sculpture could even compare to you.

This was more than puppy love. More than infatuation. Yuta was sure of it but how was he to let you know? You barely knew each other and a confession out of nowhere wouldn’t be the best way to get acquainted.

Perhaps another time, he thought to himself, before turning back to his sketch.

You would’ve never guessed that Yuta Nakamoto had a thing for flowers but he did.

Then again, you didn’t really know what he had a thing for to begin with— your friendship just started to bloom. It was like a bud barely opening under the sunlight; with each interaction, there was something new you learned about the quiet yet charismatic art major.

You knew he was a Japanese exchange student that majored in art, that was a given. You recently learned he loved cherry blossoms and that watercolor was his favorite art medium yet you still wanted to learn more.

The first time you ran into him outside of class was in the university library. Yuta sat at one of the tables, his space surrounded by books on flowers. There were books on the language, arrangements, and gardening tips. His face was deep into his sketchbook once again, back bent over the desk but his focused eyes darted back and forth between his drawing and his page of reference.

Yuta didn’t even notice as you hovered over him, debating on whether you should say hi. Even with your shadow casting over his body, his deep concentration never faltered.

His page was filled with various plants and flowers, little notes in a messy scrawl right under their pictures. He was currently drawing cherry blossoms, the page he was referring to showcasing the anatomy of the famous flower.

“Cherry blossoms again, Yuta?” you broke the silence.

Your voice startled him, causing his pencil to slip from the artist’s grip. It made an accidental mark and you whispered an apology as he clicked his tongue.

“Don’t worry about it, nothing an eraser can’t fix,” Yuta reassured you as he rid his paper of the unwanted mark. He blew the eraser bits of his page, hand sweeping his surface clean. He offered you the seat next to him and you gladly took it.

“So, why are you always sketching flowers?” you posed as your hand gestured to all the books he had on his person.

“They’re beautiful, don’t you think?” he answered with another question. He gave you a cheeky little grin, his lips widening to show off his beautiful pearly whites.

“Well, yeah.”

“It’s a shame they die so easily,” Yuta said, fingers running over his sketches. “Beautiful but fleeting.”

“But that’s life, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

You hummed at his answer. “You’re really passionate about flowers, aren’t you?”

“Something like that. I actually work at a flower shop nearby, maybe you’ve seen it?” Yuta fiddled with the front pocket of his backpack to pull out a business card. “I like learning about the meanings to help the customers in the shop, amongst other things.”

You took the card from his grip, examining it. For You in Full Bloom was printed largely on the thin piece of cardboard. Staring at the name, you wondered why it sounded so familiar until it hit you.

“Oh, I pass by it everyday while walking to campus! I live two blocks away from the shop.” Your smile grew wider and he smiled back for a second before his face contorted into one that conveyed pain.

Yuta turned away from you to cough into his hand, his free one hastily digging into his pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to cough into that. Shocked by his sudden sick fit, you quickly patted him on the back, hoping it would help him hack out whatever was lodged in his throat.

You saw him peek into the small square of fabric and wince at whatever it caught. He cleared his throat before turning back to you. “Sorry,” Yuta muttered, rubbing the front of his neck to soothe it. Placing a cough drop in his hand, he took it without complaint and popped it in his mouth. The relieved sigh he let out made you feel slightly less worried.

“You’re still sick?” you frowned. “You should really get that checked out, you know?”

He waved you off, “It’s nothing serious, I swear. What were we talking about again?”

“Cherry blossoms?”

“Your favorite flower.”

“And yours,” you added.

He hummed, “And mine.” There was a solemn tone behind his words but before you could press on the subject, he coughed again.

“Did you know that they’re also a symbol of renewal?”

Shaking your head, you urged your classmate to continue.

“Cherry blossoms hold the bittersweet meaning of life and death but they also bring the message of new beginnings.”

—🌸—

Yuta just wished when it came to you and him, the flowers meant the start of something new but no— instead, they just reminded him of the ache in his chest.

They reminded Yuta of how alive he was but also how he was one step closer to his grave.

Yes, you were merely classmates but he felt like he knew you solely from all the stories that were shared by your mutual friends in the art department. Ten and Taeyong sang praises on how thoughtful you were, always helping professors clean their studios after hours. Sicheng brought up how passionate you were about your major— Yuta himself bore witness to this many times during lectures and he wanted to know more about you.

A lot of charm filled your figure and it was enchanting, it really wasn’t that hard for him to fall.

Yuta fell for you much like the blossoms from the cherry trees.

And just like the blossoms, his time was fleeting but you were so completely unaware.

You left the library first, having forgotten that you had office hours with a professor. He watched you leave, eyes fixed onto your back.

Someone once said that you become miserable if you love someone too much. Yuta believed that to be true. There was a pang in his chest, heart racing against his rib cage as a stronger nausea attack hit him.

He gasped for air as his weakened stomach turned with sickness. Something was rising, working its way up his body. Yuta quickly slapped his hand over his lips as he hurled. Instead of bile, cherry blossom petals rained out of his mouth and into his palm.

He chuckled under his breath. Was it sad that he found beauty in his suffering?

Yuta thought himself to be crazy as he quickly shoved away the pain to begin sketching the petals in his hand.

For You in Full Bloom— what a nice name, you thought to yourself as you entered the shop with your friend Sicheng right behind you. The light ringing of the bell attached to the front entrance alerted the people at the counter of your presence. You picked up on harsh whispers before the tall male worker rushed to the back, forcing the young girl to assist you.

“Hi, welcome in!” the girl smiled brightly at you. “How can I help you today?”

Before you could reply, Sicheng stepped forward to answer, “Kira, we’re looking for Yuta— is he here?”

“Oh, Sicheng, hey! I didn’t even see you,” Kira exclaimed. “He’s, uh, not here right now.” Kira shot Sicheng a frustrated look, eyes darting to the back. Your companion sighed, done with his friend’s stupidity. You missed the quiet interaction, being too preoccupied with your surroundings.

“We’ll catch him another time then,” you answered her.

The small and quaint store was filled to the brim with flowers and your hands ghosted against the magnificent displays in the front window. The petals felt soft and the pleasing smells overwhelmed your senses in a good way. There was beauty all around you— there was no wonder why people loved visiting flower shops.

Various watercolor pieces were framed on the wall and you examined every artwork displayed. They were simple paintings of the plants that found a temporary home in the store. Some pieces were the flowers by themselves and others were of the many arrangements offered. They were vibrant, bright, and so incredibly detailed.

“I’ll tell him you stopped by,” she paused to ask for your name. You replied with a smile before turning back to take in the art.

“The paintings are a nice touch,” you commented, finally turning to look at her.

“Oh those? Yuta painted them,” Kira grinned, her body straightening up with pride. “He paints a lot when the shop is slow and my mom, the owner, loves to hang them up.”

“I should’ve known.” You took a closer look and spotted Yuta’s signature at the bottom of every picture.

“He’s very talented, isn’t he?” Kira hummed. Sicheng snorted for some unknown reason and you slapped his shoulder in response. There was nothing funny about Yuta’s skills and he knew that.

“Yeah, his skill is unmatched. I admire him for that.”

“Have you ever told him that?”

“God, no!”

“Why not?” Kira pressed. Sicheng joined in on the pressing and you moaned, an embarrassing heat creeping up your face,

“I don’t know. We talk but I find him to be a little intimidating,” you leaned against Sicheng’s shoulder and looped your arm through his. “I can’t just go up to him and fangirl over his work, can I?”

“But you want to,” he groaned. “And I’m tired of hearing you go on about it. Just tell him.”

A whine left your lips and you pinched your friend’s arm at the comment. He yelped and Kira just watched as the bickering continued.

“Yuta looks intimidating, yeah, but it’s just his resting bitch face, I promise. He’s just a softie,” Kira laughed and Sicheng agreed. “You should definitely tell him. He would love hearing it, especially from you.”

There was this knowing smile on both of their lips and it just seemed like they knew something you didn’t. You tugged on Sicheng’s arm as an attempt to ask him the florist meant by the last bit of her sentence and he tried to shrug you away. You just clung on tighter to your friend with a playful smile with Kira keeping a close eye on you.

You heard a cough come from the back of the store, causing both Sicheng and Kira to look up with concern. The coughing fit grew louder and louder, leaving Kira to excuse herself for a bit.

“If the other florist is sick, they should be at home resting,” you tutted with a frown.

“Some people are stubborn,” Sicheng threw back with a bit of distaste. Picking up on your friend’s bitterness, you wondered why he felt so strongly about it. You waved it off when a small display of sunflowers and red roses together captured your attention. Holding it in your hands, you admired how the two vibrant colors compliment each other.

Kira swung her way around the counter, “You like that bouquet?”

“It would be really pretty to paint,” you say, still spinning it around in awe.

“Yuta put it together himself yesterday, he’s pretty good at arrangements,” the florist beamed.

“What can’t he do?” you scoffed.

“Apparently, open his mouth and say what he needs to say,” Sicheng muttered beside you. Kira elbowed his stomach and he lurched over in pain.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Kira laughed nervously. She worked her way to you and gestured towards the flowers, “It’s yours, on the house.”

You rejected the offer right away. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” is what you reply, attempting to shove the arrangement into her hands. With a kind grin, she persisted for you to take it and just asked you to buy from them the next time you visited. “I’m sure Yuta would love it if you took this one off our hands.”

With a promise, you hesitantly accepted the bouquet. Sicheng was snickering in the background and you had to hold yourself back from whacking him with the flowers. Thinking you’d taken too much of the florist’s time, you quickly said your thanks and headed out the door with a coy Sicheng trailing behind you.

—🌸—

“They’re gone,” Kira yelled towards the back of the shop. Yuta made his way back to his spot at the cash register while wiping at his mouth with his uniform sleeve. He quickly pulled out his art supplies from underneath the counter, setting everything up to resume his painting. Taking a seat on the stool, his body was slumped over his makeshift desk as he messed with his pencils.

His coworker rolled her eyes at him as she began to work on a bouquet of blue cornflowers and daisies— good fortune and new beginnings. Her nimble hands hastily worked their magic with ease as if she’s done it a million times before. Yuta observed her, quickly sketching her hands at work.

“You’re ridiculous, I don’t get why you had to hide.”

“I didn’t want her to see me like this,” Yuta said, his pained eyes covered by the long bangs that drooped down over his sketchbook.

“Like what?” Her hands went to her hips. “Sick and hopelessly in love?”

“Yeah, let’s put it that way.”

“There’s a solution to this, you know,” Kira pressed with furrowed brows. “You don’t have to keep suffering.”

This. Hanahaki is what she meant— the disease of unrequited love.

“I’m fine, Kira,” Yuta hissed with a bit more annoyance than he intended to. She flinched at the tone but still pushed on when he coughed again. He felt the discomfort of something being lodged in his throat and his body had the urge to hack it out. Suddenly, he was leaning over the counter with cherry blossom petals littering the cash register.

Yuta practically hacked up a storm, body curling in pain. One hand was clutching his stomach while the other had a death grip on the edge of the counter. The dizziness returned and he felt lightheaded as the retching subsided. A weakness took over his athletic body and Kira rushed to assist him back onto the stool. There was a bottle of soothing eucalyptus oil sitting right on the counter and she scrambled to open it before shoving it under his nose.

“You’re obviously not fine. You need to go to the hospital to get checked,” she said as Yuta took the small bottle from her grip. He dabbed a couple of drops onto his hands and rubbed it on his nose and throat. “Why won’t you accept any help that’s offered to you at the hospital?”

“I’ve gone through this before, Kira. Don’t worry about me.”

“Sometimes you forget I’ve gone through this, too!” she yelled. “I don’t want you to end up on your deathbed like I was at one point.”

Yuta couldn’t argue with that. He was hired back when she was in the hospital recovering from the final stage of the dreaded disease.

“We’re all worried about you here. Mom, Jongin, Mark? And your friends— Sicheng, Ten, and Taeyong? We all hate seeing you like this!” her voice grew louder and louder with each word, causing him to flinch at the shrill tone. Deafening noises plus nausea and headaches never meshed well with him.

“You don’t see how much it hurts seeing someone you care about suffer like this, Yuta. It hurts even more when we can’t do anything to help you go through this.”

Silence filled the room.

“Have you seen Dr. Kim lately?” Dr. Junmyeon Kim was the Hanahaki specialist that Kira recommended. He eased her back into normalcy after her scare.

“I will soon, I promise,” he said through haggard breaths. She guided him through a couple of breathing exercises and it calmed his racing heart down.

Kira sighed. With a quieter tone, she said, “It’s a shame the world made us experience heartbreak this way, isn’t it?”

Yuta smiled sadly at her— it was a shame.

The front door of the shop opened and the bell rang. They both turned to see Kira’s boyfriend Mark walk in with a cute grin. He clumsily hopped over the counter to plant a sweet kiss on her cheek. “Well, at least you got your happy ending,” he muttered too low for his coworker to hear.

Yuta knew there was a chance of having it too, he was just too afraid to speak.

If one were to look at him at that moment, his features hid nothing. Nakamoto Yuta was slowly ripping at the seams with the sakura branches poking their way out of his built figure and although multiple options were given to him, he still felt so unbelievably helpless.

It was the middle of the semester when you caught Yuta wandering the halls of the main art building. A grin found its way to your lips as you saw him with his messenger bag and a tubed container slung over his shoulder. Running to catch up with him, you slipped your arm into his free one. Your classmate yelped at the sudden contact and you let out a loud giggled that echoed in the empty hallway.

You finally felt close enough to initiate contact after sharing supplies with him during one studio session. That being said, it didn’t mean you were comfortable with revealing the feelings you harbored towards him— you wanted to keep that a secret for a little bit longer.

“What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t have classes in here today,” you asked.

“Oh, it’s just you,” Yuta sighed. You felt your heart drop at his words but you played it off with a scrunch of the nose and a teasing tone.

“Were you expecting someone else, Nakamoto?” you nudged his stomach and he avoided it, already predicting your actions. Yuta held back another series of coughs, quick turning away from you to cough into the handkerchief always kept on hand. He looked in pain as he continued to hack into the small piece of cloth and you brought a comforting hand to rub at his back.

“Every time I see you, you’re coughing,” you frowned. “You really need to get yourself checked, it’s been months.”

“No, no, I promise you I’m fine,” he replied with the shake of the head, his dark hair moving along with him. Even when ruffled and out of sorts, he looked good. He attempted to clear his throat by downing some water.

Your lips pursed at his words, not satisfied with his dismissive answer. “If you say so. Promise me you’ll see someone if it gets worse though.”

He agreed but you suspected it was to stop you from nagging. “To answer your question before you went all mom on me, I was here to talk to the department about my senior project.”

“Have you decided on your theme for your exhibit yet?”

Yuta smiled wistfully, “Flowers.”

“Should’ve known— it’s always flowers with you. It’s like you’re in love with them or something.”

He let out a scoff at your words. When you shot him a questioning look, he dismissed the act completely.

Time spent with Yuta always passed so quickly; one moment you were on the top floor of the building and the next, you were already at the bottom of the staircase. Ever the gentleman, he held the front door open for you and you thanked him with a smile. His brown eyes shrunk into little slits and whiskers appeared at the corners as he grinned back with a little chuckle.

How you longed to sketch that image.

A strong breeze blew through, causing a couple of leaves and fallen petals to fly around your figures. You crossed your arms around your front to keep the cold from seeping in and shut your eyes to keep debris out. Peeking at Yuta, you saw him cover his eyes with a calloused hand and he gently pushed you behind him to use his body as a makeshift shield. As soon as the breeze stopped, his grip on your arm loosened but the grip he had on your heart was still as strong as ever.

He whirled around to make sure you were alright and next thing you knew, his hand was lingering above your head. “You have something in your hair, do you want me to take it out?”

Yuta looked down at you with cautious eyes and you just noticed how close you were. Heat radiated off his body and your cheeks as you nod in approval. One dry hand moved to delicately clutch the side of your head as the other plucked a leaf out of your hair.

Your breath hitched as his fingers ran against your skin and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. There was a sudden pounding in your ears that matched the drumming rhythm of your heart.

“There,” he whispered as he let you go. With a smile, Yuta added, “good as new and pretty as a picture.”

“Pretty enough to paint?” you fired back with sarcasm.

“Definitely worthy of being displayed for the world to see,” he winked.

Was he flirting? It seemed like he was.

Maybe, Sicheng was right— Yuta could have feelings for you. But it could also just be wishful thinking.

Were you flirting? Is this how flirting works?

“Speaking of displays,” Yuta started nervously as he walked you to your car. He slowed down his walking pace and you easily matched it, your steps moving in time with his. The main walkway on campus was devoid of people, seeing how it was later in the school day. The path from the art building to the lot you parked in was short and you wished there was some way to extend it so you could spend more time with him.

“Will you, uh, come to my show?” he asked, his hand scratching the back of his head. His hair flopped with the wind and his unsure grin made him look so incredibly endearing. “I know it’s still too early to give you a set date but I’d love to see you there.”

“What? Of course I’ll come!” you said, stopping to slap his arm.

He winced at the contact. “Ow?”

“I would’ve gone even if you didn’t ask me,” you proceeded on the path with a smile. “I have to go and support my friends.”

There was a coughing fit coming from behind you and you whirled around to see Yuta hacking into his handkerchief again. It looked more painful than the last attack he had a few minutes ago. His breathing was shallow and he clutched his chest as the coughs continued.

“Oh my god, Yuta!” You were pretty sure you heard him gag as you rubbed his back. “Okay, I’m taking you to the hospital. You’re clearly not alright.”

He lifted a hand to tell you to stop. “No, no. I’m fine. I just—I gotta go,” was all he said with his hoarse voice before jolting away.

Staring at his strong back as grew smaller and smaller, you almost missed the fallen piece of cloth on the ground. Keyword: almost.

“Wait, Yuta!” you shouted, bending down to pick it up. “You dropped your hanke—” As soon as you lifted the handkerchief, perfectly preserved cherry blossom petals fell out of its hold. They rained towards the ground, decorating the sidewalk with the prettiest shade of pink.

Yuta was long forgotten. You were too lost in your confusion of the flowers.

“Cherry blossoms?” you asked yourself. “They’re not in season yet.”

—🌸—

Yuta heard you calling for him but he refused to turn around. He pushed himself to keep running despite the tight pain in his chest. Pulling out his phone, he sent quick text messages to Sicheng and Kira with his location, asking them to stop by and help him. The disorientation hit faster this time, causing him to tumble into a bench. He gripped the iron lining as he hurled and for the first time, it was so painful that it brought tears to his eyes. His mouth trembled as he let out a cry.

Yuta tasted the bit of blood that poured out of his lips.

Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, Yuta ignored how the crimson stained the fabric. A butter chuckle escaped him.

“Pink goes good with red,” he whispered to himself as another stinging pain made its way up his body.

He felt the branches slowly poking his lungs, climbing a path up his chest. It was just as Kira described— it was piercing like a sharp arrow to the heart. The arrow pressed and pressed and pressed until he was exploding with petals, blood, sweat, and tears. It was aimed to kill. He thought arrows to the heart were supposed to fill him with love, not a heart-wrenching pain that tempted him to rip the beating organ out of his chest.

This was all too much to bear.

The full flowers and the scratching of wood tickling his throat.

The lack of oxygen and struggle for air.

He felt it all. He wished he didn’t.

Yuta wished he was one of the people that found their soulmate with that ridiculous red string of fate tied to the end of his pinky. They were blessed with a lifetime of happiness while he was cursed with what felt like an eternity of agony that his weakening body could no longer withstand.

Yuta knew you didn’t love him but he adored you anyway.

This wasn’t a shoujo manga, Yuta knew that. This was real life. No one was going to kiss, kiss, fall in love with the blink of an eye.

Picking petals off of flowers wouldn’t solve his problem. He wished it did, though.

If only it was that easy.

The rest of the semester flew by quickly with midterms and mid-semester projects keeping you at bay. You barely saw Yuta, yet alone the rest of your friends, if not for your classes. All of you shared the same appearance: dark circles, eye bags, sunken cheeks, hunched backs, and glazed over eyes. Your group survived the weeks with a crazy amount of caffeine and not enough food.

With the school year finally over and graduation season starting, that meant one thing for the college of fine arts at your university— exhibitions. The music and dance departments already had their concerts and showcases. Final showings of the theatre department’s newest production just wrapped up yesterday; the only thing left were the senior art exhibits.

Dressed to the nines and not at all like a struggling artist, you paced back and forth at the entrance of the student art gallery with a bouquet of irises in your hand. Sicheng, your emotional support for the day, stood as you walked the same path with annoyance. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why you felt nervous— it wasn’t even your exhibit, it was Yuta’s.

Ten and Taeyong wrapped up their exhibits the week prior; Yuta’s was the last one.

“Are you done freaking out? Can we go in now?” Sicheng cocked a brow at you with his phone in hand. “The others are already inside.”

Wringing your hands together, you took in a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do this.”

Sicheng rolled his eyes before opening the doors to the gallery. Stepping inside, you were immediately welcomed by paper flowers of all sorts hanging from the ceiling and the quiet chatter of the gallery’s visitors. To the right, you saw a sign displaying the exhibit’s name: Efflorescence. A brief description of the exhibit was placed below it and you took the time to read it before stepping further in.

Snapshots of his life told through the appearance and language of flowers.

Ten and Taeyong, your seniors and close friends, were waiting for you off to the side.

“Sorry for the wait, you guys.”

Sicheng grumbled, “Took her long enough to calm down.”

Ten laughed, “Were you nervous for him? You weren’t like this for our final exhibits.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” Taeyong hushed the other two. Wrapping an arm around you, he pulled you close, “She’s nervous because this is her crush we’re talking about.”

“For heaven’s sake, say that any louder and he’ll hear you!” you screeched. The boys chuckled at your embarrassed state as you went ahead of them, ready to walk your way through the large room. From the corner of your eye, you saw Yuta smiling by the exit, surrounded by people singing praises about his work.

You weren’t in a rush— you wanted to take the time to appreciate every piece before talking to him about why he chose to display each work. Talking to the object of your affection could wait.

The first few paintings were of his childhood and the flowers that accompanied each scene all had similar meanings— innocence, purity, etc. You noticed that most of his paintings were done with watercolor, which made complete sense.

It seemed like he was always prepared to paint something, brush and paint always at the ready. The genius basically carried his foldable watercolor palette and pad everywhere he went, not wanting to miss an opportunity to paint a beautiful picture if he were to pass by one. That was another thing you admire about him— Nakamoto Yuta saw beauty in everything.

Deeper into the gallery, you found more familiar scenes and faces. There was a landscape of the fine arts department, with daffodil petals scattered across the canvas and it was titled New Beginnings. You passed various portraits of your friends, their beauty rivaling that of their birth flowers that shared the same space. Marveling at how realistic his paintings looked, you made a note in your brain to relay that thought to the artist later. He captured the essence of each person perfectly in a painting, breathing life into it, and you honestly couldn’t understand how one could do that.

Spotting Kira’s familiar face admiring a painting up ahead, you quickened your pace to catch up to her. Feeling the light tap you placed on her shoulder, she turned around with a surprised look that turned into a genuine smile upon seeing your face. She released her hold on her companion, a cute boy with doe eyes and bright smile, before giving you a hug.

“You’re here!” she squealed. Taking notice of the flowers in your hand, she winked, “Irises, huh? Nice touch.”

“I stopped by your shop beforehand looking for you and an older guy wrapped them up for me,” you smiled sheepishly. “Should’ve known you would be here and not working.”

“My brother, Jongin,” Kira said. “And of course, I wouldn't miss Yuta’s exhibit for the world. He’s done a lot for me and my family.” She shared a fond look with the boy next to her and he squeezed her hand in return.

“This is my boyfriend, Mark, by the way,” Kira gestured to the boy next to her.

“Yo, nice to meet you, dude,” Mark extended his arm out towards you and you gladly took in your hands to give it a shake. You laughed at his casual greeting; it was charming.

“Back at you, dude,” you giggled back.

Turning to take a peek at the picture they were admiring, you couldn’t help but break out into a wide grin. It was the two of them with the flower shop as their background. Yuta had painted Kira seated on top on the counter, eyes closed with glee and hands clutching a small bouquet of blue flowers. Mark, on the other hand, leaned towards her with fingers gripping the table top and looking at her with a loving smile.

You could feel the love pouring out of it and it warmed your lonely heart. “Wow,” you whispered.

Kira leaned her head on Mark’s shoulder and he placed a tiny kiss to her temple. “I’m buying it from him once this is all over,” she said.

Knowing each flower played a part in Yuta’s paintings, you tried to distinguish what flowers she clutched in her hand. “They’re cornflowers,” Mark answered the question that lingered in your head.

“Why cornflowers?”

“Oh those things put us through a lot— a little pain sprinkled in with their beauty,” Kira smiled, leaving Mark to chuckle lovingly at her comment. It felt like a secret between the two of them and you were invading in their space. “They were what got us together in the first place.”

Her sentence made you cock a brow. How could flowers be painful? That was awfully cryptic, even a little unsettling but it sounded a little familiar to you; it was on the tip of your tongue.

“Yeah, they’re pretty special,” the boy grinned, gaze still glued to the person wrapped under his arm. “Cornflowers are my favorite.”

“They’re starting to become one of mine, too,” she returned the look.

Mark’s bright brown eyes were shining with the love you wish someone had for you. It was a sweet sight, to see such a young couple in love. A part of you was jealous that they found a love like that so early in their lives while you pined after an artist that was so infatuated with flowers and their meanings.

Wanting to leave them in their moment, you excused yourself with a smile. There were only four paintings left to see.

The first was a design you recognized. It was a more detailed painting of the sketch you had seen Yuta draw on the first day of the semester. A girl was seated on the grass, leaning her back on a trunk of a cherry blossom tree. Her hands were outstretched to the sky, trying to catch the falling petals in her hand. Stealing a glance at the title, Yuta titled the piece, Wishful Thinking.

Moving to the next piece, it was a close up of Yuta’s hands. His palms were pressed together, cupping cherry blossoms in his hand. Petals and full flowers were scattered around the canvas, filling out all the empty spaces. The bright pink stood out against the color of his skin. You admired the amount of detail this piece had— the wrinkles on his skin, the gradient found on the petals. It held your interest, leaving you to wonder what this piece titled Inside meant to him.

Yuta’s self-portrait was showstopping. He borrowed the flower shop’s name, calling this piece For You in Full Bloom. The painting brilliantly depicted him in all white, his eyes closed with pain and hands clutching at his throat. The blossoms were spilling out of his mouth, the petals tainted with a blood red. You could feel the sadness and the suffering emitting from the picture and it pained you to see such a vulnerable depiction of him.

Putting two and two together, you figured it out.

Hanahaki. You had read about the disease before, one of the artists you admired had it. They created art as a way to tell their story. It was their escape from the suffering, a way to ease their pain, and the one course of action they took to be remembered after their death.

The only piece of information you lacked was who made him tolerate such pain.

Skipping the last painting of the exhibit, you made your way through the crowd to find Yuta. He stood at the end with a polite smile, thanking everyone who attended his exhibit. Onlookers were showering him with compliments, leaving you to wait until the small crowd cleared out.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” you breathed out with a concerned look. You couldn’t even spit out the name of the disease.

His smile widened into a genuine one, eyes gone soft at the sight of you. “You made it.”

Spotting the irises in your hand, he gestured towards the bouquet. “Are those for me?”

Still in shock that the person you were in love with was suffering all this time, you handed them to him without a word.

“Irises mean ‘congratulations,’ nice choice,” he laughed, trying to steer the topic away from his illness.

“Who?” you asked. “Who is it?”

Cocking his head, he answered you with another question. “You didn’t see the last one, did you?”

Shaking your head negatively, Yuta took you by the hand and the feeling made fireworks explode in your chest. Your heart was beating rapidly as he led you a few steps away. Nodding his head towards the last frame, he whispered, “Take a look.”

You felt his hand break out into a sweat and you wondered why this last one made him so nervous. Glancing at the title, you read the words Love Me Now.

Taking a deep breath, you mentally prepared yourself to see the person who had a hold on Yuta’s heart. Unlike him, you thought yourself strong enough to take the heartbreak— after all, you weren’t the one with flowers blooming inside you. Shifting your eyes over, you gasped as soon as you spotted whose face was framed on the wall.

Staring back at you was the most beautiful painting of yourself. It was a you that you had never seen before. He painted you in flourishing pastels to match the happy look on your face. He captured your smile lines, the curve of your eyes, and the scrunch of your nose in such detail; it amazed you beyond belief.

There was movement in your hair, the strands swaying in the wind along with the petals behind you. Your hands held a branch of your favorite flowers, half of them covering part of your face.

Captivated by seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes, you couldn’t tear your gaze away.

“Your smile makes flowers grow in my chest,” Yuta’s voice came from your side. You turned to see him wear a strained smile. Yuta’s huge eyes that were usually filled with kindness were taken over by something else— pain.

There was pain in his words and you hear the ache in his voice. His tone is hoarse, like his throat is unbelievably dry or irritated.

“I— I don’t know what to say.”

Everything was extremely overwhelming.

He shook his head to tell you that it was okay; he just needed to get the words off his chest. “It’s so beautiful and enchanting and it makes my heart clench and flowers take over my lungs.”

“Cherry blossoms,” you found yourself saying. You couldn’t believe this was happening. There were words you wanted to say but you were struggling to find them.

“Sakura,” he repeated in his native language.

“My favorite flowers.”

“Your favorite flowers.”

“You were never in love with flowers,” you stated, still in a state of shock.

Yuta released this low, almost bitter sounding chuckle that comes from deep within his chest. “Never.”

“Then, you’re in love with—”

“You.”

“—me.”

Just like the artist you admired, Yuta painted his way through his pain of loving you.

Nakamoto Yuta felt like he had been in love with you for the longest time. He had loved you before he could even muster the guts to let you know it, to invite you to this exhibit that displayed art dedicated to you.

He really hoped that you would show so he could take the chance to confess. Sure, you had promised but sometimes, people never intended to keep them. If he didn’t get it off his chest, he would never be able to breathe and Yuta desperately wanted to.

Yuta wanted to fill his lungs with breaths of fresh air and just breathe you in. That was all he longed for.

“Oh,” was all you could breathe out.

“It’s okay that you don’t feel the same,” Yuta tried to comfort you, getting the wrong idea from your lack of words. “I just needed to let you know.”

The sharpening ache that became so familiar to him was building up in his chest again, preparing him for the worst. Yuta swallowed thickly, already feeling the petals working their way to his mouth. His airways began restricting, his breaths growing more haggard by the second. He had so many things to say and he was determined to let it out before the petals escaped. The words spilled out his mouth, his lips running like a motor, “I used to be afraid of being in love and being happy with a person that I loved because it hurts.”

“Yuta—”

He stopped you with a lifted palm.

“Happiness never lasted with me, the flowers always ripped it away,” he explained, his trembling eyes focusing on your portrait and not the real person beside him.

“But then I met you and felt things I have never experienced before. So, I pushed my way through the pain just to be with you because I felt like I reached for the stars and touched the sky when we were together.”

His words brought tears to your eyes. You couldn’t believe someone would sit through the pain just to spend time with you nor thought you were worth it but here Yuta was, proving you wrong.

“There were times I wanted to beg you to love me, just so the hurting and the bleeding—just everything— could stop but I was too much of a coward and it led me to this.”

Here he was, pouring his heart out to you with his images and words, and you couldn’t let out a single noise. You forced yourself to move forward, to slip your hand into his. The sensation of your fingers intertwining with his brought Yuta out of his daze to look at you.

“Yuta,” you said with trembling lips. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s not your fault,” he replied with a sullen tone. You squeezed his palm and he gave you a light one in return. “If I don’t get this off my chest now, I’ll never be able to breathe and I really want to.”

“There’s no reason for you to lose your breath over me.” A sniffle escaped you and Yuta turned to see you crying. He bent down to wipe your tears away, his finger swiping against your skin ever so gently.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because you suffered because of me and you didn’t have to,” you shot back with a whimper.

“You couldn’t have known, it’s okay,” he tried to reassure you.

“No, no,” you interrupted him to his confusion. “It’s not that.”

Your voice was so soft under your quivers, he could barely hear you over the loud chattering of the other guests in the room. Yuta guided you just outside his exhibit to a bench and dried your eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.

“What’s wrong?”

Yuta’s question made you laugh through your tears and at all the time wasted. He had been in pain for so long because he was yearning for you just as you were for him. The mutual yet silent pining took you down this route and it could have been avoided if you had just stopped being a coward and spoken up like Sicheng pushed you to.

“There’s nothing wrong,” you said with the dismissing wave. You willed yourself to look him in the eyes and bring a hand to his cheek. “It’s just that I think I’ve been in love with you as long as you have been in love with me.”

Your confession caused him to freeze in his seat. His brown eyes were blown out wide and mouth dropping in shock. Giggling as more tears fell, you quickly slide the hand cupping his cheek down to his jaw to shut his mouth closed. Running a thumb against his lips, you felt his pulse quickening at your touch.

“You’re in love with me?” he asked, voice as gentle as the breeze. There was uncertainty and disbelief behind it. Yuta wanted to hear you say it again.

—🌸—

“I’ve been in love with you for a while now.” Your earnest words were music to his ears.

He felt this comforting rush take over this body and it sent tingles down his spine, traveling all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. Your confession worked like magic, spelling him with this high that made him soar to the skies.

Yuta thought you were a witch, entrancing him with a love charm so strong that it brought instant relief to his pain. His heart was trying to fight its way out of his chest and the ache of his airways dulled. The muscle was pounding so loudly against his ribcage, he could hear it in his ears, and he swore you could hear it too.

His lips upturned into the biggest grin, he felt like his cheeks were about to burst.

Was this how a requited love felt? If it was, he never wanted to go without it again.

Yuta rushed to pull you in his arms and sighed when you nuzzled your head into his neck. He shivered when he felt them whisper the three words he longed to hear into his skin. His body shook with laughter as he placed a lingering kiss at the crown of your head, reveling at the feeling of you encased in his hold.

You tried to fight your way out of his grip but he only tightened his arms, not wanting to let you go. The action left you giggling into his neck, causing him to squirm until his hold loosened. Your hands trailed their way from his waist up to cup his face and suddenly, his eyes were locked onto yours. Just as you were getting lost in the deep sea of brown, his gaze flickered to your lips before looking back at you. His lips quirked up as you did the same.

He felt your breath hitch as he leaned in to slot his lips against yours and the overwhelming rush returned. It seemed like his heart was racing against time, beating erratically as you kissed him so tenderly. Your lips were so soft and they tasted like the vanilla flavoring of your color, leaving him to chase after you every time you pulled away for a breath.

Yuta fought the strain in his airways as he pursued your lips again and again, loving the way you felt and tasted. He picked up the smell of your cherry blossom shampoo and laughed into the kiss. The feeling of having you was so addicting— your love was his drug and he was forever hooked on you. He would devote himself to nothing else but you.

The sensation of Yuta kissing you and smiling against your lips sent you into overdrive. There were butterflies in your stomach, fireworks going off in your head, tingles down your spine and you loved it all.

In the past, you only noticed Nakamoto Yuta’s undying love and admiration for flowers but this was the first time you finally noticed his love for you and it was nothing short of wonderful.

It was the start of something new.

🌸 author’s note— that’s it! it came out a bit more angst than i intended, definitely lacked the fluff i was expecting but i’m still satisfied with the ending uwu i loved writing my little markie and kira in the fic, i’ve missed them! but yes!! that’s the end of my little bday present to myself! i hope y’all loved it! please leave some feedback; i would love to hear what you thought of it!! i think i literally fell in love with yuta while writing this.

🌸 taglist— @danishmiilk @hyunjins--laugh @littleflowercrown13 @orange-nimon-cross @radiorenjun @ncteaxhoe @chancrispy

#cznnet #neowritingsnet #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct fanfic #nct angst #nct x reader #nakamoto yuta #yuta #yuta x reader #yuta scenarios #yuta imagines #yuta fanfic #yuta fluff #yuta angst

956 notes · View notes

zimms · 3 years

Text

an olliewicks flower shop au to soothe the soul! this is somewhat based on mine and @tingo-tango’s tags on this post.

fields of flowers, soft beneath my heels

Ollie’s wrist-deep in a pot of soil, sweat rolling down his cheeks and sunlight streaming through the windows of Faber’s Flowers, when the shop’s bell rings and a new customer stumbles through the door. Ollie frowns slightly and hastily wipes the beads of sweat off his chin with the corner of his shirt, before plastering on his best customer service smile to greet whoever needs flowers at 7:30 am on a Tuesday morning. He mentally catalogues the possibilities; maybe they’ve forgotten their spouse’s birthday? Or maybe it’s a gift for someone at work? Maybe it’s an apology present because they accidentally cycled into a fruit stall and ruined a fresh batch of melons?

(Okay, maybe not, but it would be a refreshing change in the cycle of constant businessmen grovelling for their partner’s forgiveness)

Ollie shakes himself from his thoughts and grins across the counter at the customer, who’s sporting a baseball cap and a t-shirt that sits just right across his broad shoulders. Ollie’s eyes track down the guy’s biceps which are a tad too big for the sleeves. Ollie consciously shut his mouth to stop himself from gaping; this guy was hot. As Ollie’s gaze roams across the customer’s face to meet his eyes, he realises three things. Number one is that he definitely shouldn’t be ogling a customer like he’s a piece of meat. Number two is that he hasn’t said anything to this guy yet. Number three is that at least a minute of awkward silence and staring has passed since the customer entered the shop.

Ollie rips his eyes away from the customer’s face to stare at a spot slightly behind his left shoulder. “Hi! What can I help you with today?”

The guy shifts on the balls of his feet, scanning the shelves of bouquets and individual flowers. “Erm, I’m looking for a bouquet of flowers for my mom?” His voice raises at the end of his sentence, which is kind of cute, if Ollie does say so. He rubs the back of his neck and his checks flush pink. “I kinda need to apologise to her.”

Ah, a classic apology scenario. Got it.

“What’s the apology for?” Ollie asks as he turns to the sink behind the counter to wash his hands. “Not that you have to tell me that is; it just might help as we make the bouquet.” He unravels the roll of tissue paper and cuts off a square to package the flowers in.

Hot Guy winces. “Ah,” he says, “I kinda got into a fight in front of her the other night. She was not happy to say the least, so I figured I might as well get her some flowers to apologise for it.”

“Cool, cool.” Ollie grins at him. “What kinda flowers do you want for her?” He gestured to the whole shop, where various buckets of flowers lined the walls, each displaying a different species. “We can get her just a plain old bunch that’s all just the same type of flower, or we could mix and match, create a nice piece of artwork that she’ll admire rather than a bunch that’s boring and all the same.”

Hot Guy’s eyes flick up from the counter and meet Ollie’s own, moving slowly up his body. If Ollie was feeling particularly optimistic, he’d say the guy was checking him out, but he pushes that thought to the corner of his mind because he’s made way too many faux-pas in the past by asking out guys that have come into the shop just for all of them to be straight. Hot Guy clears his throat. “Yeah, a mixture sounds good. I know her favourite flowers are hyacinths if that helps?”

“That’s perfect.” Ollie shoots him the most reassuring smile he can think of, eyes softening. He grabs the bucket of blue hyacinths that sit behind him. “These alright?”

“Yeah, those are great,” Hot Guy says a little hoarsely, squinting at Ollie’s name tag, “Ollie.” Something settles in Hot Guy’s voice and he seems a bit more comfortable.

“So, why'd you get into a fight in front of your mom?” Ollie reaches for the bucket of Narcissus behind him and waves a bunch at Hot Guy for affirmation. He nods in return. “Doesn’t seem like the best idea to me-” Ollie trails off, hoping that Hot Guy might get the hint and finally introduce himself.

“Oh, uh, Pacer.” He coughs and the remaining tension leaks out of his posture. “Nah, a guy said something about Ma, and you know, I had to rush to defend her like the rash idiot I am.”

Ollie laughs. “At least, it’s one of the more noble reasons to get into a fight. There’s a bit more chance of forgiveness, then.”

Pacer nods and his gaze wanders away from where Ollie is deftly making the bouquet to settle on the purple Clematis.

“You like them?” Ollie makes a ‘gimme’ motion with his hands and Pacer passes the bucket over to him. Their hands briefly brush each other during the exchange and Ollie does everything in his power to ignore the jolt that goes through him at that brief skin to skin contact. “You’ve got a good eye; I was just about to grab them myself.”

“Yeah, my mom loves blue and yello-” Pacer cuts himself off with a sneeze. “Also, aren’t they the colours of the local hockey team around here? The Falcons?” Although he has a completely clueless tone to his voice, Pacer is studying Ollie’s reaction as if it might reveal the secrets of the universe.

“Yeah, the Falcs! I only get to see them every so often, but they’re great,” Ollie says, doing his level best to ignore Pacer’s sudden intensity. “I was actually on the same team as Jack Zimmermann in college, which was pretty cool.”

“Really?” Pacer’s enigmatic expression becomes even more indecipherable. “That is pretty cool.” He looks slightly over his shoulder towards the street before meeting Ollie’s eyes and flashing a genuine smile at him. “I actually played a bit of hockey myself, you know.”

Ollie tries to convince himself that the bubble of excitement that rushes through him is because Pacer is such a good conversationalist and not for any other reason, like the fact that they have a couple of things in common, or that Pacer is one of the hottest guys he’s ever seen.

(He fails.)

_X_

Pacer leaves about forty minutes later, with a bouquet and handwritten note in hand and a smile fixed firmly on his face. When Ollie goes to scrub down the counter and start repotting the plant he’d abandoned when Pacer had arrived, he spots a scrap of paper that definitely hadn’t been there before. The note is pretty cute; it’s a string of numbers and a smiley face, accompanied by a couple of lines from Pacer.

Would you like to go I would have asked you out earlier, but my tea friend always says it’s bad form to hit on workers whilst they’re on shift. Anyway, here’s my number if you want to go out some time? Call m Don’t worry if you don’t though!

- Pacer

Ollie grins as he opens up his phone to add the number to his contacts, but pauses as he sees a Google Alert come through that he’s set up for the Falcs. The text reads, Providence Falconers acquire forward Pacer Wicks from Colorado Avalanche in exchange for a second round pick in the 2022 NHL Draft, and immediately underneath the caption, Pacer’s smiling face stares out at him.

Pacer’s voice echoes in his mind. “I actually played a bit of hockey myself.”

Played a bit of hockey himself? Ollie cannot believe this guy. He plays in the fucking NHL and all he says is “I actually played a bit of hockey myself.”

However, Ollie thinks as he opens up the article to see a picture of a bruised Pacer from his last game with the Avs, it would explain why he needed to apologise for fighting in front of his mom.

_X_

Now that Ollie is aware of Pacer Wicks’ existence, he seems to follow him everywhere. Well, not Pacer exactly, but his name.

It begins, like many things, at the grocery store.

“Excuse me?” the cashier asks, as she’s scanning his groceries two days after Pacer first came into the florist’s. “Are you that hockey player? Pacer Wicks?”

Ollie furrows his eyebrows. He doesn’t think that him and Pacer look that similar, but then again, Pacer’s only been in Providence a couple of days, so people don’t exactly know what he looks like yet. “No, sorry.”

The cashier purses her lips, taking a moment to study him again before ringing him up. “Huh, sorry! You guys just look really alike is all.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Ollie gathers up his groceries. “These things happen sometimes.”

(He almost texts Pacer to tell him about it, but, as Ollie looks at the clock on his phone, he realises that Pacer probably isn’t going to want to receive a message about how someone thought they looked similar mid-way through his game against the Pens.

Also, he’d have to wish him luck and honestly, as much as Ollie loves the Falcs, he wouldn’t wish them too much luck against his hometown team.)

_X_

ollie

hey! i’ve finished off that other apology bouquet for your ma!

let me know when you want to swing by and pick it up!

also i was watching the game tonight; do you need me to make up another identical one for your ma, or do you wanna come into the shop to choose this one?

pacer

thanks ol! i’ll probably swing by to pick it up tomorrow and then help make the next one at the same time?

ollie

sounds like a plan!!

_X_

When he said these things happen sometimes to that cashier in the grocery store, he didn’t expect them to happen all the goddamn time. Be it at his favourite café, on the street, or on the commuter rail, someone always, always, asks if he’s Pacer Wicks.

_X_

ollie

oof that hit from eriksen looks like it’s gonna leave a mark

pacer

yeah, half my face is swollen

ollie

yikes

pacer

i assume we’re still on for dinner in a couple of days right?

even if my stunning visage has been marred by the fists of a schooner

ollie

that was a very weird way of putting it

but yeah, i still wanna go out with you even if your face looks like a dodgeball

_X_

A girl taps him on the shoulder at Bitty’s Bites downtown. “Excuse me, are you Pacer Wicks?”

Ollie smiles sheepishly at her, brandishing his coffee cup with a scrawled Oily on it as if it might keep the Pacer Wicks fans away. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong dude.”

He hurries out of there as quickly as his legs can take him after that, hands fumbling for his phone so that he can text Pacer about it.

ollie

jdshjkdsjh a girl just asked if i was you

pacer

oh?

ollie

yeah, i don’t really know why so many people ask if i’m you

especially as they usually ask when you’re on a roadie??

so i don’t get why they know who you are without knowing the falcs’ schedules

pacer

maybe they’re a fan of my dashing good looks rather than my hockey?

isn’t that why you agreed to go out with me after all?

Ollie grins to himself before sending back three words.

don’t push it

_X_

He’s less generous to the guy on the commuter rail, but in fairness that’s mainly because he stole the last seat just before Ollie could get there and it’s 6:30 in the morning.

“Hey, aren’t you that hockey pl-?”

Ollie barely looks up from his phone before cutting him off with a sharp “No.”

_X_

Today, someone even asks him at the flower shop.

“No,” he says, heaving the deepest sigh he can whilst still remaining in customer service mode, “I think Pacer Wicks might have other things to do on a Saturday afternoon than work the till at a flower shop.” He shuts the cash drawer on the register with a bang and hands the customer their change and bouquet as quickly as he can. “Thank you for shopping with us! Enjoy your day!”

He collapses back onto the wooden stool that he keeps behind the counter, taking a breather for approximately five seconds before a laugh echoes through the shop. Ollie jumps half a foot in the air before locating Pacer, who’s stood in the corner of the shop inspecting a piece of sea holly.

He’s dressed up pretty nicely considering hockey players’ notoriously bad fashion sense, wearing a button-up, a nice pair of jeans that do all the right things for his hockey butt, and his ever-present baseball cap, but this time, unlike his first visit to the shop, it’s sat backwards on his head. He spins around to face the back of the shop, grinning his face off. “I’m impressed by the fact that she asked you that whilst I was standing in the shop and she still didn’t notice me.” He laughs, smirking across at Ollie. “Does that happen often?”

“Yeah, some people are surprisingly oblivious sometimes,” he says, “but also, I don’t look that much like you?” He pauses, trying to work out what Pacer’s face means. He places his hands on his hips and jokingly rounds on Pacer. “Do I?”

Pacer chuckles, taking a few steps closer so that he’s leaning against the counter. “Not that much, but would it be so bad if you looked like me?” A mock-wounded expression plays across his features as he presses his hand to his chest.

Ollie takes off his apron and hangs it up behind the counter. “Nope, because you are extremely hot.” He threads his fingers through the hockey player’s belt loops to pull him closer, feeling emboldened by Pacer’s flirting. “And if that means that people are inadvertently calling me hot whilst asking if I’m you?” He shrugs. “I can live with it.”

Pacer has to lower his gaze to meet Ollie’s eyes, the two inch height difference between them clearly obvious, even if Ollie is six foot, thank you very much. “You were right about something though,” Pacer murmurs, “I do have better things to do than stand in a flower shop on a Saturday afternoon.”

“Like what?” Ollie raises an eyebrow.

Pacer smiles softly down at him, taking his hand and interlacing his fingers with Ollie’s. “Like taking the cute florist that works there on a date for starters.” Pacer starts to move them towards the shop’s entrance. “There’s this lit-” He sneezes abruptly.

Ollie tilts Pacer’s head downwards. “That’s like the fourth time you’ve sneezed in the shop.” He rubs his thumb over his cheek, frowning when he sees that Pacer’s eyes are slightly red. “Are you okay?”

Pacer waves him off. “Yeah, it’s fine; my antihistamines just wore off.”

His-? Ollie furrows his eyebrows before leading his date out of the shop. “Pacer, are you allergic to flowers?”

“No?” Pacer’s sheepish and slightly bunged up reply says everything that Ollie needs to know.

“Fuck, Pace, why have you been coming to the shop so much if you’re allergic? Surely you don’t like the aesthetics of flowers that much that you need to torture your sinuses every spare minute of the day.” Ollie pinches the bridge of his nose, voice full of exasperation.

Pacer holds his hands up in surrender. “In my defence, the first few times were because I did need to buy Ma flowers, but I didn’t keep coming back because the flowers were pretty.” He pulls Ollie close and frames his face with his hands. “I came back because the florist was.”

_X_

The final time Ollie is mistaken for Pacer is five years later as he’s heading towards the arena for Pacer’s final game of the season. In fairness, dressed in a Wicks jersey and a Falcs snapback, he probably looks more like Pacer now than he has at any time since he first got mistaken for him in the grocery store.

“Excuse me?” A teenager taps him on the shoulder, their arm slung around a friend. “Are you Pacer Wicks?”

Ollie grins at the kid. “Nope,” he says, trying not to take too much joy in the hope fading from the fan’s eyes before he drops the bombshell, “I am his husband though.”

“Really?” The teenager’s eyes light up. “You’re not kidding, right?”

“Nope.” Ollie holds up his phone screen to show the kid a photo of Pacer kissing his cheek, just so that they know he’s not lying. “D’you wanna meet him after the game?” He smirks at them. “After all, I do know a guy.”

#the formatting's kinda whack #but it's late #so i'll format it properly when i post it on ao3 tomorrow #ollie and wicks #my writing #omgcp #it's like 3k i'm so sorry

62 notes · View notes

frodos-bizarre-adventure · 3 years

Text

@gingerreggg heya

Heads Up- Part 9 (Joseph x Bust! Caesar)

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Two weeks had passed since the fateful day, when Joseph's project took on a life on its own-- literally.

And almost just as quickly as he'd come to life, Caesar just became another part of Joseph's household. By now Joseph just saw Caesar first, and an animate clay bust second: it was strange, in hindsight, how Joseph found himself making the very extraordinary...ordinary.

And so over time Joseph adjusted to everyday life with a living sculpture in his home. Suzi visited every other day or so, and her regular presence was welcome to the daily grind of the bored, bouncing bust.

Joseph became so accustomed to Caesar that at times he even forgot he wasn't a regular person.

"I brought some soda!" Joseph happily announced as he came home one evening with takeout dinner. He poured himself a glass and tried to offer Caesar some.

"Wanna try? It's good."

Caesar just glared at him with narrowed eyes. "Seriously?"

Joseph laughed awkwardly. "Oh, right." But then he had a realization.

"Say, remember when I sprayed and varnished your bottom? You complained about the smell. Maybe you could taste too, even if you can't drink."

Caesar was intrigued by the idea. "I'd...I'd never bothered to try. I never feel thirsty anyway."

Bending down to Caesar's level, Joseph dipped his finger into his cup. "Open wide," he said. Caesar stuck out his tongue.

Joseph put a single drop of the soda on his tongue, and the bust's face lit up joyfully.

"This...this is good." said Caesar, taking a moment to savor the tiny speck of flavorful goodness. "A pity I can't drink it."

"You don't even have a throat," Joseph said. "But I'm glad you can at least enjoy it."

Caesar smiled.

------

Indeed, with Caesar virtually fated to remain a bust, much of Suzi and Joseph's usual tasks came around to helping Caesar enjoy the fullest life he possibly could.

One morning Caesar came bouncing to the kitchen to see Joseph hard at work at a peculiar contraption next to the kitchen table.

"What's that?" Caesar asked, perplexed.

"What's what?" Joseph mumbled in reply.

"That," Caesar answered, pointing with his lips. Joseph giggled, amused at his gesture.

"Oh, this little thing?" Joseph said, stepping aside to allow Caesar a closer look. "I figured you'd need some help getting up and down high surfaces, and since I think you'd like some independence I whipped up a little something for you."

Caesar was amazed by the device. It resembled something like a small dumbwaiter that Joseph had fixed to the kitchen table, with an elevating wooden platform attached to two ropes on pulleys.

Gently, Joseph guided Caesar onto the platform. "Now pull on the ropes with your mouth." he instructed, tugging on one.

Caesar did just that, and to his surprise he felt the platform, and himself, moving upward with each tug of his mouth. Five tugs later, he was onto the level of the table, and Caesar easily hopped off the platform and onto the table's top.

"And when you want to go back down, you just pull on the other rope," Joseph demonstrated. The 'up' rope, on the right, was colored red and the 'down' rope, on the left, was colored blue, just in case Caesar mixed them up by mistake and risked getting hurt.

"You're really good at making crafts, aren't you," Caesar said, now sure the kitchen table was going to be less of a problem.

"Of course," Joseph said, a bit boastfully. "I'm not just good at making works of art, but also creating works with a purpose!"

The last word struck a chord with Caesar.

Purpose.

"So, Joseph," he asked quietly, after a pause. "What is my purpose?"

Joseph was taken aback. He hadn't once considered it.

Caesar was supposed to be his finals art project. He was supposed to be submitted to the university and put on display at the gallery. He created Caesar for the sake of a grade. But looking at him now, so bright-eyed and warm and so full of life, how could he ever give him up? To leave him in a glass case in a public place, to be stared at by strangers?

Caesar was far too precious for that.

"You're my friend, and Suzi's too," Joseph told him. He leaned forward, and gently, lovingly, planted a kiss on the clay bust's forehead.

Caesar felt the warmth of the gesture, but at the same time, couldn't help but feel a little sad at the prospect of being an artistic masterpiece.

He was pretty to look at-- but he felt he wasn't useful for much else.

----------

When Suzi arrived the following morning, she was greeted by the smell of varnish and the noises of Caesar's loud complaining.

"Morning, Suzi," Joseph greeted as she walked into his room, his voice muffled by a face mask to keep out the smell.

He was gently painting Caesar all over with a clear, polished varnish, though one that was brushed on instead of sprayed.

"Since we can't make a body for Caesar, and he'll have to remain like this," Joseph explained to both his fellow artist and his artwork, "I figured that I ought to at least make life easier for him as much as I can." He showed Suzi the bottle of varnish.

"This ought to protect him from chipping off his paint, since he's gonna be hopping a lot. At least he won't scratch or deform himself when he presses onto things."

Caesar was none to pleased, however. "This stuff smells like shit!" he complained.

With a giggle, Suzi picked up a pair of cotton balls from a jar on Joseph's supplies and inserted them into Caesar's nostrils, one in each. "That should do it," she told him.

Caesar could only give an annoyed glare.

In the meantime, Joseph began painting the varnish onto Caesar's hair. It was his hair that tended to squish the most, especially the spikes of hair on his bangs.

"Won't the varnish make Caesar look too shiny?" Suzi queried.

"Don't worry, I picked a less-glossy matte finish to paint him with," Joseph reasurred. "I wouldn't want him looking too...sweaty."

"Though I do have another, glossy finish here too," Joseph added, picking up a smaller bottle with its own little brush, almost like nail polish. "This one is for his eyes."

Caesar panicked a little. "You're going to paint my eyes!?"

"Don't worry there, Caesarino," he said with a reassuring smile. "This won't hurt much. Hopefully." Caesar flinched a little as Joseph unscrewed the bottle.

"Ow!" Caesar said, as Joseph gently pulled his eyelids open and began to paint his eye with the glossy finish. It felt very weird. Even Suzi couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable.

Once both eyes were done Caesar gave a few tentative blinks.

"So, how's that, Caesar?" Joseph asked.

To Caesar's surprise and amazement, his vision seemed quite clearer. "I...I can actually see quite better," he told the sculptor.

Joseph firmly pressed a finger into Caesar's cheek, which, thanks to the now-dried varnish, no longer left a dent. "Yep, this worked well. This should make you waterproof too."

"And now you're finished! Ta-da!" Joseph said, turning a mirror toward Caesar. Looking at his own reflection, Caesar could see how much more gorgeous he seemed, now that Joseph had given him a bit more texture.

"So, we're good?" Joseph asked Caesar, as he admired himself. "You need any other finishing touches? Perhaps I could pad out your bottom with extra clay? Since you can't feel any more clay we add on, it could protect your underside more."

"No need," Caesar answered. "It's actually quite nice being able to feel the ground beneath me."

"Alright, just make sure to be careful," Joseph said, lowering him back down to the floor once he was sure that his varnish had dried.

Suzi wasn't convinced. "He's still naked. We ought to dress him up!" she said, pulling out colorful ribbons from her backpack. "This would looks pretty as a bow on your head!" she grinned, holding them out to Caesar.

"NO!" screamed Caesar, panicking. "I am not naked! Get those things away!"

And with a powerful thrust of his neck, Caesar hopped out of the room as fast as his little clay blob of a torso could carry him.

"Huh," Suzi said, as she watched the bust clumsily bounce away. "I guess he's not really into fashion."

-------

(Previous Chapter)

(Next Chapter)

#jjba #gingerreggg #hands of life au #heads up #jojos bizarre adventure #battle tendency #sculptor!joseph #bust!caesar #caejose #caesar x joseph

10 notes · View notes

hitsuackerman · 4 years

Text

Unpredictable (Overhaul x Reader) pt.12

a/n: so... this has a special guest in the middle >:) i hope ya’ll like this~ i was thinking of a good character to add and i found the perfect one. but the character will only stay for probs 3 chapters or so :D

warnings: this cannot be read solo, crossover

Links: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 13

Masterlist to my other fics: here :)

Overhaul’s waiting list: @jjk-biased @infinite-universe-love @dirtypride @blackymomo03 @azzie @purple-rabanito @meximorrita @awesomeee19

“Sit down.”

Now, if that were coming from the person whose face you had just seen you would have obeyed like a puppy waiting for a treat. However, the person inside the room with you carried zero sex appeal. Not an ounce of it. The way he tried to sound sexy was just revolting.

“I’d rather just stand.” You shrugged. “Make this quick. I still have other places to go to.”

“Oh.” He patted the sofa once more before making his way to his desk. “I think you’d want to sit down once I tell you some news.”

With the chief’s back facing you, your eyes rolled and defeatedly went to flop on the sofa. Leaning on to the back lazily. When his chair creaked and sunk, you gestured for him to proceed.

“Regarding the Fukuo Kai case, the meeting will be held 5 days from now, correct?” Your brows furrowed as you fixed your posture. Eyes squinting as to where he had heard that information. He placed his elbows on his desk and tilted his head. A smug look on his face. “Tsukauchi will be taking your place in the stake out.”

“And why is that?”

“You will be attending a meeting with me. The HPSC wants to talk about the arson case.”

“You’re meddling with my cases again.” You snapped. “But, if it pleases you. Okay. However, it won’t be me informing Overhaul.”

Watching as the chief stood up from his desk, he nodded and walked towards you. Filling the emptiness the sofa had to offer.

“It has come to my attention that you two seem rather...close. Rather alarming is it not?”

“Teamwork among the both of us has been going well. Nothing more to it.” What was this germ up to? Your brain couldn’t figure out what his motives were. “I’m being as cautious as I can be. He has not lashed out nor attempted to hurt me in any way unlike the previous people we had to work with.”

“Yet, the mere mention of his name makes you lower your guard down by a significant amount.” Once again, he put his arm behind your neck and squeezed your shoulder. The scent of roses he once had was now replaced with sweat and leather. “You’ve slackened a bit, baby doll.”

Holding on to his wrist, you twisted it as you stood up. Bending it at a weird angle, your eyes bore holes on to his face. The playful fire in his lit up even more. It made you think, did the other women in the precinct go through this? Subtly activating your quirk, you raised his blood pressure.

“You know I’m getting real tired of your shit…” You threatened him. Hand shaking with anger.

Your head snapped to the door when a knock filled the walls. Letting go of his wrist, he rubbed it but the smug look on his face did not falter. Straightening himself and gaining composure once more, he went towards his desk and told the person to enter.

“Right on time. Ms. (L/N), for the next two days, you will be pairing up again with one of the officers from the Kyoto precinct.” His face followed the person who now entered the office. “Mr. Ackerman, we hope you enjoy your stay here.”

You bit your tongue. Internally activating your quirk, you managed to control the blood travelling to your cheeks. You’ve heard about Mr. Ackerman. A few of your previous cases had you teaming up with him. One thing led to another but it was one of your most well kept secrets. One that not even the chief caught scent of.

How many years had it been? Three or four? The scenery was still fresh in your mind. His words that stung and broke you for months. Still, he was a gentleman. Not wanting to diminish the cooperation you two had, differences were set aside and apologies were exchanged. It ended on a rather better note than you had anticipated.

Of course, there was no denying that the sight of Levi still managed to increase the steady pacing of your heart.

“Ackerman.” You greeted him. Eyes focused on the chief. A useless attempt to read him.

“(L/N).” His voice was still the same. Enticing yet dead at the same time.

“Why don’t you two catch up?” The chief gestured for the both of you to leave the office. Hearing both your responses, he watched as Levi motioned for you to leave first and followed behind. Just as you were about to exit, he spoke up. “And, by the way, update Overhaul’s profile. Put in his name.”

Your eyes widened and jaw tightened. Slowly exhaling, you continued walking. When you heard the door closing, you began to feel around your clothes for any sort of mini-chip that he had planted on you. Not feeling anything, your thoughts replayed to all the touching he had done.

“Fuck…”

“Oi, brat. What’s wrong?” Levi asked.

“He fucking bugged me. Eavesdropped on an off the record scenario a while back.” Anger was now boiling in your blood. Not for the chief but for the fact that you failed in detecting his subtle schemes. No wonder he was all touchy this morning. When your eyes met his, his eyebrows shot up and you could see how he put two and two together.

“It’s been three years, he’s still doing those things to you?” The both of you were now walking towards your cubicle. Back when you were dating, Levi could see just how devious the chief was towards you. He may have threatened him once or twice, the scene before him only fused a died out wick. “You could have just told me, you know.”

“I know.” He had told you time and time again that you should watch your back when it came to the man inside the office. Yet you always brushed it off. Basically, you were now reaping the consequences of being ignorant. “You know I hate causing scenes.”

“Tch. Not a single change from you.” There it was. That smirk that made you weak. Pulling your chair for you, he waited for you to sit till he dragged the empty seat next to yours. “What do you have on the arson case?”

Taking out a file, you handed it over to him and gave him the details so far. He simply did the typical Levi gestures. Nodding his head with the occasional comments.

“I’m honestly at a dead end, but Tsukauchi managed to pick up a straw.” You showed him your schedule. “I’ll be meeting up with Endeavor in 4 days. I can keep you updated if you'd like."

"It's fine. I can stay till after the meeting." Typical. Work was always first when it came to him.

"Where are you staying? You can crash the guest room if you'd like."

"You sure? Gei isn't visiting tonight?" That flamboyant man had always amused him but he'd never tell. He did, after all, get a few phrases from the man himself.

"Nope. You're free to crash. It will require you to buy food." You smiled and that sealed the deal. Agreeing, he stood up to take his things from the lockers as you readied to leave the office.

Moments had passed and both of you were now in your car. Levi offered to drive so you gave him the keys.

"You still into (favorite food)?” He asked. Eyes searching for what food to have for dinner. You were the host so your wants came first.

“Nah. Ov-I’ve had it this afternoon. We can go with whatever you want.” You knew where he was going. He would go to Solive Garden. He was always a sucker for their salad and made from scratch soup. Your thoughts were right when he turned on the next corner. The green sign now within sight. Lucky enough, he saw a vacant lot and parked the car.

Meanwhile, the car parked opposite from yours had a rather different aura going on.

“Mimic.” Overhaul threatened the small creature sitting in the backseat. “You had one job and that was to order food from Niller Union.”

“It wasn’t my fault, boss!” He chirped. “They cancelled at the last minute. I already told them that the leader of the yakuza was the one ordering but they just ended the call.”

Massaging his temples, he could feel the hives starting to form due to rage at the small mishap. Somehow, he had found himself in the car with Chrono behind the wheel and Mimic strapped like a child in the back. Perhaps he just needed a change of scenery since he had no interest in demolishing the whole base tonight. Or so he thought.

“Hey… Isn’t that?” Chrono thought out loud to get Overhaul’s attention.

You had just exited your car, with Levi opening the door for you. Seeing how you were all smiles with another male was something he had not expected. More so when the other male was none other than Levi Ackerman. His golden orbs followed as the two of you walked side by side, entering the establishment.

Chrono simply watched his boss through his peripheral view. What would he do in this instance? It was hidden well but he could see Kai slowly appearing from the depths of Overhaul.

“Mimic. Get out of your suit and buy the meal.”

“Aw, c’mon! Just cause your jealous of that lady with Ackerwacker doesn’t mean you get to use me to spy on them.”

Boy, did Chrono wish he had popcorn.

“You caused this mess. Now get the hell out of that suit before I kill you inside this very car. THRICE.”

Incoherent cursing soon followed. Mimic was sporting his true form. Veins popping from anger. Slamming the door, he stomped towards the store before flipping the vehicle off. Now that the two of them were alone, he waited till Overhaul seemingly calmed down.

“They’re probably just teaming up for a case.” Chrono stated. He was secretly living for the moment. It wasn’t too often he’d see the boss in that state. In his mind, he knew that Kai would ask him to trail you till you reach your building.

“Then why the hell is that troublemaker driving her car, Kurono?” His inner thoughts were thinking of scenarios as to why you would spend time with Ackerwacker. That smile you showcased was something he barely got from you. And then we have this shortstack who got it from you effortlessly. “Follow her till she gets home.”

There it was.

“Isn’t she too preoccupied to date?” Conversations were still possible as of the moment. “I thought you were slowly advancing already.”

“She never stated she was single or not.” Not that it mattered. He would do whatever it takes to make you his. No one had ever fallen asleep on the phone with him, spoke to him so freely, or even sent a rather inviting selfie at 11pm. Furrowing his brows at his thoughts, he cleared his throat and let out a sigh. “Forget it. She’s merely a pawn that I can easily replace. Go back to base after this.”

‘He’s back.’ Chrono thought. That was the end of the conversation. But, that small gesture was a sign that he was internally fighting his consciousness. ‘Shit. This is going to be a long night.’

The doors slid open once more. Ackerw-Levi and you were making your way back to your car. You were holding the take out while he held onto the drinks. The two men inside the car watched as the unwanted man stretched out his hand to grab the food from your arms. The car was hella tinted but he could see the small blush growing on your cheek.

Once more, Chrono wished he had some popcorn.

They observed as Levi opened your car door and handed you the food. His jaw tightened and fists clenched when he saw him entering the driver’s side. He was too engrossed that he had not noticed Mimic entering the car. Struggling in the backseat due to his size. When your car revved to life, all 3 men watched as the car left.

Starting the car, Chrono knew his boss’ mind flipped into Kai. Taking his time, he slowly drove out of the establishment.

“Follow them, Kurono.”

- - - -

so... did ya’ll like today’s special guest? xD I love Levi Ackerman so I decided to just use him for the sake of drama huehuehue still :) if ya’ll have comments or questions, feel free to ask :D take care!

#overhaul x reader #overhaul #bnha overhaul #mha overhaul #chisaki kai x reader #bnha chisaki kai #mha chisaki kai #chisaki kai #levi ackerman is god tier and i love him so much #forgive me if i crossover'd for a bit #but it is levi so pls accept my apologies

102 notes · View notes

fandom-necromancer · 4 years

Text

006. Part 4

This was prompted by the wonderful @headfulloffantasy and the amazing AO3 users missy20201 and DetReed900!

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900 [part1] [part2] [part3]

‘Nines, could you fetch me my jacket?’, Gavin shouted from the bathroom where he hectically tried to look not as if he had just fallen out of bed.

‘Of course’, Nines answered and only then Gavin froze. ‘Ah, only if you want to!’ ‘I will.’ Gavin shrugged and brushed through his hair one last time. He ran down the stairs and nodded thankfully at the android that held his jacket out for him to pull on. He winced as the movement pulled at his healed but still sore wound. ‘Can you drive- Phck, would you mind driving us to work? My shoulder’s especially bad today.’ ‘Of course, Gavin’, Nines answered with the smile that accompanied his every step now. The once so emotionless robot was expressing all over the place ever since Amanda had lost her grip on him. Gavin decided he liked his smile. He liked his everything, but that damn softness to his features made him infinitely more beautiful.

He helped him into the car and started heading towards the precinct and Gavin couldn’t shake the uneasiness from him. ‘Hey, Nines, I’m… Sorry. It’s just… It is difficult for me to think about every single word I utter. I always forget to build my sentence, so it isn’t a prison for you. And I fear for the day I forget to add that last bit that gives you freedom. I’m sorry, it’s just… It’s an effort and it frustrates me.’ ‘Then stop doing it’, Nines simply said. ‘Stop trying to constantly think about how to give me choice. It worked out just fine before and I trust you not to abuse that power.’ ‘Yeah, but I don’t trust myself! I don’t want to just order you around and hope to hit that one decision you would have made. And we are still forgetting that I could end your life with one careless word and even if I manage to keep myself together, then one day I’ll die!’ Nines sighed and glanced over to Gavin. ‘And I said to you before, I trust you. Like no one else. Every day with you since Amanda lost her grip on me is freedom to me. And the day you die I am happy to join you.’ ‘Well, but maybe I’m not happy about that’, Gavin shouted far too loud for the small car. ‘Maybe I want to know you lived until your stupid metal ass rusts away!’

Nines’ smile faded away. ‘Was that an order, Detective?’ ‘Oh, phck you’, Gavin deflated. ‘No, it wasn’t. And don’t you Detective me, I know we don’t agree on that part, but it’s my opinion and I will speak my mind.’ ‘Then you will understand that so do I’, Nines stated and allowed no backtalk. ‘Nines, I just want you to be happy’, Gavin sighed. ‘And I worry about you. You’ll never be truly free, regardless of how you might feel. I don’t want to have so much power over someone and I sure as hell don’t want the responsibility for someone’s life.’ ‘I know, Gavin. But there is no other way. And I am content with the situation. Couldn’t we just enjoy life for a while, before we try to change it again?’ ‘Fine’, Gavin said. But inwardly he hoped there would be another way.

‘Hey, Nines, get in the car!’ Nines frowned at Gavin. It was their free day and it was far too early in the morning for Gavin to voluntarily leave the house. Also, he hadn’t added their usual phrase afterwards: You don’t have to though or If you want. ‘I will, but may I ask why?’, Nines asked, hoping for Gavin to understand he had forgotten something. Nines didn’t really want to get in the car without knowing where they were going. ‘Sure!’, Gavin grinned at him. ‘It’s your birthday!’ ‘Birthday?’ ‘Or activation day. Whatever. What’s important is that I have a present for you.’ ‘Gavin, I-‘ ‘It’s a surprise! And I think you will like it!’

Nines looked at the weirdly excited Gavin that stood in front of him and held his jacket out for him. He hesitantly took it and put it on. ‘What kind of surprise?’ ‘The kind of surprise you don’t know about beforehand’, Gavin chuckled. ‘Come on, I’m sure you’ll like it.’ ‘Can I at least ask where we are going?’ Gavin thought about it. ‘It’s outside of Detroit’, he said. ‘Kind of secluded and the folk living there is a bit weird, but you don’t have to worry about that.’ Well, that wasn’t very helpful, Nines thought, but if Gavin really was that excited about it and was sure he would like the gift, then who was he to further delay his directives?

This time Gavin drove, and they stopped after about an hour’s drive in front of a villa. Nines looked over to his human and lifted a brow. ‘You are taking me to your brother? I must say, I’ll likely disagree with you about whether or not I like this surprise.’ ‘Oh, come on’, Gavin groaned. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with a family dinner. Get a move on now and stop complaining!’ Again, no additional words that allowed him to decline. That was weird. But maybe Gavin was just really excited.

He followed the man, who was already standing on the curb, ringing the bell. As he had caught up to them, a Chloe model opened the door and greeted them: ‘Hello Gavin! Nice to see you again! And you, too, Nines! Happy activation day!’ ‘Thank you, Chloe’, Nines answered politely, not quite sure what to make of the situation. ‘Is Elijah ready?’, Gavin asked her as both stepped into the hallway. ‘He should be by now’, the android smiled and took his leather jacket to hang it up. ‘He’s down in the labs, you can head down there if you’d like to. Or do you want a coffee?’ ‘Coffee would be amazing’, the human nodded. ‘But first the lab!’ ‘Of course. I’ll prepare something to celebrate then!’

Gavin grinned at Nines, who stood in the hallway felling lost, and tucked at his sleeve. ‘You ready to head down there?’ Nines squared his shoulders. ‘A lab? Gavin, I don’t know if this is such a good idea, you know I don’t take well to tech labs.’ ‘Oh, don’t worry. Darling, I would never force anything on you. But I thought it would be nice to… Nines, I better let Eli explain it, but it is something that will help you greatly. Trust me, it’s worth being in a hospital room for a few minutes!’ ‘Well, if you say so’, Nines commented little convinced of Gavin’s assessment. But he did follow him, when Gavin led him through the house to a narrow stairway down.

They moved down and Gavin knocked on a door before opening it. ‘Eli? You there?’ Something metal collided with tiles, but not much later, Elijah Kamski emerged from an adjacent room and came to the door, opening it completely. ‘Gavin?’ ‘And Nines.’ ‘You are early.’ ‘We are on time.’ ‘That’s early for you.’ ‘Okay, point taken. You ready?’ ‘Sure, if you two will follow me?’ The inventor led them deeper into the lab and Nines made sure to stay away from any assembly rig, table or machinery that looked as if it could do him harm.

Eli stopped in the room he had just come out of a few moments earlier and pointed jovially towards what looked like a plush waiting room chair outfitted with restraining belts. ‘Please, take a seat.’ Nines stared at the thing and knew he really didn’t want to. But it was an order. ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to’, Gavin was quick to add. ‘What are you two planning?’, Nines asked and this time he wouldn’t allow an explanation along the lines of It’s a surprise. ‘Eli, show him!’, Gavin pressed excitedly and Elijah nodded with a smile, turning the desktop towards them. What ran over the screen was code and Nines couldn’t help but immediately scan it all.

‘What do you say, big guy?’, Elijah asked Nines with a smirk, whose face went blank. ‘This…’, Nines had to take a step forward. ‘This is an update?’ ‘More of a patch’, Gavin corrected, and his brother nodded, adding: ‘It is indeed. Gavin told me you had a problem with a certain AI? That you had to listen to his command or go back to be deactivated?’ ‘Yes, that is true. I can’t deviate. And although Amanda is quarantined for most models, RK900s were supposed to have a special connection that can’t be broken.’ ‘I know. And unfortunately, I can’t make you deviate’, Elijah apologized. ‘We don’t even know what led to it in the first place, so recreating it if it didn’t work with you one time already wasn’t the best idea. But this is my solution to it.’ Nines still had his eyes fixed on the words flowing by. ‘It inserts a handler of higher priority.’ ‘Yep’, Eli said, sitting down on his desk, crossing his arms. ‘Who?’ ‘You.’ ‘Me?’ ‘You already give yourself missions all the time. But as you are now, they have lowest priority as part of your idle programming. I found a way to rise them to the highest priority, inserting a virtual handler into the existing program.’ Nines stared at Elijah, speechless. ‘I… I would be free? Truly free?’ ‘As free as we are’, Kamski said. ‘Neither Gavin, nor Amanda can order you to do something, you are always free to choose.’

Nines blinked, looking over to Gavin, who smiled at him triumphantly. ‘And? Was I correct to assume you like the surprise?’ As an answer, Nines bowed over to kiss his human and planted his ass on the chair. ‘Install it.’

#detroit become human #dbh #Reed900 #RK900 #Gavin Reed #Elijah Kamski #Never thought to actually write for this series again but I'm happy!

23 notes · View notes

mists-of-hithlum · 4 years

Text

Finally! I did finish this, right before midnight my time. A piece for the second day of Finwëan Ladies Week that is quite a bit longer than I meant it to be.

I apologize for any mistakes, it is late and this is not beta’d. Please point out the mistakes to me if you find them because English is not my native language.

Quenya

Atar – Father

Nésa - Sister

Nolofinwë (Nolvo) – Fingolfin

Arafinwë – Finarfin

Curufinwë Fëanaro (Curvo) – Feanor

Moringotto – Morgoth

Endor - Middle-Earth

“Irimë?”

“Irimë, where are you?”

“Irimë, you were supposed to stay with me! Come back here, right now!”

Findis sighs and smooths out her blue dress. Running around up here was supposed to be Nolofinwë’s task! She really does not know why she agreed to cover for her younger brother. Her dress was made for a council meeting, not for chasing after her little sister! She nearly stumbled over its edge no less than three times while running up the stairs and she still could not find Irimë anywhere. Oh, she is not looking forward to the lecture she and Nolofinwë are going to receive from Atar.

How do you just lose a sibling? Especially in a single building? The palace of the House of Ingwe is big, yes, but not nearly big enough for Irimë to disappear like this. Or at least it shouldn’t be! Findis has spent far more time than Irimë in here. She should be able to find her sister if she sets her mind to it!

Findis is nearly ready to just give up and let her sister get up to whatever mischief she has set her stubborn head to next when her ears pick up a nearly inaudible sound. A quiet giggle, coming the door to her right. She sighs again. If her sister has sneaked into the guest rooms rooms again, she is not going to protect her from the scolding Atar is going to subject her to.

“Irimë? Are you in there?”

Only silence answers her, but the door is slightly ajar. That is all the proof she needs to walk straight into the room.

“Irimë!”

Her little sister kneels on the bed. She is wrapped in blankets and pillows, all of them not meant to be used by the bored youngest daughter of Finwë Noldoran, who is in that exact moment handling out trade agreements with the owner of this palace, Ingwë, king of the Vanyar. Findis would like to curse loudly and creative but unfortunately, the source of her problems is too young to hear words like this. And a proper lady should not curse, regardless of circumstances. At least that is what Rilmanissë keeps telling her.

“Findis! Did you come to play with me?” Irimë’s big, blue eyes gleam with innocence, but Findis knows her sister too well (and has spent too much of her afternoon climbing through dusty unused passages and abandoned storage rooms). Findis can feel the comfort and warmth Irimë feels right now without even coming near her sister or the blankets.

“No, I was searching for you. You ran away from the meeting and your brother and me spent the whole time combing the castle for you. Why did you hide here?”

“Because it’s quiet,” Irimë tells her. “No one comes here. It was a bit boring at first, but then I found the blankets.” She beams with pride. Findis is tempted to hide her head in her hands. She does not need much imagination to know how the other rooms must look but she is too tired to make an attempt at fixing it right now.

“You need to come with me, Irimë. The others are worried.”

“Oh, Nolvo?” Irimë looks even more innocent. That does nothing to soothe Findis’ nerves. “I told him already. He’s on his way with food from the kitchen.”

“And you two are planning to do what, exactly? I can not just leave you without anyone of age, you know that.”

“But we won’t be alone.” Irimë’s eyes remind her of those of a little dog, the way she looks at her older sister. “You will stay here, right?”

“Please?” adds Nolofinwë. He carries a basket full of various specialtys of the Vanyar but Findis believes to see some Noldorin cuisine too. His breathing is heavy from climbing so many stairs.

“I need to attend the council meeting,” Findis protests.

“You’re already too late for that,” Nolofinwë counters with a wide grin. “Or do you want to run down all those stairs and then arrive too late at the door, causing a scene?”

Findis sends him an angry glare. They know her too well.

“Please, Findis. A whole afternoon, just us.”

Findis is seriously tempted before the annoying bit of her head reminds her of who she has forgotten while running through Ingwë’s castle.

“What about Fëanaro? He will be angry we excluded him.” Not that her elder brother is pleasant company when he is in one of his moods – especially with Nolofinwë nearby – but he would at least deserve an invitation., if only that he wouldn’t complain afterward or plot some elaborate revenge.

“Curvo?” Findis still has no idea how Fëanaro has not murdered Nolofinwë for the epessë he so clearly despises. “Oh, he left. I think about half an hour ago? Muttered something about spending his time somewhere actually useful. I am quite sure he went in search of a forge.”

“Of course he did.” Findis can’t stop the words before they leave her tongue.

“So you’ll stay?”

“All right.” Findis lets herself fall onto the bed too and grabs a pastry.

Her father has centuries of experience with diplomacy. He will know how to handle this.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Irimë, did you go insane too?”

“Why? Do you not trust me?”

“I trust you, completely, and you know that,” protests Findis. “But nothing awaits you in Endor aside from fire and death!”

“How can you be so certain? Have you seen everything the future entails, nésa?”

“I do not need foresight to tell you such.” Findis feels an icy calm in her body. “Anyone with eyes could tell you that you will not stand a chance against one of the Valar.”

“Just because no one has tried before does not mean it is impossible.”

Findis recognizes the defiant look in her sister’s eyes all too well. But it is not any longer about running of in search of an adventure or the next mischief she could get up to. If she lets her sister go now, it will be her death. Findis has never posessed the gift of foresight, unlike many of her family, but mere elves will not be enough to stand against a Vala. Even if it is her brilliant, doomed, insane, genius brother Fëanaro.

“We will go, Findis. And you cannot stop us.”

The fury in Irimë’s eyes also flows in the bond Findis and her sister share since their birth. They have both tried to close it off before the confrontation but anger and worry make Findis unable to concentrate enough. She suspects it is the same with her sister.

“So Nolofinwë and Arafinwë will not abandon this foolish quest either?”

“Moringotto killed our father!” Now the final dam is broken and Irimë’s feelings unleash. Findis can feel them in her stomach, mingling with her own fury and creating a dangerous mixture. She needs more willpower than she can ever remember to stay calm.

“He was my father too.” Ice covers her voice.

“And you want to let his murderer get away with it!” For the first time Irimë rises her voice.

“Father would not have wanted for you to run to your deaths!”

“Father would not have wanted to die!”

Both sisters are breathing hard.

“Atar loved us, nésa. The least we can do for him is to avenge his murder.” Irimë is pleading. It takes Findis a lot of strength to refuse to allow those words into her heart. She cannot afford any cracks in her decision.

“Someone has to stay here and lead our people when you all are convinced to throw yourselves as fast as possible inside Mandos!” she retorts. It is cruel and she knows it, but she is desperate. Why would nobody listen to reason?

Irimë flinches as if Findis had struck her. “So that is what you think of us, your siblings?”

The bitterness in her voice is unmistakable.

“If that is what you choose to believe, it is up to you. But I hope you will think better of me when we return with Morgoth’s head in our hands.”

She leaves before Findis can muster up any form of retort. Only her retreating back with shoulders set is visible.

Findis does not have the gift of foresight but she knows in her heart that this was the last time she will see her sister alive.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes her a long time to work up the courage for what she is going to do. The bond between her and Irimë has darkened in the time they have not seen each other. The once brilliant green of her sister’s fëa has darkened to a matter green, like you would find it of plants growing in the shadow. Her own thread of the bond looks the same shade of gold as always but it is thinner than she remembers.

Findis hesitates for a moment. Does she truly want to do this?

And then, like always, Irimë manages to ruin all the plans she made in a few seconds.

“Findis?”

She startles. The bond between their Fëas has not been active since that last argument between them. After the horrors of Alqualonde Findis was not exactly feeling encouraged to seek her sister out and Irimë had always been able to out-stubborn everyone around her, even among the Noldor.

And if she is honest, then she was not sure anymore if a connection between them would even be possible. Endor is far away from Valinorë and she knows of many who’s bond is so fragile they cannot talk anymore.

“Irimë?”

She is cautious. No one could blame her. The destruction of Alqualonde is years past but she will never forget the sight of blood on those stairs.

“I… I wasn’t sure you would actually answer.”

Irimë must truly be nervous when she relapses into a way of speech she has not used since they were both children.

“Why should I have not? Despite everything, Irimë, you are still my sister. Just as Fëanaro was always our brother, no matter how he loathed to call us such.”

There is a feeling of amusement in their bond but tainted by wariness and grief. Oh Eru, so much grief.

“I have not heard that name in a long time. They call me Lalwen, here.”

“Lalwen?” The name feels strange on her tongue even if a bond between fear does not require her actually speaking the words. “A form of Lalwendë?” She had always thought her sister preferred her Father-name. A strange thought, that so many people only knew her by another name entirely.

“The Sindar here are not used to speaking Quenya. We made it easier for them and for us.”

“Why did you reach out to me, Irimë? It is not to discuss names. You are not the one of our family who was obsessed with linguistics.”

A sudden jolt of pain from the bond makes Findis flinch.

“Findis, Feanor - Fëanaro… Our brother is dead.”

“What?” It takes her longer than it should to recognize that she has whispered the word out loud.

“He fell shortly after his arrival in Middle-earth – I mean Endor.”

“No.” It is all Findis feels capable bringing into words right now. The glowing feeling of attempted comfort from the bond tells her that Irimë – or is it Lalwen, now? - felt the uproar of feelings in her fëa. “How?”

“Morgoth.” Even if she cannot see her the face of her sister, Findis can picture the disgust on it still perfectly. “That is how we are calling Moringotto in these days.”

Findis is filled with too much grief to lord a “I told you so” over her sister. She knew the moment her siblings departed that they would most likely never return, but hearing it from Irimë…

Fëanaro had never been the most pleasant of brothers and she could have not existed at all for some days in his eyes, but he is still her brother. Was. Was still her brother. Her irritating, insane older brother that had succeded at everything and infuriated the whole Court of the Noldor. Her brother who had loved his wife even after wedding much younger than it was proper. Their children and the smile on Fëanaro’s face when his sons were around him.

The way he smiled less and less after Melkor was freed. Gleaming eyes in the firelight, speaking of words promising doom to more than the one who spoke them.

“I cannot…” She takes a shaking breath. “I need to be alone right now.” She can feel one last wave of warmth from the bond, then it is silent once again. Irimë’s presence has all but disappeared. Findis closes her eyes and the sobs begin.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Lalwen? Are you here?”

Irimë Lalwendë, princess of the Noldor, now called Lalwen and famous for leading High King Fingon’s personal guard turns her head when someone opens her tent.

“You knew I was in here. Why did you even ask?”

Her nephew smiles. It still stings, seeing how her reminds her even more of two lost brothers when he makes that expression, but time has dulled the grief in her heart. It was likely talking to Findis that brought them once again to the forefront of her mind.

She does not know why exactly she decided to call out to her sister. She knows even less why Findis answered in truth. It cannot simply be memories from a time long past.

“There is a last meeting to be had,” Fingon explains. “I thought you would like to be present.”

“Again?” She raises her eyebrows. “I thought we discussed everything necessary already?”

“You know Maedhros. He always wants to make sure everything goes according to plans.” His smile has been washed from his face and replaced by a thoughtful frown.

Lalwen rises from the pitiful thing that has been her bed for months now. “Do you have second thoughts?”

That shakes him up. “And you say I ask stupid questions!” A hint of the old charm and easy laughter lies in his voice that all but disappeared after his father’s death.

She smiles too. Sometimes Fingon is just too earnest for his own good. The responsibility of a whole people will do that to you.

“Let’s go. There is still enough time to rest after we sent Morgoth running to the hills!”

The fact she cannot tell how much of her nephew’s cheer is faked and how much is genuine should probably frighten her, but this is a battle lost a long time ago. They will meet Morgoth on the battlefield tomorrow, for better or for worse.

“Lead the way.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lalwen exchanges a glance with Fingon. They will not get out of here alive. Her nephews’ eyes tell her that he knows. They share a nod.

She strengthens her grip around her battle axe. At least they will die together. But there is one last thing she needs to do before Namo will claim her soul.

“Findis?”

“Nésa? I am in a council meeting right now. Is there another time?”

“I love you.”

“Irimë, what…?”

“Don’t forget. Please.”

Pain.

Searing, neverending pain. Oh, she hates those Balrogs.

“Irimë, answer me.”

She falls.

“Irimë, we’re not children anymore. Stop ignoring me.”

“Irimë, that’s not funny.”

There is no breath in her lungs left.

“Irimë?”

“Nésa!”

They say Princess Findis just collapsed in a meeting one day. Though many tried to find out the reason behind this, the princess steadfastly refused to share. But sometimes, you would find her standing on the highest balcony in King Ingwë’s palace and looking into the east for hours, never moving, never saying a word.

#Irimë #findis #finwean ladies week #fingolfin #The Silmarillion #my fanfic

26 notes · View notes

bibliothesoph · 4 years

Note

How about a first prince flower shop AU? Alex and Henry own flower shops on the same street and have a competition on whose shop is the best.

the war of the roses

Alex knows that he’s hot––he uses it to his advantage. If there’s a hot guy or girl that walks in, all he has to do is bat his eyes and, like magic, they buy something. Sometimes, if they’re especially beautiful, he gives them a free flower––usually a white camellia if he’s got them in stock. It does wonders for the business, really, so June never says anything about the free flowers. They’ve got a good system going, the two of them. He’s the face of the shop. He greets customers, answers any questions they might have, and checks them out (both literally and metaphorically). June’s the one who usually does the arrangements because she’s better with the whole color thing, but Alex is the one who knows the meaning of each flower like the back of his hand. When they do specials for what they like to call “The Power of the Flower,” he picks out the flowers with the important meanings and June decides which ones actually look good together.

Since it’s the first few weeks of summer, one of their “The Power of the Flower” specials is happening right now as a way to welcome in the new season and the warmth and happiness that comes with it. Usually, in the summertime, most of the arrangements they get are for happier feelings like love or excitement or, on occasion, a proposal. They get a few requests for some really great “fuck you” arrangements that Alex always enjoys because of the irony––why send flowers, even mean ones, to someone you supposedly hate? The idea is ridiculous and he loves it.

Historically, they’ve been the only flower shop in this area. It’s a hipster sort of place and, since all of their flowers are pretty local and sustainably farmed or whatever, people flock here to get succulents and arrangements. They’ve made bank here for the past three years until The Incident, that is.

Alex refuses to actually say the name of it out loud because it makes his blood boil. That fucking blond-haired dude and his friend (well, the friend seems okay) and their fucking flower shop. Like, when someone opens up a business, Alex thinks they should probably scope out the area first to make sure there aren’t any competitors in the area or something. That seems like the smart thing to do. But this bastard with blue eyes and a perfect fucking smile came in and set up shop directly across the street from his own flower shop. And he knows that the Green House has loyal customers like Ted and Ginger and Simon. And he knows that they’ve been here longer and therefore are generally the first place to pop into people’s minds when they want flowers, but since the other store is directly across the street, it steals customers away sometimes.

Like today, for example.

And the worst part is that Alex can see that smug bastard’s pretty face while he’s stabbing Alex in the fucking back. Whenever Alex looks out the window to see how things are going across the street, the blond guy is always there with an evil, smug smile and a sarcastic wave. Like this is all some fucking joke to him.

Well, Alex isn’t having it anymore. Not during The Power of the Flower time.

“June,” he groans from the front desk. The place is empty, save for the two of them.

She pops her head out from the back area where she makes the arrangements. “Please don’t tell me you’re staring at Henry again.”

His face contorts. “Who the fuck is Henry?”

She rolls her eyes and comes over to him, wrapping her arms around him to calm him. “The guy from the V&A. The one you keep staring at.”

Alex huffs. “He started it. Anyway, we need a plan of attack. He’s stealing our customers!”

“He’s not––”

“He’s stealing them, June. Along with my fucking sanity.”

June sighs and looks out the window, waving at Henry. “He seems perfectly nice. I know his partner, Pez, is a nice guy. I walked in a––”

Alex gasps in horror. “You went in? Judas!”

“I just went in to see how they were running things,” June explains. “And they serve tea, you know. They make it themselves.”

Alex growls and slams his fist against the counter. “Unbelievable. Well, that fucking settles it.”

He stomps off and into the backroom to collect his thoughts with June close at his heels.

“What are you doing?”

“Figuring out a plan of attack,” he explains, pulling out a pen and paper. “We need to up our game, Bug. We can’t let them win.”

“It’s not a competition!”

“It is now.”

He decides to bravely and calmly storm across the street to check out the competition, just to see what they have going on. As soon as he opens the door, a bell rings to announce his entrance. When he steps into the place with steam practically coming out of his ears, a guy that is not the blond one––so Pez, probably––greets him with a smile. He’s wearing flowy pants and, more importantly, a fucking V&A shirt that looks hand-stitched. He’s even got little flowers painted on his cheeks and a flower crown on his head.

“Hi,” he beams at Alex. He’s British, it seems. “Welcome to the V&A! My name’s Pez, so just give me a shout if you need anything, okay, darling?”

Alex fights the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not a customer, actually,” he huffs, folding his arms across his chest.

“Oh? Are you here for me then?” Pez asks, batting his eyes and smiling.

“I’m here to speak to the owner. Blond? Bland?”

Pez raises an eyebrow at him. “Henry?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Can I talk to him please?”

“If the issue is that he never called you back, I––”

“He’s not a suitor, Pez,” another voice says from behind Alex. Alex turns and sees, in all his fucking glory, Henry. He’s wearing the same shirt Pez is wearing but neatly tucked into a pair of snug jeans. His hair looks fucking perfect somehow, and he’s carrying a tray of what looks like baked goods. “In fact, I think he might think us enemies.”

“No shit,” Alex huffs. “You’re stealing my customers!”

Henry rolls his eyes but he’s smiling like this is all hilarious. “Oh, am I?”

Alex is fucking fuming. “Yeah! You knew we were right across the street. Literally. I can actually fucking see your smug face when I’m working and I hate it.”

Henry sighs and moves past him.

Their shoulders knock together.

Alex follows Henry and watches as he sets the tray down on the old, wooden counter. He starts taking the treats off the tray and carefully moves them to some sort of ornate platter.

“You serve food now, too?” Alex asks.

“Not always,” Henry explains, “only when I bake. I feel that it adds a special something to the experience, you know?”

Alex is practically seething. “Okay, well, I just wanted to come over here to say fuck you, fuck your stupid store, and fuck your fucking pastries.”

Henry raises his fucking perfectly manicured eyebrows in surprise. “I hardly think that seems appropriate. We’re not enemies, Alex. We just both happen to own stores on the same street.”

Alex shakes his head so violently that it hurts a little bit. “No, no, no. You opened this store up directly across the street from mine. And you made it the exact same kind of store. What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously, man? It’s not cool. Okay, also, how the fuck did you know my name?”

Henry has the fucking audacity to touch Alex’s chest. Alex opens his mouth to say something but Henry beats him to it.

“Nametag,” he says with a smug smile. Alex looks down and sees that, sure enough, Henry is poking the name tag on his apron.

Alex slaps Henry’s hand away. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Coming here, doing your fucking––whatever the fuck you’re doing––and messing with my business? I’ll make you regret you ever touched a flower, okay?”

Before Henry has the chance to respond, Alex stomps out of the shop. In his rage, he fumbles to get the door open. Pez helps him out and opens it for him so he can continue to rage-stomp out of the stupid fucking shop and away from Henry’s stupid fucking face.

So Alex does what he does best: he makes a list.

Things the V&A does that we don’t do:

1. Tea (fucking homemade tea. Those fuckers)

2. Flowers based on your personality

3. Free baked goods for some fucking reason

4. Terrariums

He wonders, vacantly, if they’re even a real fucking flower shop. With the amount of random drinks and foods that seem to float through their shop, Alex thinks they might be more of a fucking general store or café. But, since he’s determined to beat them, he’ll play along. He can’t bake for shit, but he gets the fixings for coffee––including fucking organic flavor syrup. June helps him set up some little spiritual packages––little kits including crystals and special plants for different purposes. He’ll be damned if he lets the people from across the street steal their customers.

A day after they implement the little spiritual kits, he finds a package outside the door as he’s coming in for the day. Curious, he picks it up and takes it inside. They never get packages here––only deliveries from farmers who come in and make the drop off in person. He takes it inside and places it on the desk, staring at it for a moment before he decides that, even though the only thing written on it is his name, he’s going to open it.

Inside is a collection of assorted items. There are some pink scones, some packages of loose leaf tea, and a bundle of chamomiles. The chamomiles are really what set Alex off and make him know exactly who fucking gave this to him.

Chamomiles. Patience in adversity.

Alex is going to kill him.

He stomps into the V&A for the second time and marches right up to Henry who’s behind the desk, seemingly setting the register up for the day.

Henry looks surprised to see him which only makes Alex even more pissed off. “We’re not open yet,” Henry tells him, sounding bored. “But we’ll be open in thirty minutes if you’d like to come back then.”

Alex slams his fist onto the counter. In his hand is a bouquet of assorted flowers––crab blossoms, petunias, red dahlias, and rhododendrons. The bouquet is, most simply, an “I hate you” and “go fuck yourself” arrangement. The colors might not work well together, but Alex is so beyond caring at this point.

Henry eyes the flowers for a moment, probably trying to recognize and place them each in his mind. For some reason, the angry flowers make him smile. “Are these for me?”

“Obviously,” Alex huffs, releasing his hold of them and taking a step back.

Henry picks them up and looks at them for a moment. “And you made this?”

Alex nods, not really sure what’s going on here.

Henry sighs. “Well, if you’d ever like lessons on how to make a proper arrangement, please let me know.”

Alex glares at him. His heart feels like it’s thumping in his fucking ears. “What.”

“We offer workshops, you know. We get some nice wine and teach people how to put flowers together properly. Given what I see here, you lack the proper eye for this sort of thing. While I understand the intent, I have to say that I’m a bit disappointed with the execution of it. Since you own your own shop, I would have expected something…better, I suppose. It’s no wonder you think we’re stealing your customers––they must just be appalled by your work.”

Alex grits his teeth and gets close to Henry, staring him down. “Go fuck yourself,” he seethes.

He rushes out again, furious. He needs a better plan––something that will make this all go away. He needs a plan that will make Henry run for the fucking hills.

June helps him make it, though she seems hesitant. It takes about a day of looking through flower meanings and consulting with June to get it done, but when it’s done, it’s fucking perfect. It’s a large, obnoxious arrangement filled with hate flowers and plants that he hopes will make Henry really get the message. It’s beautiful but vile and Alex has never been more satisfied with his work. He leaves the arrangement outside the doors of the V&A before he goes home for the day, excited to see what Henry’s reaction will be the next morning.

When he’s on his way to work the next morning––running a bit late––he gets a call from June. He picks up, hoping it’s not something bad. He might slap himself if he forgot to lock up again.

“You took it too far,” she tells him.

He stops walking. “What?”

It sounds almost like she’s crying. Or, at least, someone’s crying. “The thing with Henry,” she explains. “I get the arrangement, okay? It’s all in good fun. But doing that to his store…”

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alex says truthfully.

He rounds the corner onto the street where his shop is and sees it almost immediately. Out front is his arrangement, right where he left it, but it’s surrounded by broken glass. The sign for Henry’s shop has been painted over in slurs. What looks like a rock or a brick has been thrown through the window. He can’t stop staring at it––staring at the terrible words that someone’s written about Henry on the sign. He hangs up on June and rushes inside the Green House, finding Henry and Pez there, too. It looks like June has given them both blankets and some of that tea they sent over a few days ago. And they do not look happy to see Alex.

“Alex,” June says, pulling him aside as soon as he enters, “why would you do that?”

“Bug, I swear,” he says, “it wasn’t me, okay? I––I would never write that kind of stuff, you know that. I didn’t even know he was gay.”

She sighs and rubs her eyes. “Look, they think you’re the one that did it. You shouldn’t be here, okay? Even if it’s not your fault, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Just…go home, okay?”

The look she shoots him seems final so Alex leaves. He doesn’t want to make this any worse for Henry but…he feels terrible. Even though he’s not the one that did it, he still feels like shit about it. So he doesn’t sleep that night, instead, he's trying to figure out what he can do to help.

He doesn’t know why he’s so worried about Henry. It makes no sense for him to be this upset about Henry because, as he’s told Henry to his face, he hates him. He hates Henry’s stupid face and his hair and his fucking cute shop. Maybe what he hates most, though, is that he can’t stop fucking thinking about him. It’s ridiculous how much Henry has filled his mind lately. Henry, even as an enemy, is all he’s been able to think about since this whole thing started. And it’s driving him insane and he feels like he’s drowning because Henry’s upset and there’s not a single fucking thing he can do about it.

But he can try.

When he comes in the next morning, Henry is still there. He’s sitting in the backroom and looking blankly at the wall like there’s something really interesting there. Alex sighs and sits down next to him. Henry visibly stiffens.

“Hey,” Alex says.

Henry scoffs. “‘Hey?’ Is that all you have to say to me?”

Nervous, Alex fiddles with his fingers. “No. I mean…I don’t even know what to say."

“I think you’ve said enough,” Henry says. “I wasn’t trying to steal your customers and, even if I was and even if you hated me for it, that’s no reason for you to…you wrote awful things. Vile things, Alex. Things that no one should ever have to hear.”

“I didn’t do that to your shop,” Alex explains. “I swear. But I’m still sorry. And I…for what it’s worth, I don’t hate you at all.”

This makes Henry look over at him, obviously confused. “I thought––”

“Yeah,” Alex chuckles. “Me too, honestly. But I––you can hate me forever if you want. And I’m really fucking sorry that happened to your store because you don’t deserve it, but I want to help.”

He pulls an envelope out of his pocket. Henry takes it with shaking hands and opens it to reveal, first, a white tulip, then a wad of cash. “Alex…”

“The white tulip means new beginnings,” Alex explains, just in case Henry doesn’t already know. “And the money is for whatever you want. Awning, a window, whatever.”

“Love,” Henry whispers.

Alex raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Henry looks over at him with big red eyes. “The white tulip,” he says, swallowing a lump in his throat, “also means love. It’s…it’s romantic.”

Alex feels his face turn bright red. He rubs the back of his neck. “Like I said,” he whispers, staring into Henry’s eyes. “I don’t hate you.”

Henry’s lips tug up in the corners for a moment before he moves forward, closing the distance between them. Henry’s lips are soft on his own and Alex can’t help but melt into it. His hands instantly find their way to Henry’s hair which is softer than he imagined it to be. Henry’s free hand wraps around Alex’s waist, pulling him closer as he deepens the kiss. The whole thing is making Alex feel like he’s being set on fire in the best way possible.

They pull back for a moment, staring at each other. Alex takes Henry’s face in his hands, rubbing his jaw with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry about your store.”

“It’s alright. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know but…we’ll fix it, okay? Together.”

Henry stares at him for a moment, those blue eyes making Alex’s body tingle. “You mean that?”

Alex nods and kisses him quickly again. “‘Course I do. I know we made good enemies but I’ve got a feeling that we’ll make even better partners.”

A week later, Henry’s store is fixed and in full swing again. On his way to work, Alex stops by just to see how Henry’s doing. When he walks in, Henry puts down the arrangement he’s working on and rushes over, wrapping his arms around Alex and kissing him.

“Good morning, love,” Henry beams in the small space between their lips.

Alex smiles and kisses him again. “Morning, handsome. How goes the store?”

“Fantastic, actually. We’re getting more customers than ever, thanks to you.”

Alex rolls his eyes and shoves him playfully. “It’s not all because of me,” he argues. “I think you underestimate the power of your pretty face.”

Henry smiles again and kisses him once more.

The two stores may still be across the street from each other, but you’d have no idea they were once owned by two sets of different people. Marking the space between them is a road of chalk-drawn flowers, inviting you to step inside either one. If you go into the Green House, you’ll find flowers for every occasion and a variety of healing crystals and succulents. If you go into the V&A, you’ll find sweet treats, delicious beverages, and, their newest edition, little dogs made of wire and covered in flowers available for purchase.

Even though two of the owners, the blond one and the short one with a mess of curls, work in different shops, you can see the way they look at each other through the glass––lovesick smiles on both of their faces.

Yeah, Alex thinks he might ask June if he can switch with Pez soon.

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #firstprince #alex claremont diaz #prince henry of wales #henry fox mountchristen windsor #flower shop au #au #fan fic #cute

55 notes · View notes

2manyfandoms2count · 4 years

Text

AU Yeah August Day 13

Here’s another AU for @auyeahaugust! Will it evolve into a fully-fledged story? Probably. Hope you’ll enjoy! xxx

---

Day 13: Flower Shop AU

Marinette stared at the blank page in front of her, pensively tapping her pencil on her desk. She could have sworn that she’d found the perfect outfit to close her next fashion show as she was about to fall asleep the previous night. Something so spectacular, she knew she’d remember it in the morning.

Except morning had come, and still the design eluded her. She had raked her brain throughout breakfast, causing a couple of spills, during her commute to work, which had almost made her miss her stop, and ever since she’d sat down at her desk, three hours ago. The page just stared right back at her.

She sighed and dropped her pencil. Leaning her head on top of her hand, she took a look at her surroundings. She loved her office. She had furnished it in a way that let her creativity flow, and it did the trick - most of the time. The wide windows let the Spring sunshine in, the rays ricocheting against the smooth white surfaces of the cabinets, and the strategically placed mirrors. It made the room look larger, brighter.

She had restrained what she considered to be her clutter to the right hand side of the room. A large cork board took up most of the wall space there, covered in overlapping swatches and sketches. On a low table below it were piles of fashion magazines, more or less old, that she kept for reviews or inspiration. A couple of picture frames also stood there, containing pictures of her parents and friends, and some good shots of herself at fashion shows.

Her eyes swept the room and landed on an intricate vase that sat opposite her. The cleaner, Mister Fu, always made a point to buy flowers for her office, and refused to put them on the company’s bill. It was his way of thanking her for keeping him on despite his old age. She’d never been able to tell exactly how old he was, but one thing was for sure: he was beyond French retiring age. He’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere when she’d established her brand, and worked around as the two-room office expanded into a three-room, a full floor, and now a whole building with Marinette Designs gaining more and more recognition in the fashion world. He cleaned, DIYed, decorated, and had a good eye for things that needed fixing, even if no one knew it yet. She’d come to consider his services as invaluable, especially the odd wisdom bits he provided every once in a while. She really could have done with his help today, maybe he could have helped her with the eluding dress. He’d taken the day off, though, and, if she judged by the wilting flowers that stood in front of her, had forgotten his self-appointed florist duties. Maybe that was what was blocking her flow.

She stood up and walked towards the vase, grabbed it, and made her way towards her office bin. It had been a wonderful bouquet, colourful and fragrant. The sweet smell of lilies remained as she picked them up and shook them gently above the vase, so as to get rid of as much water as she could before throwing them away. As she dropped them, a small card disentangled from the stems and landed next to the paper basket. Marinette crouched down and picked it up.

“The Cat’s fleowers.”She read, cringing at the bad pun. A little black cat holding a four-leafed clover sat under the flower shop's name, and above its address.

She recognised the street as one she took every day, and the number as being between her metro station and the office, yet she couldn’t picture the shop. She shrugged, slid the card on her desk and walked back to her chair, plumping down in front of the taunting white page.

Quarter of an hour of fidgeting, head scratching and deep sighing later, Marinette looked up again, having achieved nothing but weak sketches. The vase caught her eyes once again, its emptiness now bothering her.

She glanced at her watch. Quarter to twelve. She’d be off for her lunch break soon, anyway. She grabbed her vest and handbag and left her office, giving a small wave at her secretary as she did so.

She breathed in deeply and smiled contently as she exited the building, reveling in the warm sunshine that landed on her face. She dug out her butterfly sunglasses and walked down the street.

---

Adrien was bored. He usually never tired of working in Mr Fu’s flower shop, but today seemed like the exception. He’d met Mr Fu by chance one day as he came back from one of his modelling jobs, and had helped the old man carry large potted plants inside the premises. Adrien had fallen in love with the cool atmosphere and the plethora of flowers, which made him feel like he’d just stepped into a different corner of the world. He hadn’t hesitated when Mr Fu had asked him if he’d be interested in working there on the days he couldn’t come in. The fact he could wear a relaxed attire, rather than his usual smart dress, was a bonus. So far, no one had recognised him.

Although the shop was generally quite busy, it seemed like everyone had decided to shun flowers today. Not one customer had pushed the door to his little botanical heaven. Even Plagg, the resident black cat, had decided to loaf around, hidden somewhere between the azaleas and the hibiscuses.

Adrien was about to give up and head out early for lunch when he heard the characteristic jingle of the door. His breath caught as an elegant lady walked in. She wore a simple, yet tasteful, red polka-dotted dress which had him instantly nickname her ‘Ladybug’. Her eyes were masked by large sunglasses. Standing in the midst of the flowers, she looked like a model in a jungle-themed photo shoot. He would know, having participated in more than one.

From where he stood, at the till, he had a good view of what was going on in the shop, without actually being seen, hidden behind the hanging plants section. He watched as she walked around hesitantly, examining the different bouquets on display. She turned around and her apparent perplexity made him shake out of his admiration. He strode out of his hiding place, smoothing his black and green apron as he did so.

“Hi, welcome to the Cat’s fleower’s, may I help you?” He wished there was something more original to say, but he could hardly go ahead and just offer her flowers.

Marinette frowned slightly, although her expression was hidden by her bangs and glasses. There was something familiar about the man standing before her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She quickly scanned his appearance, her designer eye turning into critique mode, and tried to identify where she’d seen him before. He was, she would say, conventionally handsome, in an ‘I don’t try’ way. His blond hair was tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed (it wasn’t a bad look, but it could be improved on), and his glasses bore a layer of dirt which occulted his eyes, that she assumed were green. He definitely would have stood out from all the manicured men she mixed with in the fashion world. A stray Chat Noir amidst a bunch of aristocats.

Maybe she’d just seen him in the street.

“Hello, I wanted to buy a bouquet, but I can’t really pick. You have a beautiful selection.” She smiled, and Adrien could swear his heart skipped a beat.

“Thank you.” He replied, deciding to take the compliment as if he’d ordered the flowers himself. “If I may ask, what’s the occasion?”

“Oh, nothing in particular.” She shrugged. “I just like having blooms around when I work.”

“That makes two of us.” He winked. “Is there anything you feel drawn to? Or any emotions you’re feeling?”

Marinette thought it was quite a personal question to ask someone he’d just met, but didn’t dislike it.

“I’m short on inspiration these days.” She admitted.

“Creativity boost, coming right up!” He grinned. Now was his time to shine; ever since starting this part-time job, he’d started reading up on the flower language, and it seemed like his study would finally be paying off. “As it happens, I have angelicas, which represent inspiration, in stock. I’ll also add hollyhock for ambition, gerberas for stress relief, sweet basil for good wishes, and-”

He was interrupted by her ringtone. Ladybug fished her phone out of her handbag, and saw a familiar face on the screen.

“Sorry, I have to take this.” She apologised, swiping to answer. He nodded understandingly and gestured that he’d be wrapping the bouquet.

“Hello?”

“Hi boss!” Alya, her PR manager, and incidentally, her best friend greeted. “You are going to LOVE me.”

Marinette shook her head, amused. “You know I already do, what did you do this time?”

“I only went and got you THE Adrien Agreste’s number!” Her friend squealed, making her move her phone away from her ear.

“You didn’t!” She gasped. “How?”

“Girl, I’ve seen how you drool over his pictures, I needed to do something about it! Nino knows him, it wasn’t very hard to convince him to give me his number.”

Marinette had nursed a crush on the model ever since he’d given her his umbrella at the end of a fashion show, back when she was still an intern working for a big brand. It didn’t hurt that he was one of the most handsome models out there. They’d seen each other again from afar during fashion weeks, their interactions often summarised to a little chit-chat over a glass of Champagne, surrounded by a crowd.

“But what will I even do with it?” She asked, panic seeping through her words. How could she justify getting his number? And what would she say? Would he even know who she was?

“Marinette, I can feel your anxiety from here, breathe.” Alya chuckled. “We’ll work on it.”

“Okay.” Marinette steadied her breathing. “Meet you in ten for lunch?”

Adrien’s heart sank as he heard the words. He’d been about to ask her if she felt like grabbing a bite with him. He grabbed his pen and scribbled a quick ladybug sketch on the back of the business card, along with the words ‘see you again soon!’ and stapled it to the bouquet.

Marinette stole a last look at the flower shop as she exited it after paying, and smiled. She had to admit, Chat Noir’s enumeration had left her dubious. She definitely wouldn't have thought of arranging those flowers together, yet the bouquet was beautiful. She held it out at arms length to examine it, and saw the card. Her mind raced, and she suddenly knew how to end her show. She accelerated her pace to get back to the office before the idea flew away.

Adrien Agreste’s number, wonderful flowers, and a strike of inspiration. The Cat’s fleowers had worked like a lucky charm.

She had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of it.

#mlauyeahaugust #auyeah2020 #flowershop au #lovesquare #miraculous ladybug #the miraculous tales of ladybug and cat noir #mlb #miraculous fanfic #miraculous fanfiction #elle writes

21 notes · View notes

nataliedanovelist · 4 years

Text

GF - Where the Crop Circles Grow ch.6

Summary: When things get out of hand at the Pines’ family farm, Ford asks an old college buddy to assist investigating anomalies and Stan hires a farmhand. Who knew asking for help would actually get you somewhere?

For @lemonfodrizzleart. Part of her Farmer AU and featuring her OC, Jackie Asante.

Ao3 link here.

ch.5 - ch.7

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackie was wide awake a good hour before the sun would rise, before Clock would wake the whole house, and yet she didn’t have the strength to get out of bed. Her mind was swimming with so many thought she felt like she was drowning.

Last night she had sex with Stanley Pines, her employer and friend. What the hell was she thinking?! She was thinking he was beautiful and smart and kind and everything she had ever wanted she just wanted to hold him forever, and thus it resorted to her losing her white dress to hay and walking out of a barn in Stan’s shirt and being caught red-handed by Ford and Fiddleford. (Thank God Tate was asleep and didn’t ask questions; if he had been awake Jackie probably would’ve killed herself.)

Her mind replayed what Stan had said to her before they got busy. He seemed to have meant those nice things he said to her, not just saying it to get her to undress. Jackie was a pretty decent reader of character, so okay, at the absolute very least Stan liked her. He wasn’t going to kick her out or dump her. But did he want to do it again? She knew she wanted to at some point, but…

Jackie groaned and laid on her stomach as she buried her face in her pillow. Really, would it be the end of the world if they were together? Probably not, but did Stan even want that? Jackie wanted to think so, but a small voice in the back of her mind told her he only saw her as an employee with benefits and to not get her hopes up. And of course there were the other men in the house. Ford was mortified when he discovered what they had done, but Jackie considered that it was only because he did not want to think about his twin having sex. Fiddleford, who had been married and even had a son, seemed a little too understanding and supportive. Jackie didn’t think she could stand to see their faces today, so she made up her mind to get up now, do her chores quickly before anyone else woke up, and lock herself in her room until dinner.

While the coffee pot brewed, Jackie quickly mixed together some simple blueberry muffins. While they baked in the oven, she quickly fed the chickens and watered the sheep and let them out onto the field. By the time she re-entered the kitchen the muffins were perfect and she let them cool while she tidied the sheep’s barn and gave them fresh hay. Jackie had just fixed her mug of coffee and plated herself two muffins when she heard footsteps and she hurried into her bedroom to indulge in a book.

It took a hot shower and a few sips of coffee for Stan to realize what Jackie had done. He laughed at himself to find the morning chores done and an easy breakfast laid out on the table. Shaking his head, he happily munched on a muffin on his way to the big barn to milk Luna and brush Truffles and he decided that he would check on her later.

~~~~~~~~~~

As the day wore on, as the sun crept higher and higher up the sky, dark clouds drifted into the scenery and hid the sun. Ford and Fiddleford had just enough time to retrieve their cameras so they could spend the rainy afternoon developing the photos in the thinking parlor before it started pouring down. It never escalated into thunder and lightning, but it was a merciless rain that kept the animals sleeping inside their barns and nests, but thankfully the lack of wind made it okay to sit on the porch and watch the rain, and that’s what Stan did until he fell asleep in his chair.

That left the four-year-old to snuggle up with a blanket on the couch and watch TV, but nothing good was on. Tate huffed and turned it off to try to think of what to do so he wouldn’t be bored no more. He could read a book, but he had done that yesterday. He could play with his toys in his room, but he didn’t feel like it. He wanted to get up and move, but it was raining too hard to play outside, Daddy said so when he came back with Uncle Ford with the cameras, so Tate decided he would do exploring.

He liked this house. It was big but not too big and it felt like home. He really liked it here, and though he knew it wasn’t good to be a sneaky peaky spy, Daddy and Uncle Ford and Uncle Stan and Auntie Jackie never got mad. Tate knew what most of the room were and where most doors led to, but there was one in the hallway that he didn’t know where it led to, so Tate opened it and he beamed to find raincoats, a vacuum, and a box of board games on the floor so Tate could reach.

Tate grinned and decided to pick a game to play. Maybe Daddy would wanna play, or when Uncle Stan wakes up he would wanna play. There was a small box of cards on the top of the stack; Tate thought it would be a good idea to play Go Fish. Tate saw Connect Forty-Four, Don’t Wake Stalin, Battle Chutes and Ladder Ships, but the game on top of the stack and right below the cards a game caught Tate’s eye. He liked the big red dragon behind the funny looking wizard, some kinda monster with big lips, and the pretty elf with the unicorn, all above a table of people playing the game.

Take picked up the green box and smiled. He was only four, but Daddy taught him how to read, so he could read the game and the rules. It looked like fun!

Meanwhile, Ford stretched his arms over his head and left the thinking parlor for a drink of water and possibly a snack. He looked down the hall and smiled when he found Tate in front of the closet where they kept the board games, holding a box he found intriguing. “Hello, Tate,” Ford said and walked up to him.

“Hi, Uncle Ford!” Tate piped and looked up at him and showed him the box in his hands. “Lookie what I found!”

Ford instantly recognized the well-used fantasy-talking, level-counting, statistics and graph-paper involved game from college and grinned. “Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons! That’s my favorite game in the whole Multiverse! I used to play with your father and some other fans of the game back in Backupsmore.”

“Can we play it now?” Tate asked.

Ford held his cleft chin in thought and smiled down at his best friend’s son. Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons was usually a complex and thoughtful game; you had to have a prepared Quest Master for starters, create a character and fill out a character-sheet, and use math and statistics a bit too advanced for the average four-year-old, but Tate wasn’t the average four-year-old. Ford knew he wasn’t good with kids and so he had somewhat kept his distance, but Fiddleford had often said the two were very similar and Ford was quicker to notice the similarities between the father and son, so Ford shrugged and got on one knee to be eye-level with the boy. He might not know much about kids, but he did know a lot about this. “Yes, I suppose we can play. This game involves both math and imagination, so I’m sure someone was intelligent as you will love it.”

Tate grinned at the compliment and watched Ford grab a black backpack from the closet’s shelf and then followed him to the living room to play on the card table. Luckily Ford had what he needed to be a Quest Master and knew the game well enough for the job, so he let Tate use a basic character to learn how to play and to see if he would like it. Ford looked out for any sign that the boy wasn’t having fun, but Tate took to it like a fish to water. The minute he learned he had to fill out a character sheet to play for real, he begged to fill one out and Ford happily showed him how to roll the dice and earn his character’s traits and skill-set.

Soon Ford had Tate the elf go on a magical quest. Tate found a dungeon by a river when he used his sword to cut away some plants, and Tate now had to battle boody-traps and devious gremlins to win the game. Ford started to roll dice in a normal manner, but after a while he reverted to his unique way: weaving the dice in between his fingers and picking it back up with his thumb, starting the cycle all over again. Tate nearly lost his mind and demanded to see it again. With hot cheeks, Ford happily showed the boy his little trick and Tate instantly tried to do it, too, but Ford chuckled and explained that it took lots of practice, and then it was back to the game.

“Alright, you enter the chamber.” Ford narrated, in his element, with the models in front of him and his guide for what to do, determined on what Tate rolled. Tate decided that he liked the way Uncle Ford told stories. “Princess Unattainable beckons you, but wait! It’s a trap!” Tate gasped in horror as Ford wiggled his twelve fingers and imitated an evil grin. “An illusion cast by Probabilitor the Annoying!”

“Oh no!” Tate yelled and shook the dice in his combined fists. “I’ll get him with my sword!”

“Hold on, he only has one weakness.” Ford chuckled. “Prime statistical anomalies over 37 but exceeding 51.”

“Oh. Isn’t an anomaly a weird thingy in the woods?”

Ford laughed; of course this kid would first associate the word with Ford and Fiddleford’s field research. “Yes, but… okay, okay, here’s what you do. You see the dice with 38 sides? Roll that with these two, and then I’ll roll these three, and then we get to do some math to see who wins.”

“Yay! Math!” Tate quickly rolled his three dice and Ford rolled his. Ford even took the time to show Tate on his notepad why you should add certain numbers together, and it looked like Tate barely beat Probabilator’s illusion. “Yes! I did it!”

“Good job!” Ford said and ruffled Tate’s hat. “You’ve Probabilitor on the ropes! Now…”

“Oh ho, so this is where you disappeared to.”

“Hi Daddy!” Tate said happily as Fiddleford stood at the doorway, smiling and amused by the scene before him. “Uncle Ford’s teachin’ me how t’play Dungeons, Dungeons n’ More Dungeons n’ be an elf n’ kick Probabilitor’s butt!”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow at his old college roommate, his smile still standing. “You dug out that old game, then?”

“More like your son was nosy and I couldn’t resist teaching him a trick or two.” Ford answered with a chuckle and ruffled Tate’s hat to show there were no hard feelings.

“Ugh, are you serious?” Tate and Ford looked over to find that Stan had returned, rubbing his eyes with his fists, awoken by the sounds of dorks. “You’re teaching squirt that nerd game?”

“It’s not a nerd game, Stanley, you would like it if you gave it a chance.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer to do my dice rolling in Vegas.”

“C’mon, Uncle Stan, don’tcha wanna play?” Tate asked and smiled up at him. “You’re always a lot of fun to play with! You can even pick the weapon I get Probabilitor with!”

Stan couldn’t hide the blush in his face. Before he could answer, Jackie walked behind Stan swiftly for a drink of water, but Tate saw her and quickly said, “Auntie Jackie’ll play, won’t you?”

Jackie jumped and darted her eyes all over the room. She ignored Stan and Fiddleford’s smug looks and tried to piece together what the boy wanted. “Um… what?”

“Dungeons, Dungeons, n’ More Dungeons.” Tate explained and even held up the box’s lid for her. “Can’t we all play together, pwease pwease pwease?” He begged, and even puckered his bottom lip out a little bit to sweeten the deal.

Jackie smiled sympathetically as she exchanged facial expressions with the adults. It wasn’t fair to Tate that there was no one his age to play with or to keep him company. While he had never once complained, it meant a lot of his free time was spent playing alone or helping with chores just so he had somebody to talk to. Just for one afternoon, it couldn’t hurt to give in and do this one thing the child clearly desperately wanted.

“I don’t see why not.” She said with a shrug. “Never played, but I’ve heard good things about it. Why don’t I pop some popcorn and make hot chocolate for a snack?”

“Great idea!” Fiddleford backed up. “I’ll go get my old character sheet!”

“Alright, Stanley come here and I’ll help you create your character.”

“Ugh, do I gotta be some sparkly elf or something?”

“No, you can be whatever you want to be. An ogre, a fairy, a centaur…”

“You had me at ogre! I’m gonna have my own swamp and kick out any annoying fairytale creatures!”

Later that evening, after all the characters had been set and the game was ready to begin, the card table became too filled to function, so everything was laid out on the floor and everyone sat in pajamas and snacked on bowls of popcorn, pretzels, chipackcerz, and mugs of hot chocolate. Clipboards for the players’ character sheets, colorful dice, and notepads also littered the living room, and as the room was lit with candles and the wood-burning fireplace to give it a spooky feel, Ford happily narrated his players through the game. “After your victory against the clan of goblins, you rest at a pub…”

“I’m gonna flirt with the barmaid to get some free drinks!” Stan declared and rolled a 38 sided die; once he understood that this game involved more risk and imagination than math, he started to warm up to it, and though he would never admit it, he had fun playing pretend.

Ford chuckled and looked down at the die. “You’re successful! The barmaid is charmed by your smooth words and strong stature, and slides you a free drink, but unfortunately your score isn’t high enough to earn everyone else a drink. Your players need to recharge from battle, so everyone needs to pay one gold coin for fuel.”

“Imma get chocolate milk!” Tate cheered as he changed the amount of gold he had in his bag on his character sheet.

“Okay, everyone roll your 12 sided die.” Once all the dice were still, Ford winced at the score and said with a devilish smile, “Your cheerfulness over your victory has caught the attention of your worst, and most annoying, enemy: Probabilitor the Annoying!”

“Dang it!” Stan yelled as he popped a piece of gum into his mouth.

“He’s accompanied by his trusty eagle, perfect for capturing victims, a hot elf, and his head ogre. Seeking revenge for taking down his army of goblins, Probabilitor attacks the pub with…” Ford rolled his dice. “... a math ray! Everyone roll your D-38.”

While Stan rolled a 32 and Tate rolled a 28, Fiddleford rolled a 17 and Jackie rolled a 2. “What!?” She shrieked, having been earning low numbers the entire game. “Stan, did you load my dice!?”

“Aw, c’mon, missy,” Stan laughed. “I wouldn’t cheat… okay, but not at a nerd game. It ain’t worth my best tricks.”

“While Goldie and Tate dodged the math ray in time, Hadron and Drizzle are hit, Drizzle left weak while Hadron almost made it to safety. The eagle takes advantage and takes them in his talons, following Probabilitor into the sky as the ogre and hot elf ride on the large bird’s back. Goldie, Tate, what do you do?”

“We go after them!” Tate declared.

“What happens if we don’t?” Stan asked.

“Probabilitor will eat their brains. It’s his thing.” Ford answered.

“Fine, guess we’ll go on another quest.” Stan ruffled Tate’s hat, the two paired into a team, and Ford had them set off into the woods for their team members.

“Alright, meanwhile at the campsite,” Ford went on. “Hadron and Drizzle are tied to a tree while the hot elf readies the brain-cooking pot.”

“Hold on, ain’t there a way we can escape?” Fiddleford asked. “It’s only rope, n’ I got my dagger, remember. If it’s in my belt by my hip…”

“Good ingenuity, let’s give it a try.” Ford cleared his throat and reread the rules to make sure it was fair. “Probabilitor, distracted by picking garnishes for your brains, doesn’t notice that Hadron has a weapon he can use without his hands. Roll your D-12, you have to get a 10 or higher to be successful.”

Fiddleford blew into his fists for good luck and let his D-12 go, but then slapped his forehead and winced at the 8.

“You managed to cut some of the binding holding you and Drizzle captive, but your dagger falls from your belt and lands on the grass and out of reach. Before Drizzle can even try to get it back with her foot, Probabilitor returns to do some more annoying dragging about how he’s going to eat you.”

“If I get my eight-year-old character killed over this, Imma lose it.” Fiddleford joked; there was no way he was going to die like this, right? Right?!

“Ugh, if my hands were free I’d break every part of his face.” Jackie growled.

“Oh ho, Probabilitor is so annoying he has even invoked the wrath of the peaceful druid elf.” Ford chuckled. “Helpless for the time being, it’s up to Goldie and Tate to save them, but first they must travel through the woods and reach the campsite.”

“Okay!” Tate cheered and punched the air, ready to beat up some bad guys.

“You two are getting close to your destination, you can tell by the frequent fairy bites. When suddenly your path is blocked by a huge ogre, armed with an axe!”

“Aw, come on, Manly Dave, I thought we were cool.” Stan said sarcastically and the whole room laughed.

“‘Halt!’ Dave the Ogre says.” Ford was using a deeper, gritter voice for the ogre, making Tate grin as the narrator had a way of making the story come to life. “‘You interlopers are trespassing on the ancient forest of Probabilitor the Wizard! If ye wish to pass, first ye must complete seven unworldly quests, each more difficult than the last…’”

“I bonk him over the head with my bat!” Stan interrupted.

“Okay, one, you have a club, not a bat, Stanley,” Ford explained for the uptheenth time. “And second, you can’t…”

“Sure I can! Our team members are gonna be dead soon, we don’t have time for seven stupid quests! So I use nature’s snooze button and bonk him over the head!” Stan argued and shook his dice in his fist.

“Fine, roll your D-38…” The room gasped as Stan rolled a 36. Ford, chuckling with disbelief, said, “You bonk your club on the ogre’s head and it knocks him out cold. He’s not dead, but he won’t be walking for a long time.”

“There’s no cops in the forest.” Stan hissed to Tate. “We take this to our graves.”

The boy actually pushed his hat and bangs back to show Uncle Stan his trusty wink, making the whole room laugh.

“Very well! You are approaching the campsite!” Ford narrated with wiggling fingers. “As Goldie and Tate hide in the bushes, Probabilitor tackles.” Ford cleared his throat and made the wheeziest, annoying voice he could muster, causing Jackie to snort and cover her mouth to keep from spitting out soda. “‘And now, a little math problem! When I subtract your brains from your skulls, add salt, and divide your team, what’s the remainder?’”

“YOUR BUTT!” Tate cried out.

“‘What?!’” Ford wheezed. “‘My butt isn’t part of this particular equation!’” The whole room laughed loudly and Ford had to wait for everyone to calm down before continuing. “Though your insult may have been funny, your cover is blown. Goldie and Tate now have no choice but to battle Probabilitor for the lives of Hadron and Drizzle!”

“Yup, we’re dead.” Fiddleford said and pulled out a clean character sheet. “Better start creatin’ a new character.”

“Hey! We’ve got this, right squirt?” Stan asked as he wrapped an arm around Tate.

“Yeah!”

“Let the battle begin!” Ford placed two small figures of ogres and said, “The ogres swing first! Roll your D-38s to dodge!” Ford rolled a 13 while Stan rolled a 14.

“Goldie uses a… Shield of Shielding to, you know, shield Goldie and Tate!” Stan made up.

“Probabilitor casts a reversal spell, and…” Ford rolled a 15. “... is successful. The shield disintegrates. The ogres attack! Now you can choose to attack or…”

“Oh! Giggle time bouncy boots!” Tate yelled out. “To jump over the meanie’s heads!” Both Ford and Tate rolled, but Tate’s was higher.

“The boots work!” Ford said. “Goldie and Tate bounce to safety, missing the axes and clubs by the skin of their noses.”

“Now they use flamey swords… no! SUPER hot flamey swords!” Tate declared, getting really excited. The boy rolled a 21, Stan rolled an 18, and Ford rolled a 2.

“Incredible luck!” Ford gasp. “Your swords are so powerful they destroy the ogres in an instant!” And he swiped up the little figures. “‘Drat you!’ Probabilitor screeches. ‘You’ll never outrun my Ogre-nado!’” And Ford rolled a 30.

“Yes we will!” Tate said and hopped up on his feet, shaking the die hard. “Centaur-taur will swoop in and save Tate and Goldie!” And Tate rolled a 32.

“A what?” Fiddleford chuckled.

“A Centaur-taur.” Tate repeated and showed a drawing he had made last night when thinking of weapons and characters. It was both horrifying and impressive.

“Tate, I am so confused n’ so proud right now.” Fiddleford said thickly with shiny blue eyes.

“The Centaur-taur dashes just in time and carries Goldie and Tate to the thick of the trees, where the ogre-nado is broken and destroyed. Goldie and Tate rush back to try to free Hadron and Drizzle, but Probabilitor’s score is still too high to be defeated.” Ford rolls his D-4, D-12, and D-38 to determine which of Probabilitor’s spells or minions to use; the Quest Master’s eyes widened as this specific combination of numbers meant he had to use the most powerful monster is all of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons.

Ford grinned sheepishly, and narrates slowly for suspense, “You think all is well and good, but Probabilitor was saving the worst for last. Just before Goldie and Tate reach their team members, they’re grabbed by a huge claw with three fingers and are faced with a mouth inside of a mouth and a fiery red eye.” And Ford slammed down the biggest statue they had.

Fiddleford gasped. “The Impossi-Beast! I thought they banned this character!” He argued.

Ford shrugged. “Sorry, but this is the original 1972 version. They didn’t ban the Impossi-Beast until the second version, released in 1975.”

“It’s okay, we’ll just think of some cool weapons…”

“Ya don’t understand, son.” Fiddleford said as he gripped the boy’s shoulder. “He’s so powerful that he can only be defeated by rolling a perfect 38! If not, then we all lose our characters!”

“Rollin’ a 38?!” Tate gasped. “The odds are…”

“Hey, long odds are what you want when you’re a world-class gambler!” Stan said and took up his D-38. “C’mon, c’mon… Papa needs a new pair of… elves!” And he let go of the D-38.

Tate held onto Stan’s arm as it rolled across the floor. Fiddleford’s knees were bouncing despite being criss-cross. Jackie had her hands in her hair. Ford bit his lip, wanting his first quest with the team to be a success. The little blue die looked like it might fall on 1, but at the last second it balanced perfectly on that beautiful 38.

“WHAT?!”

Tate jumped up and down as he cheered and punched the air. “YES! Yes, yes, yes! We won! We won!”

“What do you say, buddy?” Stan asked.

“DEATH BY MUFFINS!”

“Goldie and Tate then throw magical Death Muffins into the Impossi-Beast’s mouth!” Ford narrated. “The monster explodes and Probabilitor is powerless and pathetic as always. But keeping true to his name, he annoyingly disappears into a cloud of math, promising to be back for another journey, but for now Drizzle and Hardon are free, and Goldie and Tate are upgraded to level 2 and earn twenty pieces of gold.”

“YAY!” Tate quickly scribbled down the changes on his character! “Can we go on another adventure?! Maybe we’ll find a dragon this time! I wanna try to get a Trust Arrow!”

“Unfortunately that’s all I had plan for now.” Ford held his chin and gave it some more thought. “I suppose I could…”

“Not so fast, Sixer, that’s enough nerd-game for me.” Stan stretched his arms over his head. “Ole Goldie over here’s ready for some mindless fun.”

“How about a movie?” Jackie asked and looked under the TV for the box of VCR tapes. “We’ve got The Voyages of Lionclothiclese: Clash of the Genres.”

“Oo! Put it in!”

“I haven’t seen that movie in years!” Fiddleford said excitedly as his son sat in his lap up on the couch.

Ford moved up to the couch and allowed Jackie to put the tape in the machine and soon the TV lit up with the lights and sounds of the old film. Stan had collapsed into his armchair and Jackie held her knees by her chest, sitting between the couch and the chair. Stan noticed this and shook his head discreetly. No way such a pretty woman was going to sit on the floor, even if it was carpet.

Jackie couldn’t help but feel someone’s eyes on her, and when they looked at each other Stan gave his lap a little pat so no one else would notice. The farm-woman hesitated, but being in his hold sounded amazing, and really what did she have to lose, so she slipped up into his arms and curled up in his lap, the gang allowing the old movie to fill the atmosphere and happily distract them from the real world.

#GF #fanfiction #DD&MD #ford pines #stan pines #jackie asante #tate mcgucket #Fiddleford McGucket #farmer au #gravity falls au #gravity falls #someone take my laptop away from me plz #may or may not have borrowed this idea from an old fanfic of my own #it just works SO WELL here!!!#I'm so thankful for all of you #Thanks for reading!#more to come!

24 notes · View notes

stutterfly · 5 years

Text

Love Bytes 06 | Boolean Logic | KNJ (M)

Last time on Love Bytes 05: Your friends have good intentions when eavesdropping on your first tinder date. When things don’t go exactly as you imagined, there’s comfort to be found elsewhere. A charming gesture takes your breath away and you find yourself dangerously close to crossing a line you’d never thought of before.

Rating: M (Explicit 18+)

Word Count: 12.8K

Series: Love Bytes (6/?)

Genre: F2L, fluff, humor, SLOW BURN, friendship feels, ANGST! pining, sexual tension, smut, Bestfriends!au, CollegeProjessor!Namjoon, S O F T Namjoon, did i mention slow burn??? :)

CW: anxiety, panic attacks, some negative self-talk, dirty talk, teasing, grinding, dry-humping

Pairings: Namjoon x Reader, brot7 masterlist // previous chapter // next chapter

Do not repost.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s been twenty minutes since Seokjin barged into your apartment and started listing all the things you did wrong on your date. You’d be mortified if you hadn’t already dealt with Yoongi earlier in the evening, telling you much of the same. He’d already covered the basics of looking at your date and given you a touching pep talk about knowing your worth. You’d be double mortified if not for the fact that you’re slightly distracted.

Not even thirty seconds before Jin walked in, you’d willingly put Namjoon in a position to grope your tits and it’s been on a relentless loop that surfaces between every other word Jin has to say. Kim Namjoon. Dorky professor? Firewall enforcer? Clumsy bestie? Thorn in your goddamn side? It’s only consuming every bit of brainpower as you wordlessly nod along to Jin’s lecture about the importance of posture in showcasing one’s demeanor.

Namjoon has been sitting across the room with a plate of half-eaten food before him, growing more amused by the tale Jin spins of your disastrous behaviors. He’s blowing everything way out of proportion, but you can’t muster the energy to fight him on it, not when the gears are grinding so hard to form a solid reasoning behind your earlier actions. But every time your eyes gloss over and you replay the scene in your mind, your stomach forms knots that cause you to repeatedly cross your legs over one another. You’ve done it at least three times now and both men have definitely noticed so you’re consciously fighting the urge to repeat the action.

Jin attributes it to your fidgety nature, tying it back to the way you had squirmed under the scrutiny of your date. “Y/N, I don’t think you’re really getting it. I need you to pretend we’re on a date. Here. Namjoon, be the observer.”

“Gladly,” Namjoon replies, happily slurping up a mess of noodles and fixing his gaze on your reaction.

You don’t even bother wasting a glance on the man on the floor as Jin angles his body towards you. He folds a leg over his lap, plants an elbow on the back of the sofa and rests his cheek on his palm as he leans towards you. The famous panty-dropping smoulder makes an appearance and you can’t help but feel a bit flustered by the intensity he brings to the charade. Your shoulders raise like they might shield you from the attack of such a gorgeous face. “Tell me about yourself, Y/N.”

This is torture.

You drum your fingertips on your thighs and look down at them briefly before remembering your conversation with Yoongi. Nervous eyes tear themselves away from the stubble coming in on your kneecap, forcing you to focus on the piercing gaze of Seokjin.

“Well…” you begin, fully intending to let this play out, but freeze once your eyes land on his face. “Why do you look angry? I can’t talk to you when you look like that.”

“What do you mean? Do I really look angry to you?” Jin’s brow sinks even lower towards the bridge of his nose.

Stifling a giggle, you nod and smack your lips. “It’s good practice if I ever go on a date with grumpy cat. So cute, yet so grumpy.”

You boop him on the nose and he swats your hand away. “Are you going to tell me about yourself or continue to dishonor the memory of grumpy cat?”

A sigh passes your lips. “I don’t know what to say,” you finally admit with a wince. “My life is so boring. Like, what am I supposed to say? Hi, I’m Y/N. I work on people’s computers all day and answer boring emails and support calls. In my free time I like getting drunk and laughing at videos of cats falling off of things, playing video games with friends --most of which are men by the way, is that cool?-- and going for walks at sunset.” You pause and let him take that in. “Ooh, or should I be like every generic profile I’ve seen? I like going on adventures! Hanging with friends! Living my best life. I’m an old soul. Here for a good time, not a long time! EL OH EL hit me up on Snapchat.”

The animated nature of your features quickly fades as you slump against the cushions. “I mean and here I thought I was boring as fuck. But Chul comes along and actually proves to me that I can be topped. And not in the yummy dom way.”

Namjoon chokes on a piece of pork and smacks his chest a few times, successfully dislodging it from the back of his throat.

Jin curiously roams his eyes across your face, flickering back and forth between your eyes and lips. “Ah, so... you prefer to be the sub?”

A heat rises to your cheeks and you know answering is a trap, but the longer his question hangs in the air the more flustered you become. “Are-Are you kidding? Like I’m gonna be the sub. You know I have to control everything.”

Lies are easier to tell when they’re coated with a layer of truth, no matter how thin that layer may be.

“True.” Namjoon swallows, the remnants of his cough sputtering from his mouth.

Jin considers your answer for a moment and grins, flashing you his pearly whites. “So you dom then? What’s that like?”

The other man in the room dribbles water onto his shirt at the question. He’s about ready to give up on breathing altogether. Jin knows it, too. That’s what makes this game so much fun.

You drag your teeth across your lip, trying not to think about the implication that Jin is also not a dom. “So! Enough about me. Tell me about yourself, Jin.”

With that, Seokjin snaps his fingers and points at you. “Ding ding ding! We have a winner! People love to talk about themselves. If you’re out of ideas on what to talk about, ask your date something about himself based on whatever random information you have. Give him a chance to impress you. Take me, for example. I am the head chef at Heart & Seoul, where I give everyone a taste of my heart … and soul. Everyone who has ever tried my food says it reminds them of home. You should come by sometime. I’ll make a plate special for you, courtesy of the handsome god of cookery.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, that’s certainly a statement.”

“Ask me about my food!” he prods, nudging you with his elbow. “Don’t you want to know what kind of plate I’d make for you?”

“Jin, I already know your food is good. I don’t need to ask--”

“It’s Barbe-cute,” he blurts, clearly proud of himself.

“You’re so…” You try to finish the thought but start laughing as he breaks into his own windshield-wiper cackle. A defeated half sigh, half grumble follows the trail where your laughter leaves off. “I just feel like this is the worst part, you know? Trying to explain to people who I am and why I matter. It’s like, on one hand, I don’t care! This is awful! And I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. But then… on the other hand… What if they don’t like me? Like Chul? Chul made up his mind the moment he saw me in person. He didn’t like me and I don’t know that there’s anything I could do to change that. I feel so stupid! ‘Cause I’m like, bro, didn’t you see my photos? Didn’t you look at my profile? Like why you gotta be so judgy when we talked all day?”

The man on the couch next to you uses his large hands to anchor the wrists that you’ve unconsciously been waving around during your tirade. “Okay see, this is what I’m talking about. You need to slow down and stop waving your arms whenever you speak. Imagine you’re a sloth. Slooow motions.” He uses his grip to slowly push you back against the cushion. “Relax.”

You puff air out of your lips indignantly. “Jin, I can’t. I’m not wired like a sloth. I’m more of a...a...” You shake your head, unable to find the word you’re searching for.

“Hummingbird,” Namjoon chimes in quietly, rapidly flapping his fingers up and down to mock you.

Jin laughs at the comparison, pushing you back against the seat when you begin to rise. “Oh, little hummingbird. Sit. Stay.”

Your brow furrows and a pout stains your lips as you comply, rigid shoulders resting flush against the couch.

“Good girl,” Namjoon adds with a snicker.

Ignoring the excitement stirring in your belly at the words, you narrow your eyes at him and he clutches his heart. “Oh wow if looks could kill…”

You finally sigh, dragging your hands down your face. “Jin, I get it. I suck at everything.”

“Oh don’t start that,” he scowls, jabbing your knees with a bony finger. “You’re perfectly fine. You may be a mess but you’re actually a very adorable mess.”

“Fuck off.” You wriggle away from his touch, grimacing at the nod of agreement Namjoon sends your way. “Both of you.”

“I mean it.” Jin laughs between words. “You are a delight, Y/N. Just because you have things you need to work on doesn’t make that any less true. And I'm only telling you that you need to work on these things because you are my dear, dear friend. I want to see you succeed and live your best life." He cocks his head to one side and gives Namjoon a pointed look while you're distractedly glowering. "Especially if you're dating another mess of a human, maybe someone even worse than you. Someone has to have manners. You can't both be terrible at everything."

Jin's eyes snap back to your face as he becomes the focus of your deadpan stare. "Thanks for the pep talk.”

A hand clasps your shoulder and the weight of his arm drapes across the expanse of your back. He uses his grip as leverage to press you against his torso as he scoots closer to you. "Oh, it's okay. You just have to stop trying to knock your date out. Just try to focus on that one thing for your next one okay?”

“I kind of don’t want a next one,” you grumble, allowing your cheek to fall against his collarbone. “Not if it has to feel this bad after every time.”

Wisps of his hair tickle the side of your face as he shakes his head close to yours and tightens the hug. “You don’t give up! You can’t give up! Trust me when I say the next will be better!”

You hum a doubtful note against the fabric of his shirt and push him towards the opposite end of the couch. “If you say so.”

“I know so,” he replies matter-of-factly, catching the antsy circles the chopsticks in Namjoon’s hand are drawing in the noodles left on his plate.

Just like that he begins to feel guilty. There’s something going on here, and he can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s no doubt in his mind that he truly walked in on something he wishes he hadn’t. They’ve all been waiting for him to make a move and now it’s possible that he’s trying. Today was a dud but one thing is certain: it would be so sad to see him lose you to a stranger because he’s too scared to elicit change. Namjoon isn’t going to outright ask him to leave, but it’s written all over his face. Maybe it’s time to let whatever developments have obviously been happening between you two continue.

With a loud sigh and stretch, Seokjin rises from the cushions and makes his way to the door. “Well, I think I’ve made my point. I should get going though. Don’t let this experience bother you too much.”

You spring from the couch and catch the door as he opens it. “I’m fine. Really.”

He shoots you a questioning look but you pull him into a quick hug that allays most of the tension within it. Namjoon unfolds his legs and stands as you exchange goodbyes with Seokjin and usher him out of your apartment with a tired smile.

The door finally closes with a dull thud. Your shoulders deflate with the air in your lungs as you turn the heavy deadbolt. Namjoon’s palms find purchase on the precipice of your shoulders, fingers dipping softly into the crevasse made by your collarbones. You melt back into his touch, throwing your head into his chest when the pleasurable chill of the massage works its way down your spine.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m not that stressed. Really,” you weakly attempt to reason with him, silently wishing he’d never stop. A moan rumbles in your throat, making your brain go numb.

“I know,” he mumbles while continuing the controlled movements of his fingertips. “Fist of Fury sounding good?”

“Mmm, I was thinking about something with more comedy.”

“Way of the Dragon then?” he suggests, gently leading you towards the couch in a slow waddle.

“Please don’t make me watch it in English,” you groan, shuffling in time with his strides. “I don’t think I can take that dub again.”

“Fine, fine. Hold up.” He offers an amused smile as he pushes you towards the sofa as he searches for the DVD in question.

The loss of his touch leaves a chill in its wake and you instinctively pull on the fuzzy blanket scrunched into the gap between cushions. You drape it across your torso and bury your arms underneath just as Namjoon pops the DVD into the xbox below the television. He mindlessly grabs a controller, flicks the lightswitch, and shoves the nearby ottoman with his foot until it’s closing in on the sofa. You react before it can hit your shins.

As he flops onto the cushion beside you, the sensation of your legs brushing against each other has you leaning towards him with a shiver. The startup screen highlights his face as you lift the blanket, offering coverage despite feeling the heat radiating from his body. You just want to feel someone next to you. Much to your surprise, he accepts the offer and huddles in, pressing your bodies close together.

Quelling the shakiness of your exhale, you reach over to grab the controller from his lap. Instead the muscles of his thighs flex as your hand drags across them. You’re already apologizing as you jump in place, retracting your hand as quickly as possible while fumbling to look for the controller. He looks down at your hand and then back up to your face, silently pursing his lips as he drops the controller into your palm.

"Sorry," you mumble again as you navigate through the menus, not daring to peek over at his face.

"Don't worry about it," he whispers, sprawling an arm over the couch cushion behind you. His fingertips lazily tap against the contour of your shoulder, wishing that the t-shirt was smaller, thinner, something that could expose more of your skin beneath the blanket.

You fail to contain the deep inhale that causes your chest to rise and slowly breathe out the nerves constricting your lungs. As you start the movie and set the controller on the armrest, you turn your head to look at him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he parrots back at you. The warmth of his leg presses into your thigh, serving as a reminder of the wetness between yours.

“About earlier, I…” you trail off, unable to finish the statement. The needy touch-starved thoughts haven’t yet worn off and you curse your brain for letting you taint your friendship with impure thoughts of the man beside you. How could you possibly tell him that you weren’t thinking clearly before when you still want him to touch you, when your pussy clenches any time he pushes his body against you? The familiar sound of the title music fills the silence.

“Don’t worry about it,” he repeats softly. “Let’s just… watch Bruce Lee, hmm?”

His words somehow simultaneously bring you comfort and disappointment. You smile and nod, shifting your attention back to the television, though you can feel the feathery touch of his fingertips flirting with the hem of your sleeve seconds later. As you shift in your seat to relax your head against him, that same touch trails up your shoulder to brush a mess of hair from your neck before settling comfortably in the space between them. You chuckle at the old woman staring down Bruce Lee as your eyelids grow heavy. There’s no way you were even going to make it five minutes in, but you attempt it anyway.

“She lookin’ at him like a snack.” You’re relying on your thirst to keep yourself awake. “I agree.”

Namjoon snorts. “She’s looking at him like she’s gonna call the cops. Are we watching the same movie?”

“My bad. I’m self-inserting for granny,” you murmur, voice growing wearier by the syllable.

“Are you already falling asleep? We can watch it another night if you’re tired.” You can feel his eyes boring into the top of your skull as your eyelashes flutter against his chest.

“No,” you argue weakly, not bothering to lift your head to meet his gaze.

“I can feel you closing your eyes.”

“No,” you say again with a slight shake of your head that doubles as an excuse to nuzzle into the warmth of his chest.

“So if I took my phone out right now and snapped a pic, your eyes wouldn’t be closed?”

“Nope.”

“Not nice to lie,” he teases softly, smoothing the hair back from your forehead.

“Shhh, don’t talk during movies. You’re missing the part with the soups.”

He cradles your head with a scoff, resisting the urge to impart a goodnight kiss to the top of it as you obviously doze off. Your arm falls into his lap with the sound of a dull ‘pat’. Immediately his hand carefully draws yours away from the danger zone and sets it loosely over his. The gentle twitch of your digits against his palm beckon him to lace your fingers together. Butterflies wrack their way through his stomach and he soon complies, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as he does so.

Do you realize what you do to him? Probably not. Being here feels like walking a tightrope that he keeps wobbling back and forth on. But leaving would kill the adrenalin rush and leave him with nothing. He’d take the highwire any day if it meant there was a chance you could be waiting on the other side.

He’s determined to make it further into the movie, and he has every intention of nudging you awake, but not even five minutes later his eyelids droop and his neck bends back over the top cushion.

Just a few minutes. I’ll wake her up in a few minutes.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The change in volume from the end credits to the top menu of the DVD catapults you from slumber. You groan as you crane your stiff neck up towards the open-mouthed, snoring man whose warm chest you’ve been napping on. The grin creeping across your face threatens to break into a giggle, but you muzzle the sound before it can leave your throat.

The haze of sleep still clouds your mind and as your eyes travel up the dark skin that stretches up to his jaw, empty cravings for intimacy permeate the fog. Your head lolls back down and you scrunch your cheek against the base of his throat with a shaky exhale before turning towards him. You skim your lips over the muscles in his neck, shivering at the thought of pressing down. Pushing away the growing urge to suction your mouth down on his flesh, you lightly tap the side of his cheek. “Joonie.”

He groans loudly as he lifts his head off the cushion, but offers no other words of acknowledgement. Discomfort spreads across his features, brow knotting as he palms the back of his sore neck. His other hand firmly wraps itself around your knuckles, subconsciously dragging your palm across his lap as he stretches his limbs out. Heavy arms come back down and constrict you in a sleepy hug; the comfort it brings threatens to take you back into the world of slumber, but you shake off the impulse to close your eyes again.

“I’m gonna go to bed,” you announce softly against his white t-shirt, basking in the warmth of his embrace.

He peers down at you through dark, half-lidded eyes and struggles to bring a response to the forefront of his mind. You trace your fingers along the contours of his jaw, causing him to lean into your sleepy caress. Before you can register the movement, his lips graze the precipice of your forehead and your stomach lurches into a somersault at the sensation. Wait. Did he just...?

The bubble of his dream-state finally pops. Suddenly everything feels too real. His eyes widen and his heart drops, desperately wishing he could awaken from this moment panting and sweating within the confines of his bedroom. Is there a chance you’re not aware of his embarrassing mistake? He pulls back and the sharp sound of his lips smacking together awkwardly fills the room as the menu loop resets.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, abashed features straining to look anywhere else. “I’m gonna go.” He shifts uncomfortably, wriggling out from beneath your form, but your fingers reach out and curl around the solid mass of his forearm.

“Stay,” you whisper. “Please?”

You can’t fight the way your heart is pounding, desperate to feel the tickle of butterflies in your stomach at least one more time, to find your hand enveloped in his warm, comforting grasp. Deep, dark eyes settle on yours, searching for any excuse to decline such a tempting offer. When he comes up empty, you also find yourself at a loss for words and you shake your head, trying to come up with some explanation for the blurry lines you’ve been drawing all over your friendship with him.

You rationalize that it’s not crazy to find comfort in the arms of a good friend. How many times has Jennie kissed your forehead without meaning anything by it? How many times have you held hands with her and platonically snuggled up together? Is it really so different now that Namjoon is the one beside you?

Your mind flashes back to the moments leading up to Seokjin’s arrival. You were the one to guide him towards you. Your lips never touched, and you refuse to accept the fraction of your brain that screams of its disappointment. The fact that you got close enough to expose the possibility of Namjoon as a makeout partner is a thought you’re struggling to bury. That’s what makes him different. That’s what makes it difficult to let him leave.

You know it’s selfish, but there’s a shred of something that you can’t allow yourself to acknowledge. Until you fill the void of a relationship in your life, or sex at the very least, maybe this is exactly what you need. It’s harmless, really. Just a comforting snuggle buddy. It’s harmless... right? You ask yourself again, the echo of his heavy breaths fresh in your mind. The memory plays again: one hand clasps around his neck and pulls him down towards you, the other guiding him teasingly towards the lace of your bra as your noses brush against each other; it’s enough to set your cheeks on fire but not enough to retract the offer.

“Don’t leave. Please, just… Just lay with me again?” you plead quietly. Could you sound more pathetic? There’s never been a more appropriate time to wish you were built like a computer, or at least something you could flush the short term memory from, but here you are: painfully human and seeking complacency.

You keep your eyes fixed on him as you rise, his expression never falling into the expected air of pity. Shock. Confusion. Maybe even relief. But never the pity you anticipate. The television coats his features with a soft glow and your shoulders instinctively relax as his smile molds shadowed dimples along either side of his mouth. The word of affirmation that escapes him is barely audible over the sound of the tv.

The room grows dark and silent all too fast as you tap the power button on the back of the screen. Warmth radiates from his hand as it trails down your arm, finally twining itself between your fingers as he waits for you to lead the way. Of course he’s memorized the steps to your bedroom, but he’s not about to let impatience reveal the alacrity within.

It’s no trouble to navigate in the darkness and you find yourself needlessly tugging him closer. You’re quick to hide your own eagerness under the guise of fatigue, forcing a loud yawn from your mouth as you flop back into the center of the bed. He stumbles forward a bit before catching himself on the soft mattress, quietly climbing onto it as though the weight of his body will shatter its molecular structure.

Tonight the moon is blocked by the clouds in the sky, and the unusual pitch black nature of the room is a little unnerving. It’s easy to imagine shadows moving when you can’t see anything clearly. Before you can burden yourself with unnecessary anxiety, Namjoon’s palms are dipping into the mattress on either side of you, parallel to your waist. You can feel him ascending like a silent panther, closing in on his prey. Stale air hitches in your throat as he hovers above you, a delicately placed knee sinking into the space between your thighs.

The heat from his core sears shameful desire into the surface of your flesh and you attempt to close your legs. The inside of your soft thighs squeeze against the unexpected muscular mass of his, trapping him just below the wetness you’re refusing to acknowledge. It doesn’t take long for you to become keenly aware that if he leans any further up he will be wearing it and you press your legs even tighter together, despite knowing the barrier of muscle between them makes the task impossible.

Your palm reaches up to find his face, curling under his jaw to cup his chin in a playful venture to diffuse the tension in the air. It’s closer than you expect. There’s a strange relief in the realization that he can’t see the way your jaw falls open. That relief quickly dissipates when his plump lips press against the pad of your thumb, causing your sharp inhale to cut through the white noise of the fan nearby.

He laughs softly, breath hitting your skin in puffs as your fingernail scrapes against his upper lip. This position is not exactly ideal, considering the erection beginning to form in his boxers. With one leg trapped between your thighs and the other plunging into the mattress beside you, all it would take is one lazy dip of his pelvis to allow you to feel how you affect him.

“What are you doing?” You find your voice, but it sounds hoarse and foreign, and you make no effort to hide the accusation dripping from your own guilty lips.

“I…” His heart drops to his stomach. What is he doing? The more time that passes leaves the memory of you on the couch feeling increasingly surreal, like a cruel joke originating from a desperate imagination that he’s foolish enough to believe. He squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to think of something that will fix this mess. The rain pattering against the window is soothing and it tries to wash the awkwardness from the air, but it’s not enough.

Then a lightbulb goes off, and his hand is already gently bringing yours down to the mattress. His voice is even, despite the humiliation coursing through him. “I dropped your defenses.”

“You what…?” Before you can contemplate the meaning behind his words, his hand tightens around your wrist, pressing it into the soft mess of blankets beneath you with his full weight. You strain against his grip as he begins playfully jabbing at your waist with his free hand. You scrunch your hips towards your elbow as you swat fervently in the direction of his arm to no avail.

Strong, stubborn fingers poke and prod all of the sensitive spots he’d briefly had the pleasure to acquaint himself with. You do your best to keep the laughter from spilling out, but he isn’t satisfied by the restraint you’re showing. The noises he wrenched from you earlier had been so delicious and he’s desperate to pull more, so he dares to pinch his fingers at the tender crease in your skin between your thigh and hip.

You buck your hips and cry out at the sensation, the fabric of your shorts riding up just enough to grant his fingertips access to the outermost edge of your panties. His eyes roll into the back of his skull for a fraction of a second, reveling in his success. Your hand clamps down on his bicep, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. He would be hissing and backing off if not for the delectable sound of you stammering out a slew of pleases on repeat.

Are two fingers all it takes to make you beg me? He muses, pleased with the visual he’s created for himself in the darkness. He can feel his cock poking out from the hole in his boxers, sensitive head sliding against the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

“Joonie, please! I’m gonna--” A snort escapes the back of your throat and you choke back a gross fit of giggles as his fingers twitch against the cotton fringe beneath your shorts. “It’s too much!”

Those are definitely a string of phrases he’s going to file away for later. He licks his lips before loudly smacking them, enjoying the fact that you can’t see the devilish smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Really? ‘Cause, uh, I don’t feel a thing.”

His thumb and forefinger pinch against your flesh in that same sensitive area, ripping another uncontrollable cackle from you. Even in the darkness, it’s easy to tell that you’ve got tears in your eyes from the way you’re pleading with him. Your clammy fingers slide along the lean muscles in his bicep, tapping him repeatedly as though a referee will appear and save you from his relentless fingers. Your head falls back and you half-bury your face into a pillow to muffle the way you’re howling beneath him.

“Please, please, please,” you beg between pained wheezes, hopelessly bucking your hips up towards his. “I’ll do anything. Please. Please. Please. Please. Namjoon...”

He does his best to avoid your frenzied thrusts, dodging to the left and right to keep his now rock hard dick from touching any part of you. But the breathless way you’re pleading and panting against the pillows has him melting, daring him to grind his aching cock on your hips. His fingers slowly drag a delicate path away from the cotton he’d been trying to build the courage to do something more bold with. They trace invisible teasing lines downward and the abs hidden beneath your soft layers of flesh finally stop contracting. This time the final laugh that escapes you trails off into a breathy moan, body flaring with desire for more contact while simultaneously fatigued from twinging and fighting against his mischievous digits. Namjoon’s form lingers above you in the darkness with your crass groan refusing to leave his eardrums.

Hot breath fans the shell of your ear, his already deep voice somehow dropping an octave lower as the gravel in his throat fights the word bubbling out from it. “Anything...?”

Why does he keep doing that? It’s driving you insane. You don’t think you’ve ever heard his voice take on this tone before tonight, even in jest, and it’s making your ears ring with how hard they’re now straining to take in more of that delicious, gruff whisper. You have no choice but to hold your breath to quiet the exhale that threatens to reveal the lust coating your thoughts.

Just as you’re certain he’s about to drop his weight onto your thigh and expose the wetness soaking through your shorts, Namjoon pulls his head back with a loud contented sigh, flopping down onto the mattress beside you. Maybe he’s just giving you a taste of your own medicine. Can you blame him after all the mixed messages you’ve been sending? You’ve been filling pretty much every conversation with sexual tension lately; it makes sense that he would try to dish some back at you.

In your defense, Tinder hasn’t exactly been the fun, liberating experience you’d been promised by the app’s promotional messaging, and your frustrations are starting to become palpable. Even your vibrator can’t keep up with the rollercoaster highs of your sex drive right now. Poor Joon is just caught in the middle of a very, very bad drought and you’ll be damned if you let your friendship become a casualty of your desire for a little rain.

Coward. The thought reverberates against his skull hard enough to make him shake his head as he props himself up on one elbow.

“Help me hook my laptop to my TV so I can watch movies on the big screen,” he says, cutting through the self-loathing. Knowing you’re glaring at him in the dark, he pauses. “What? You said anything.”

“Just get a Firestick. They make those things specifically for people like you. I don’t need your incompetent ass calling me every time you can’t get it working.”

“You always gotta be rude about everything?” he tuts. “Besides, Firestick ain’t gonna help with what I want to do.”

The conversation allows you to forget the shame dripping out of you and you flip onto your side to more comfortably counter his point. “You can get every YouTube video on the planet on that thing. Not to mention Hulu, Netflix, PrimeVideo… Like, you can get anything you want to watch at the push of a few buttons. Well, everything except…” you trail off, the gears in your head spinning fast enough to come undone.

He swallows, knowing you’re about to call him out. “I don’t need a Firestick,” he reiterates.

Your cheeks flush. Porn. Of course it’s porn. Just another thought you don’t need floating around your head: Namjoon jerkin’ it to whatever weird shit he’s into. Honestly, you’re almost afraid to touch the laptop with how much he’s probably used it for that specific purpose.

“Of course not.” You sigh as your palm pushes him back against the bed, eager to just forget the night and feel the same way you did last week. “You’re gross.”

He huffs at the accusation, even though he admits to himself you’re completely right and doesn’t audibly argue the point. He also doesn’t fight the way you force him down, resting his head against a soft pillow as the weight of yours comes down onto his chest. Instinctually, his arm reaches around you, pulling you closer with his fingers tented against the small of your back. You shiver into his t-shirt, briefly catching the scent of his deodorant before closing your eyes.

“So, that’s a no then?” he asks dejectedly, voice rumbling up through the ear you’ve got pressed to his chest.

You chuckle into him as you nuzzle your face back and forth a few times, reveling in the way it feels to be in such a comfortable position with another person, even if it is Namjoon. “I guess I can do it since you’re indulging me right now... I won’t tell if you don’t?”

His fingertips move down your back to idly play with the band of your shorts, tracing lazy lines across them. You tense, taking all the self control you currently possess to stop from grinding your hips into his thigh.

He hums in response, finally resting his hand respectfully above the fabric of the t-shirt at your waist. “Okay,” he whispers.

You lay together in silence, listening to the increased assault of raindrops at your window. Normally with the fan going like this you’d be feeling chilly and be rushing to pull a blanket over you, but with the heat coming off of him in waves, you’re feeling rather warm, almost sweaty. It feels like the breath in your lungs isn’t enough and you take in a few deep, noticeable inhales and exhales. Your heart is pounding like you just ran some kind of incredible marathon.

“Y/N… You ok?” Even sleepy, you can still hear the concern dripping from his tone.

You take in a couple more hungry breaths. It almost feels like a panic attack sneaking up on you. But why now? You’re not even doing anything worth freaking out about. Is it the stress of the day? Is it the embarrassment?

“Yeah… Just...anxiety...” you manage to pant out weakly, your chest heaving frantically for more air. “I’m sorry."

He fishes for your hand in the darkness, turning his face down towards the top of your head to plant a small, innocent kiss there. “Shhh, shhh, I got you. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, trembling fingers gripping his with a sense of urgency, like at a moment’s notice he’ll melt away and you’ll be left alone. “Don’t leave, okay?”

He twines his steady fingers between yours. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. You’re okay. Try to breathe deeply. I’ll be right here.” He starts to inhale loudly, causing your head to rise with each deep fill of his lungs, and fall with his audible exhales.

Over the course of a few minutes, your breathing aligns with his, and you’re even holding at the same moments to help your body relax. When you seem stable, he wants to say something comforting, but simply gives your hand a gentle squeeze once he recognizes the soft snore leaving your mouth.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Joonie, did you clean your apartment before I came over?” you’re eyeing the spotless nature of his abode suspiciously. “Since when do you not throw your shirts wherever?”

He smiles, pleased with himself as he folds his arms and crosses the room before sinking into the couch. “Since you always complain about it.”

You stare him down incredulously. “It’s just… I’m shocked. It’s so unlike you.”

“What?” He scoffs. “Are you seriously gonna complain now that my place is clean?”

“Hmph. Where’s your laptop?” you question,

He pulls it from the folds in the couch cushion sheepishly. “Hold up.” He’s opening it and typing in the password as you flop down next to him.

“If you seriously left porn on here knowing I was coming over to do this, that’s on you. Gimme. I wanna see what fucked up shit Professor Kim gets off to.”

He tries to cover the screen, but you can still see the raunchy frozen frame beneath his splayed fingers. Your eyebrows raise, taking in the sight of a nude woman’s body straddling a well-endowed man on a black leather couch. It’s tough to push back the smile fighting through your pursed lips. “Couch cowgirl, huh?”

“You know…” He fumbles to close the tab and thrusts the computer into your lap, clearly embarrassed at the thought of you seeing any of that. “I don’t stand over your shoulder judging your porn choices.”

You shake your head and scoff. “What makes you so sure I watch porn?”

“I know you,” he groans, rolling his eyes.

“I’m sorry!” You laugh, beginning to navigate to the display settings. “I’m not judging. It’s just a little more tame than I was expecting.”

“You’re judging,” he declares finitely. “And what the hell are you expecting anyway? What kind of fucked up shit are you into, hmm?”

Your face flushes and you stop typing. He laughs. “See? Just that reaction there tells me you’re one hundred times worse than me. You’re just better at hiding your search history.”

You swallow hard and snap the laptop shut. “Joon, you knew I was coming over to do this today. You had all night to clear out your embarrassing stuff. It’s not my fault you’re a dumbass.”

He starts to quietly interject. “Actually, my IQ is--”

“I don’t care what your IQ is. You’re not goading me into telling you my porn preferences. I’m just here to help you get your laptop hooked up.”

“Is that why you’ve closed it?” he asks with a smirk.

You blink at him a few times. “N-No.”

He laughs again and you can feel your face burning, knowing that he’s pridefully drinking in the sight of your mistake. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to say a thing.” He leans in, closer than you expect and begins speaking in a low, gravelly whisper that freezes you in place. “I already know what you like.”

You do your best to keep your breathing steady, but it quickly turns into a sputtering mess when he cups your chin and trails his index finger down your neck, stopping just above your breast bone. With no effort at all, he guides you down with the press of his finger until you’re laying flat on your back. He steadies himself over you with a strong arm that sinks into the cushion beside your face, effectively boxing you in as he descends.

“You like it when I take control,” he announces, an unfamiliar confidence in his husky tone. “Don’t you?”

At this point, you know your jaw is trembling as it hangs stupidly open. Every word you can think of dies on your tongue as his free hand draws a line beneath your t-shirt, up your belly and teases the lace trim around one of your breasts. You shiver as he drags his fingertips back and forth in the valley between your tits, growing more and more desperate for him to reach beneath one of the cups and take you into his hand. Chest heaving, you turn your gaze away, hoping he will spare you the embarrassment of looking into his eyes with the hunger in yours.

“Yes,” you whisper weakly, knowing he’s got you. If Jimin has been teaching him how to play Chicken, he has taken it to the next level and it’s gone past the point where you think you’re able to willfully extricate yourself from the situation.

His hand shoots up from beneath your shirt to clasp your jaw, forcing your face back into position. “Look at me when you answer.“

You let a tiny moan slip at the rough contact and your eyelids flutter for a moment before meeting his gaze. His eyes are dark and eager, pupils blown out to the size of dinner plates, perfectly set to devour you. You need it now. You need him now.

“Yes…” you whimper. His hand drops like lightning down beneath your bra, molding as much of your tit as his strong grip can manage.

“Fuck yes,” you breathe, clasping your arms around his neck and desperately bringing him down to meet your lips.

He moans into your mouth as he comes crashing down, greedily sucking the air from your lungs with every last taste he imparts. The hand that had been supporting his weight tangles itself in your hair as you buck your hips up into him, thirsty for more of whatever he’ll give you. The rocking passage of your hips causes him to mirror the motion, grinding his thigh deliciously up against your clit. You mouth falls open with the need to take in air at the sudden friction in your jeans. He uses the opportunity to slip his himself past the barrier of your teeth and deep into your mouth, gliding his tongue across the surface of your own.

While this has never been a thought that’s crossed your mind in the past, you can’t imagine not knowing his taste. And yet when you try to describe it and pin down his delectable nature, it slips away. Your lips crash harder around his, hopelessly searching for the moment that your thirst will be quenched and never finding it. You want him more than you ever thought possible, in any way possible. It’s like he’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time, flooding all of your senses with a ravenous need that refuses to fade, even as you drink him in again and again.

As he pinches a pebbled nipple between his fingers, you whine through a gasp and fight to bite at his bottom lip, sucking it through your teeth. You hold him in place long enough for him to prop himself up on the couch and move back. Like hell if you were going to let him have all the power.

“Please,” he groans through gritted teeth, sounding incredibly vulnerable. It’s like music to your ears. You drag your teeth over his lip slowly one last time before letting it snap back to him.

With an ease you’re not used to, you’re able to push him back and sit up, carefully untangling your legs and rising from the couch. He’s about to pull you back towards him when you point to the middle of the couch. “Sit there.”

His adam’s apple bobs a few times, dark hunger never leaving the spark in his eyes as he positions himself as instructed. Clasping the outside of his knees, you force them closer together as you straddle his lap. With your legs spread like this, you can smell how wet and ready your pussy is, so you know damn well that he can too. You should be embarrassed and hiding your face in shame. You should be, but you’re not.

Your fingers knot themselves in his hair as you slowly roll your hips across his lap. Your voice is low and husky, filled with messy impatience. You’re ready to fall apart at his hands if he’d let you, but first you want him to know how it feels. “Is this how you like it, Namjoon? Is this what you want?”

A sharp inhale gives you your answer, but you continue to roll your hips just above his lap, hoping to elicit an erection. He groans as he buries his face into your neck, sliding his hot tongue over a particularly sensitive area and latching himself on. You realize you’re going to buckle quickly under the ecstasy you’re not used to feeling. Feeling reckless and bold, you reach down into his sweatpants, grasping for the cock you know has to be rock solid at this point.

Your hand clumsily slides against the gray band at his waist, unable to even clutch the drawstrings in your haste. The harder you try, the more your fingers seem to tangle in them. Soon you find yourself trapped, unable to move your hands away from the gray material they’ve become encased within. Using the brunt of your shoulder, you force Namjoon off your neck and much to your horror the laughter spilling out of him becomes squeaky like a windshield wiper.

“Wooow!” Jin’s disappointed voice has you breaking out in a cold sweat, frozen as you take in the broad shoulders dressed in Namjoon’s clothes before you. “Are my eyes deceitful like you? How many times have I asked if you had feelings for him? And now I catch you like this? What do you mean, none? I’m sure I asked at least once!”

As you shake the hair from your eyes and try to break free, the horror intensifies as the man before you morphs into a giggling Hoseok.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk. Dirty girl,” he chides, bringing his arms around your neck. “How long has it been? Have you forgotten how? I can help you remember if you want.”

You shut your eyes, trying to wish the temptuous voice away, but when you open them it’s now Jungkook staring at you, cackling. “Showing him your tits wasn’t enough, noona? You want him to touch you too?”

He tuts as he leans forward, and you begin to slide from his lap, which seems to be growing larger and steeper by the second. You’re desperately trying to get your hands free so you don’t fall, but it’s no use; you can feel yourself slipping away.

“Oh, are you stuck?” His obnoxious guffaw echoes into the darkness encroaching the apartment. “Well, since I’m a nice guy, let me help you with that. I’m really good with straps.”

He stands and you feel yourself fall, but he catches you by your bound hands, causing your elbows to knock against your head. You feel about 2 feet tall in his clutches as he suspends you in the air with one hand. The other starts pulling on the tangle of gray drawstrings, causing your body to twist in his grasp. With a sharp tug, he has you completely unraveling in a dizzy haze. You clamp your eyes shut again to avoid the vertigo jeopardizing the stability of your stomach contents.

You hang in Jungkook’s grasp, his cackle reverberating through your skull as you feel a gentle breeze caressing your body. As you open your eyes and look down, you realize you’re completely naked, and as you fight against his hold, your body spins. You’re face to face with Taehyung, his eyes cold and calculating as they roam across your body, searching for imperfections. He cocks his head to the side, wearing an expression of granite as his eyes slowly, painfully ascend your exposed flesh.

He blinks at you a few times before breaking into a boxy smile. “Wow. I’m glad we kept your clothes on.”

As you recover from the sting of his words, you fight against Jungkook’s grasp and attempt to swipe at Taehyung’s gorgeous face. As he leans back, his visage morphs into Yoongi, who stands there looking perplexed by your current predicament.

“Hobi’s right. You are easy, aren’t you?” He quirks an eyebrow and turns away, his form evaporating into the darkness.

Again you fight against the man holding you in place. This time you fall, but you land softly against a couch cushion with the cheshire grin of Jimin looming over you.

“Oh, Y/N… You went home with Namjoon-hyung, hmm? I thought you liked me?” His smile quickly falls into a rare scowl, all traces of mirth absent in his stone gaze. The jealous venom biting in his tone causes you to wince. “It’s fine. I have better options.”

“I know,” you whisper, closing your eyes and allowing the tears to fall, attempting to descend further into the cushion.

Your body congeals into the cushion, slowly melting through it and sending you hurling into the darkness. Your knees hit a hard surface with a loud crack, but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts like the words in your head. You know they’re right.

A spotlight appears over you, drawing attention to your lack of clothing and you clutch your knees to your chest to cover yourself as best you can. As you look around for an exit, you notice a mirror running along the wall behind you, taller than you can even fathom. Quick to disregard the sight of yourself, you turn around and there’s another one waiting ahead of you. Glancing around the room again yields dozens and dozens of mirrors in every direction. There’s nowhere you can even pretend to hide.

So you stand, tears stinging your eyes from the heartbreak of the truths you keep telling yourself. You shuffle over to the nearest mirror, feeling like your feet are sinking into sand and unable to fully rise with each step. Your reflection stares back at you: tired, cold, tear-stricken. You exhale and shove at the glass, unhappy with the person you see staring back at you. Instead of shattering or at least cracking like you expect, the glass bends in and bounces back, forcefully sending you into the mirror behind you. Your back lands against the hard surface and you slide down, allowing yourself to just sit and cry.

As you hug your knees close to your chest again, a fuzzy warmth envelops you. Clutching at the soft blanket that covers your body, you look up to see Namjoon’s dimpled smile starting back at you. He lowers himself to his knees and embraces you from behind, arms cradling you, lulling you into a place of comfort. It’s only when you stare ahead again that you can see the smile now gracing your own features.

He always finds a way to help, doesn’t he? With a contented sigh, you turn your body to gently bring your lips to meet his. The warmth of his body floods yours once more.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You awaken to your lips pressed against something hard. Your eyelids flutter a few times and you can just barely make out the shape of Namjoon’s arm pressing into your cheek. You must have rolled away from him in your sleep. Thank God. The sweat that trickles down your neck somehow runs cold and you shiver, tugging at the blanket covering your shoulders that was definitely not there when you closed your eyes. With a few deep breaths, you attempt to calm your heartbeat. You’re in your room. None of that was real. You’re safe.

Gently wiping your saliva from his forearm, you carefully shift your weight and turn your body to face him. Thankfully, he appears to still be sleeping, half tucked beneath the same blanket. What do you know? Even the human heater must get chilly sometimes.

Your heart still pounds wildly against your ribcage; it’s so loud that you’re almost afraid the sound will rouse him from slumber, but he lays peacefully beside you. There’s a hint of moonlight breaking through the clouds, and it casts just enough light to illustrate how angelic his features look while reposed. With the dream still fresh in your mind, you feel the need to reach out and make sure this is real.

Your hand gently glides through his hair before cupping his cheek and stroking it with your thumb. You catch yourself wondering how you might explain the action, should he awaken at this moment. For now, all that matters is the tranquility the subtle movement provides; it coaxes you into security. As your heartbeat calms, you rest your head on his chest. There’s a dull thumping that you can feel beneath your palm and you swear time stills as you lose yourself in its soothing cadence.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Sunshine can’t seem to clear the clouds enough to illuminate the room. It still feels like it could be too early to rise, but the sound of birds chirping over the soft patter of rain lets you know that it’s later than you might believe. You blink a few times, irritated that you’re rising at all on a Saturday morning when you could be sleeping the day away. It’s not like you have anything planned. As you stretch your spine straight up, a pair of lean, muscular arms constrict your chest and waist, lazily pulling you back into a prime spooning position.

You lightly massage the pair of forearms pinning you in place with oblivious fingertips. That’s right. Joonie’s still here.

He’s careful to keep your form from his pelvis, knowing that it wouldn’t take much for you to feel the stiff bulge tucked into the band of his sweatpants. Whatever alternate dimension he’d stumbled into last night had given plenty of fuel for his fantasies: your moans, your touch, and kiss you had nearly shared.

But with the gray fragments of daybreak twinkling through the blinds, reality has to kick in at some point. He knows there’s no way you would pass up the opportunity to make fun of him should you feel even the tip at your back. Now’s not the time to tempt the luck of the universe, not when he has you like this.

You do your best to ignore the blush creeping across your cheeks as you settle in, lacing your fingers with a firm squeeze to his. He lifts his head and sleepily sets it in the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning the surface of your skin and giving you new chills with each exhale. "Morning, Geeksquad."

You hum in response, leaning back into the sensation. He breathes deeply, taking in the subtle mingling scents that linger on your form: the hint of lilac conditioner in your hair, the traces of moisturizer on your skin, the remnants of perfume spritzed some time ago, and the fragrance he can’t place as anything other than “you.” He could stay here for hours just breathing you in, trying to figure it out, but any description would fall short of capturing its perfection.

The tickle of his breath at your neck causes to you shake your head against the pillow a few times, attempting to hide the smile curling the corners of your mouth. You’re content with the scene staying as it is and you’re almost relaxed enough to drift back to sleep when the ceiling above you allows the first long creak to break through the quiet of your bedroom. Then another. And another. Soon there’s a steady familiar squeaking of the bed frame in the apartment above. An awkward silence falls between you both, but quickly fills with a rhythmic squeaking.

It was too much to hope that the noisy neighbors could put off their sexcapades until you weren’t in a compromising position with a friend. You side-eye the light fixture above you as it rattles in time with the sound of the headboard now hitting the wall. You know from experience that the noises will dull in time, but it doesn’t make right now any better.

Just as you’re about to say something, there’s a slew of loud “yes”es that cut through the room. Not daring to look back at Namjoon now, you scrunch your face into a grimace and silently pray for the bed to fall through the ceiling and crush you. Neither of you are willing to say anything, either embarrassed or enthralled by the lewd visions plaguing you as a result of the sounds above.

While you can't recall the most recent dream to grace your subconscious, an encore of the previous one pervades your thoughts. The image of Namjoon feeling you up as you make out like a couple of horny teenagers has you squeezing your thighs together and tensing your body against him.

Desire charts a course from your brain straight down to your pussy, the noises descending from the ceiling only serving to heighten the fantasy. The thought of him cupping your tits and pulling you back into his chest creeps into your mind with every second you spend tucked beneath his arms.

You bite your lip and stretch again, this time purposefully nudging your ass into him with a forced yawn. Even through a heavy knit layer of cotton, you feel the hard shape that butts up against you. A soft, sleepy groan croaks out from the base of his throat, which only allows the perverse reverie to further take over.

Dropping his forehead against you, a heavy, tight-lipped grumble sends vibrations up your neck. This, combined with the creaking bed frame and muffled moans from above, sends a hot, prickly wave of adrenaline surging through you. A restrained puff of air forces its way through his nostrils as his nose sweeps against the sensitive spot at the base of your neck.

Your pussy clenches at the sound of his weakness, like the gravitational pull of your soaking cunt can draw in his cock if those muscles deep inside can contract hard enough. You're hyper aware of the way your shorts are riding up, removing that extra barrier between you both, but you're too worked up at this point to care.

You reach back, wordlessly carding your fingers through his hair. The action elicits another faint moan into the flesh of your neck, sending the high of your adrenalin to new heights. Silent, jagged breaths wrack the outline of your chest as he tightens his arm's hold on your waist.

He makes a fist to keep himself from grabbing your hips, knuckles trembling against your belly and clearly struggling to keep things PG. But you're not having it, not after the dreams that have plagued you and the filthy things running through your mind. Hoping to lure another lewd sound from him, you wiggle your hips and shimmy your shoulders to provide the cover that perhaps you're trying to get comfortable. His fist opens and desperate fingers sink into the flesh beneath your t-shirt.

It's not a request, but a harsh demand in the form of a whisper against the shell of your ear that leaves you absolutely quaking beneath him. "You don't want to keep doing that."

The subdued whimper crawling up your throat nearly dies behind pursed lips before transforming into a pleased hum. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own, rising to challenge what may or may not be a bluff, and slowly grind back into the erection firmly planted at your backside. You're too enticed by the possibility of a gratifying answer to stop the word falling from your mouth. "Why?"

That definitely came out brattier than intended. A swarm of angry butterflies pump their way through your system. Their fluttering clogs the path to your brain that tends to lean towards subtlety. Dull fingernails dig into the skin at your hip and shoulder tight enough to leave marks. His hips thrust forward for the first time, slowly dragging the mass of his cock up your ass and then back down in delicious, languid strokes.

You hold back the moan building in your throat and a sharp sigh chokes its way past your lips instead. The subsequent needy, ragged inhales fill the space around you. Your back arches while your hips remain in place, causing your chest to rise as you knot your fingers in his hair. When you throw your head back and close your eyes, he bites his lip to quell the urge to pepper kisses along your exposed neck. His restraint is admirable, but the toll it takes on him is palpable at this point.

“I think you know why,” he accuses in a low whisper, dropping his forehead against you again and halting the stroke of his hips.

“I won’t tell… if you don’t,” you promise, your chest about ready to cave in on itself from the amount of pressure his arm is now squeezing into it.

Feeling brave, you offer one more subtle roll of your hips, tempting him to follow the provocative pattern. Now he’s the one who tenses. He’s still, holding his breath for just a moment in disbelief as the dull sound of the lovers above cut through the air. Then you feel the sliding of his palm across your abdomen and a greedy exhale at your ear. Fingers dig into your flesh, holding you in place as he answers your unspoken question with gentle rock of his hips. You respond with hungry need, clasping your hands over both of his as the rhythm of your bodies begin to sync.

He lets you lead the campaign to your mutual destruction. If this is hell then he’s happy to be the fiery tide at the back of a devil disguised as a moon goddess. His hips ebb and flow against whatever pace you set as you listen to the lovers upstairs and soon you find yourself wishing for more. You feel as though at any given moment his cock is going to spring free and rub against the meat of your ass-- and you're ashamed to admit that you couldn't be more turned on by the thought.

His fingers start to tease the band of your shorts as he rocks himself against your ass, savoring the way you’re panting. He slows his pace without realizing as he drifts into his own fucked-out daydream. It becomes clear you’re at his mercy when you whimper his name at his unintentionally lazy thrusts. The tides have turned.

You’re definitely about to say something you might regret --as if you didn’t have enough of that going on already. Your dripping cunt urges you to beg, to plead with him to go farther. You’ll set up as much porn on his TV as he wants. But right now, you want to be touched so badly you feel like you’re going to explode. “Please.”

What he wouldn’t give to hear you say that again. He hooks a finger beneath the fabric at your waist and dips his tongue out to wet his lips, which deliberately skims your neck. This time you moan and he finds himself echoing the sentiment as he decides he’s going to take his time with you and pull out as many “please”s as you’ll give him.

You jump when your cellphone’s ringtone cuts through the room. He holds back the sob building in his throat, leaving only choked air in its wake. It’s suddenly clear to you that the only other sounds in the room are both of your labored breaths. You strain to reach out towards the nightstand and Namjoon’s arms reluctantly give way to your movement. He immediately rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling in disbelief as you fumble to swipe at the screen.

“Why do you do this to me?” he whispers to himself, and rolls away from you to contemplate the meaning of life.

“H-Hello?”

“What uuuuup, bitch." Jennie’s voice is loud and carries through the receiver even though the volume isn’t at its highest setting.

You wince, trying to shake the lingering nerves from your voice. “Heeeeey, Jennie.” You stumble through a few incoherent syllables. “A-Are you back?”

“You sound guilty. What are you doing?”

“I wasn’t doing anything, Jennie,” you scoff.

“Doesn’t sound like it. Oh, did you go have a rebound bang after that shitty date yesterday?” she asks excitedly.

“What? No! I was just minding my own business. Relaxing.” You swallow, sparing a glance at Namjoon. “Alone.”

He raises his eyebrows at you and your roll your eyes, mouthing the word ‘what.’

“Okay, okay! I got it. I don’t need to hear about how great your vibrator is again. I get actual sex from actual real people, Y/N.”

Your mouth falls open and you cringe at her statement, tearing your eyes off of Namjoon’s giggling form. He folds his arm over his face to hide his laughter, but from the corner of your eye you can still see his body convulsing.

“You know what!” You shriek, rising from the bed and scurrying out of the room as fast as possible. “I don’t need this. Is there a reason you called?”

“Obviously you don’t check your email. I’m on my way back but Taehyung stopped by and asked me to retouch those photos he took.”

“Taehyung drove all the way there to ask you that?”

“He was apparently out this way for a gallery or something. I don’t know. He stopped by with a flash drive and asked me to work my magic aaaand ta-daaa. Well. Open your email. It works better if you can actually see what I’m ta-daing about.”

You swallow, putting her on speaker as you open the mail icon on your phone. Sure enough, there’s an email from Jennie with several attachments. Your eyes skim along the text in the body of the email and settle on the photos below. Holy shit.

“Well? What do you think? Pretty good right? I mean I haven’t touched them all but Tae and I picked out what we thought were the best of the best for your profile. He liked the artsier looking ones, but I said hey man, sex sells. And it does, Y/N. So sell that shit. Put em up, get some matches! Oh and don’t worry I didn’t use any liquify shit to make you look thinner or anything. I just focused on accentuating your natural beauty and fixing the lighting with some adjustments to levels and curves, maybe a few color balance filters. Honestly though, Tae knows what he’s doing with a camera and I didn’t have to do much for most of them. Some cropping and smoothing out wrinkles in the backdrop to make it look more like a real beach. Adding some plants in places for dimension.”

You stand there staring at the photos, quietly taking in just how gorgeous the pair have made you look in each one. “Honestly they look so good. But this is so much work for my stupid profile,” you mumble as you scroll through, admiring the images that you still can’t believe are you.

“Y/N, sweetie. I love you. You’re a catch and I can’t wait to see you find the person who will appreciate and love you even half as much as I do. But you need to get laid. Badly. Right now you’d probably fuck anything that moves. I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me you banged that meathead Jungkook. Even though we both know he’s a fuckboy. Totally pump-and-dump type. One hundred percent not boyfriend material. Not even worth the trouble of a fuck, honestly. But you know we on about those arms… I’m pretty sure he’s the only person we know that could actually do your fantasy of being fucked against a wall and, like, not even be tired from holding you up...” she trails off, lost in her own thoughts.

The words don’t embarrass you, even if Namjoon can hear them; you’re too distracted to find yourself even remotely fazed. You’re too lost in the work they’ve presented here, too shocked to say much of anything because of how excellent a job they’ve done. Can this really be you? Is this what you look like on a good day?

Namjoon listens in, taking this opportunity to inspect his own arms. He flexes the scrawny muscle in his bicep, trying to will it to grow bigger with a glare. His head snaps up. Your fantasy. She said ‘your fantasy.’ Is that really what you like?

He looks back down at his muscles, entertaining the possibility of such a scenario. It seems challenging, but not impossible, considering he’d half-carried you up three flights of stairs not too long ago. Then again, that’s a little different than holding someone up while thrusting into them and not giving a sloppy performance. What a fucking thought. Restraining the urge to palm himself over his sweats, he brings a curled finger to his lips in contemplation while eavesdropping on the rest of the conversation you don’t seem interested in hiding.

“And because you fucking suck at selling yourself, this is the easiest way to you get there. You get the sex out of your system and then you find mister right --or misses right; I don’t judge!”

You sigh, knowing she’s the one with experience. Jennie has a new prospect every week, but she knows how to utilize others’ infatuation to her advantage, get what she wants, and discard them as she sees fit. And she does it so effortlessly that you can’t help but envy her. She would know better than you could ever hope to.

“Thank you, Jennie. Really. I-I’m so grateful. Just… thank you. I’ll put these up and see if I get any hits.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, Y/N. It’s no big deal. Dudes are gonna be lining up to get in that pussy, babe. Don’t even worry ‘bout it, ‘kay? Love you bitch.”

“Love you…” The call ends and you wander thoughtlessly back into the bedroom.

Namjoon’s shit eating grin says everything that he doesn’t, but you settle into bed beside him and choose to ignore the look he’s giving you in favor of scrolling through the images again, completely disregarding the way you two were previously dry-humping to the sounds of your neighbors going at it. Namjoon’s frustrated sigh lets you know he hasn’t forgotten.

“Apparently Taehyung and Jennie worked on these together,” you say, pulling up the first one to show him. “Do you…” You hesitate, suddenly feeling shy and you nervously on your earlobe. “Do you think this is okay? Like am I lying to people if I put these up? I feel like they’re too good. I feel like they’ll expect this all the time and I don’t think that’s really fair.”

Namjoon’s eyes soften as he takes the phone from your palm. He licks his lips as he scans the details in the photo: the curve of your smile, the sweetness in your eyes, the way your head coyly rests upon your shoulder. You’re beautiful, as always. Makeup doesn’t really change that. But your smile radiates positivity and light in this particular instance; you’re practically glowing.

You twiddle your fingers together as you wait for the verdict, unable to read his stoic expression. “Well?”

His eyes roam from your face down to the photo a few times and he cracks a smile. “I think you need to stop worrying. I don’t see a difference.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Don’t you think I look too… good there?”

He mirrors your confused expression. “I think you look as good as you always do.” He catches himself when your confusion turns into bashfulness. “You know, for a nerd.”

You scoff and roll your eyes at the short lived compliment before propping your head up on his chest. Your finger pokes the screen, swiping across the images one by one and taking some time to review them with him. Not a single insult passes his lips. There’s nothing but praise spilling from him, finding something unique and genuine to compliment you on with each photo. He must sense your insecurity because he pauses each time and reminds you that he’s not being paid to say nice things. You silently thank him for at least trying to build you up. Surprisingly, it helps.

“I guess I’m using them then,” you sigh in defeat, rolling away from him as you take the phone back. You’re already downloading the photos so you can set them to your profile.

Namjoon rises at the opportunity, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach at the thought of you actually finding someone. Because Jennie is right. With photos that actually do your beauty justice, people will be flocking to you in droves. It seems too real now that you’re eagerly putting them on there. “Tinder won’t know what hit ‘em,” he says dejectedly.

You’re too distracted to properly catch the disappointment in his tone. “I hope so.”

“Hey... I’m gonna go, Geeksquad. I just remembered I made plans with some of the guys and I want to make sure I run all my errands ahead of time.”

You hum a note of approval and almost miss the way his face twists in anxiety because as you look up, he transforms his stress into a soft smile. Still, you see just enough to know you’re being a rude bitch right now and it’s bothering him.

“I’m sorry.” You drop the phone and cross the room, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Thank you for staying with me, Joonie. I… really appreciate you. I’m a mess and you always take care of me. So thank you. For real.”

“I know, Geeksquad.” He strokes your head a couple times before taking a few steps back. It hurts too much to say what’s on his mind.

“And, um… before Jennie called I…” You lock eyes and you mouth the words you wish to say, but they don’t come as you want them to, “just got caught in the moment. I’m sorry.”

He blinks at you a few times before vigorously nodding. “Yeah.” He clears his throat after hearing the crack in his own voice, bringing it a few octaves deeper to protect his ego. “Yeah, uh, me too. Don’t even worry about it, okay? I’ll, uh, I’ll text you when I know what we’re doing.”

You nod enthusiastically, a grin spreading across your face. “Okay!”

With that, he disappears and you hear the unlocking of your door and the soft click when it closes behind him. Picking your phone up from the bed, you struggle with setting the order of the photos. You save and resave different combinations for about 10 minutes until a notification blocks your screen. You’ve got a match.

670 notes · View notes

theaterkid821 · 4 years

Text

Hell Breaks Loose (Seymour Krelborn x Reader)

A/N: GUESS WHO’S BACK GUYS!!! Alright so... thank you all for staying with me at this time. I’m doing a lot better now and hopefully you guys will enjoy the story. Thank you for being patient and I hope to write more soon. Requests are open, thank you and love you all!

TW: I feel like this is implied from this being little shop, but man eating plant who tries to eat the reader

Masterlist

Another boring day at the flower shop. You had been a consultant for Mr. Mushnik’s for a while now and were now used to the flow of the day. And by flow, you more mean lack thereof. Business was slow as always today and Mr. Mushnik was not happy about it, “guys, we need to get some new customers in.” Audrey was looking even frailer than usual and adds, “well Seymour, why don’t you bring in that plant.” He shrugs it off but eventually gets the plant. It was an odd looking thing with a rounded head and many leaves, it looked as if it almost had a mouth. While Audrey and Mr. Mushnik marveled over Seymour’s story of the eclipse, you were marveling at how cute he looked when he was talking about something he was passionate about.

For as long as you could remember working there, you had a crush on Seymour. You always thought his quirky, dorky self was the cutest thing that would ever exist in this world. The way he lit up when talking about the plants he was raising was so sweet when his eyes would sparkle and his smile would start to widen. He would almost lift his shoulders from their permanent slouch.

You were pulled from your thoughts when you heard him say, “I’m calling it, the Audrey Two,” and your heart sank. Of course he would name it after Audrey. He was in love with her, that much was obvious. It hurt so bad to see someone you love be in love with someone else.

. . .

Business picked up as the plant grew bigger. It had been a month now and you still had no idea how Seymour kept it alive. He always said it was a secret formula. Didn’t he trust you with the recipe? Did you do something wrong? You couldn’t answer any of these questions. But you knew that something had changed with him. Ever since the store’s new found popularity, Seymour has gotten more confident as well. His slouch seemingly fixed itself, he’s wearing new clothes. It’s not an unwelcome change, but it’s still a change. Even with this, he’s still his dorky and awkward self. It’s always cute to watch him bumble through an interview.

You couldn’t sleep one night and decided to go down to the shop to organize. Organizing always made you feel calmer. You were putting the roses back when all of a sudden, you heard, “Hey honey, why don’t you come on over here,” said in a low, deep voice. You looked around to find the source of the voice, but everything seemed to be in place. No people around. the flowers were all in place. The Audrey Two was… moving. And speaking, “Yes, you honey, come here and give me something.”

You were quite shocked to say the least. Since it was a talking plant, but you obliged, thinking it was just a figment of your imagination. “Give me some water won’t you? I’m awfully thirsty.” You nod and go to grab the watering can. There were vines all over it. When you went to grab it, the vines wrapped around your legs, lifting you up into the air. You scream for help, but it’s drowned out by the sounds of the plant laughing. You thought you wouldn’t be saved when suddenly, you were cut down from the vines. Seymour stands in front of you with a knife in hand, looking up at the plant. “Tooey, no! No eating (Y/N). we worked so hard to get their attention and you will not jeopardize that.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re here to get your live, I’m here to get my dinner.” The Audrey Two goes to reach for you again, but Seymour cut the vines again. “I don’t wanna have to do this,” Seymour said, looking a lot less confident, “but you give me no choice.” He charges at the plant and slices off its head. He runs over to you and helps untangle your legs from the vines. “Are you alright,” he asks.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, picking yourself up. “Did you mean what you said? That you did all this to impress me?” His look turned quite bashful as he nodded, “well, yeah. I like you a lot and wanted to be good enough or you.” You blush a little bit at this, “But what about Audrey?”

“Audrey? Oh no, we’re just close friends. It’s always been you (Y/N). I promise.” You smile and stroke his cheek, “oh Seymour, you never had to be better. You were always good enough for me.” And you pull him into a kiss.

#little shop of horrors #little shop of horrors imagine #little shop of horrors fanfiction #little shop of horrors x reader #seymour krelborn #seymour krelborn x reader #seymour krelborn imagine #seymour krelborn fanfiction

74 notes · View notes

out-of-jams · 4 years

Text

Airplane Mode | Track 06: Base Line | jhs

Summary: Inspired by Love at First Touch by bagelswrites

In a world where a bruise marks the first touch of your soulmate, time is the only thing that matters. The marks take hours to appear, sometimes even days if you're really unlucky. Once First Touch is initiated, both parties only have a few weeks to find the other. From then on, the body begins to reject any form of sustenance other than the touch of the other. If one fails to find their soulmate in time, they starve to death.

So what happens when your soulmate is a world famous idol?

And you're just one fan in a sea of many who can't even speak the same language?

Pairing: Hoseok/ FemOC

Word Count: 5.1k

Genre: Fluff. Angst. Idol!au. Smut. Soulmate!au. Explicit language.

Warnings: Explicit language.

Words written in bold are spoken in Korean.

Previous| Next | Track List | Masterlist |

Eunjae woke up very confused.

To the sound of loud, constant ringing.

It startled her sleeping body so much that it yanked her out of the land of dreams and back to reality. Slowly peeling her heavy eyes open, Eunjae stared blankly at the unfamiliar white wall across from her. Her brain was not yet awake and was could barely process where she was and how she got there. So it took her a moment to realize that the obnoxious sound echoing through her ears was a doorbell.

“Miles, I swear to God.” Eunjae mumbled incoherently. Reaching up to rub the sleep from her eyes, she sat up in bed, causing the thick comforter to pool around her waist. She was still dressed in the same outfit from last night since she had nothing else to change into. Though she’d shed her bra and joggers right before collapsing into bed.

A sigh left her lips as another round of doorbell ringing started up and she tore her eyes back open in irritation. It wasn’t until her vision landed on the brown wood of the long dresser across from her bed that the memories came rushing back to her. She most definitely was not in New York.

“So then who—” Eunjae’s eyes widened as the sound of light knocking accompanied the ringing of the doorbell. Whoever was on the other side had given up on just ringing, and started to match the tempo of both sounds to tap out some kind of nonsensical song. Blinking in the dim light shining through the black curtained window, her mouth parted in realization. “Oh, shit.”

Eunjae sprang out of bed and almost face planted into the rug underneath when her foot got caught in the comforter. Curses flying from her mouth, she stumbled across the room, ripping her joggers and bra from where they’d landed on the vanity mirror after she blindly threw them. Eunjae scrambled into her clothes and swung the door to her room open so fast that she almost smacked herself in the face.

No one ever said she was the most graceful person first thing in the morning.

“I’m coming!” Whoever was on the other side of the door was either deaf or too caught up in the track they were remixing on her door to hear her.

Eunjae’s bare feet padded down the short narrow hallway outside her room. She’d been so tired last night that she’d barely even given her new living space a quick, cursory glance before crawling into bed. So now as she grandma-shuffled towards the door like some half-assed zombie, she let her eyes wander.

To the right side of the hallway was a door that led to a bathroom that she was sure she would explore later to shower. As she emerged from the passageway, it opened out into a kitchen/living room. To the left was a small, but nice kitchen. And instead of a table, there was a long bar/island with stools pushed underneath. All of the equipment looked brand new and it was too bad that she wouldn't have a need for it.

The living room was straight ahead. A leather couch took up one whole wall and the cream colored shag rug underneath looked soft enough to sleep on. Separating the couch from a dark wood tv stand was a rounded glass coffee table. The walls throughout the whole apartment were painted a boring eggshell white that was almost blinding in the sun.

“I’ll have to fix that.” Eunjae muttered to herself. The place wasn’t huge, but she didn’t want it to be. She didn’t want to be put up in some lavish penthouse like some weird, trophy soulmate. Eunjae already felt awkward enough for how much Big Hit was already doing for her; best not to add more to the list.

As Eunjae reached the door, she stopped from grabbing the doorknob when she caught her reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. With a grimace, she quickly ran her fingers through her wild bedhead in an attempt to tame it. Seemingly satisfied, Eunjae quickly yanked open the door before the neighbors decided to file a noise complaint.

Jung Hoseok stood on the other side of the door, one finger hovering over the doorbell as if he were about to ring it again. His expression converted from amused to surprised, and then back to amused, before finally settling on friendly. Eunjae decided right then and there that he was way too awake, way too early in the morning. Hoseok’s dimples came out to play as he flashed her a grin and an energetic wave.

Not only was he completely awake, but he was fully dressed for the day too. With his white and red long-sleeve pullover, french tucked into a pair of jeans, he looked very casual. He’d parted his dark hair in the middle so that it exposed the lightly tanned skin of his forehead. And a black belt was threaded through the hoops of his jeans to keep them from falling down his slim waist.

All-in-all, his very put together appearance made Eunjae look like some half-dead monster that just crawled out of the sewer.

Just call me Master Splinter . She thought, staring up at him with tired eyes and messy hair.

Hoseok dropped his hand and leaned casually against the doorway. His fresh scent filled Eunjae’s nose and she vaguely wondered if all of the members smelled that good, or if it was just a Hoseok thing. Tucking a hand into the pocket of his jacket, He gave her a greeting that was way too cheerful for her exhausted brain to mimic.

“Good morning!”

Eunjae hummed in acknowledgment and reached up to rub at her cheeks. “Morning, Hobi.”

He seemed completely unoffended by her lack of enthusiasm which she was grateful for. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah. You?” Blinking up at him through dead eyes, Eunjae tried her hardest to match his energy. It was infectious; beginning to filter through her haze filled mind like a stream of fresh water.

“Yes. Good!”

“That’s good.” Eunjae mumbled around a yawn, “‘hat time is it?”

Hoseok tilted his head to the side cutely in confusion. When he hesitated in replying, Eunjae sent him a sleepy smile and lightly tapped on her wrist; the universal gesture to ask for the time. Hoseok made a noise of understanding in the back of his throat and fished around in the pocket of his jeans to pull out his phone. As he flashed the screen her way, Eunjae gave a slow blink at how early it was.

The both of them had gotten back from the airport a little after four am, and the numbers flashing across Hoseok’s phone read that it was now ten am. If Eunjae was doing the math right (which she probably wasn’t), that only equated to around less than six hours of sleep total. Which was definitely pointing to the danger side of her sleep-o-meter.

“Oh.” Was the only sound that could leave her mouth and a pout formed unconsciously on her lips as she squinted up at Hoseok.

How was he already awake and ready to begin his day now ? She really envied his ability to pull energy out of thin air. Though she couldn’t help but wonder why he was there. Eunjae thought someone from the company was supposed to pick her up and take her shopping for the early half of the day. Surely Bit Hit wouldn’t send her out with Hoseok. Because that would undoubtedly cause a huge scandal if they were caught. Not that she would have minded spending time with him, but she wasn’t quite prepared to be bashed into the next century in the next issue of Dispatch.

Eunjae shifted a little closer to the door and tried to peer around Hoseok’s tall frame to see if any of the other members were in the hallway. Or anyone at all. When she found no one, she turned her attention back to the man in front of her, who was slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Where, um,” Eunjae paused, brows knitting as she tried to search for the words in Korean. At coming up blank, her nose scrunched. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Everyone?” Hoseok parroted back with a blink. Shrugging, he offered her a smile. “Only me.”

“Only you?” Her lips twitched up in response at their weird back-and-forth game of repeating words. As if saying them out loud would help them to translate somehow.

Pulling a hand from the pocket of his fuzzy pullover, he gestured back down the hall to where he’d informed her last night was where Bangtan resided. Their apartment was all the way on the opposite end of the corridor, and Eunjae could just barely make out the outline of the door.

“Left.” A string of non-english words then left Hoseok’s mouth and all Eunjae could do was stare up at him blankly. At noticing her confusion, his mouth pursed and he tilted his head, leaning further against the doorframe. If he felt at all frustrated by their lack of ability to communicate, he didn’t show it. “Earlier. But not me.”

“Oh. Why?”

Hoseok clasped his hands together and held them up to his cheek dramatically, swishing from side to side with his eyes closed. “Tired.”

“So you slept in, then.”

Eunjae said it out loud mostly to herself, but he answered her with a cute, “ding, ding, ding! ”

Which made her wonder how much English he could or could not understand. But that was a question to answer at some other point in time, when she wasn’t falling asleep standing up. Running her hands down her face to try and wake herself up, Eunjae’s tongue flickered across her dry lips.

“Are you here to take me with you to the company, then?” She couldn’t help but continuously feel guilty over the fact that she couldn’t communicate very well in his language. Him being the one to be forced to speak in hers didn’t sit well with her.

Eunjae could definitely tell when Hoseok was confused. In the few short hours that she’d known him in person, she received that look from him a lot. He’d tilt his head to the side and furrow his brow a bit. Then his eyelashes would flutter faster than normal as if the answer to his confusion was right in front of him, but he just couldn’t see it. And his pale pink lips would part just enough to stop from looking like a full on pout. Not only that, but a small little hum would resonate in the back of his throat, sounding more like a sigh than not.

And Eunjae was on the receiving end of a very confused Hoseok.

Pursing her lips, she tried to think of a way to communicate what she was trying to say. Her mind went blank and she cringed internally at the now awkward air encasing them like a bubble. Eunjae wasn’t really sure if a game of charades full of wild gestures and confused faces would somehow disperse the cringeworthy tension.

Too caught up in trying to find a way to bridge the invisible, gaping chasm between them, Eunjae failed to see the imaginary light bulb go off above Hoseok’s head. His sudden movement, however, caught her attention as he fished back into his pocket and whipped out his phone. He quickly held up a finger telling her to wait as his other hand swiped across the screen. Eunjae couldn’t see exactly what he was doing due to the fact that he had what looked like a privacy screen attached to the glass.

Hoseok whipped his phone around to show her and Eunjae almost smacked her forehead at her stupidity. On display was a translator app and as he passed her the phone, she couldn’t believe that she hadn’t thought of the idea. It was so obvious.

“Talk for English to Korean.” He waved a hand at the phone, but before she could speak, the app picked up his voice and a translated version of what he’d just said came out of the speakers in a robotic voice.

Snorting in amusement, Eunjae repeated what she’d said previous and Hoseok let out a tiny hum and gestured for his phone back. The words that left his mouth went in one ear and out the other, and Eunjae shifted on her feet as she waited for the app to translate. Hopefully she’d be able to get a burner phone sometime during the day so that she could download the app for herself. Getting lost in a foreign country with no means of communication was something that was not on her bucket list. After mentally calculating the funds in her bank account, she was sure she could swing it.

“Sejin texted that someone would be here to pick you up at eleven.” The female monotonous, robotic tone snapped Eunjae out of her thoughts and she eyed the phone Hoseok held out between them. “But you have no clothes, right?”

It took Eunjae a second too long to figure out how he knew that bit of information. The night before (or that morning) had been kind of a blur to her. The memories came back to her slowly: him questioning her about her missing luggage, and the add on the fact that she was still in the same outfit.

Hopefully I don’t smell bad . She unconsciously wrinkled her nose at the thought.

“Right.”

Instead of answering her, Hoseok pushed off the doorframe and gifted Eunjae with one of his eye smiles. He gestured for her to follow him and her face contorted in confusion, but she slipped on her shoes still by the door and stepped out into the hall anyway. As the door closed behind her, Eunjae couldn’t help but ask, “where are we going?”

She asked more out of curiosity than anything else. Miles would always berate her about the fact that she was too spontaneous, too willing to bounce from one plan to the next. Eunjae was the type of person to just go along with whatever was thrown her way. And she liked to live life that way; there was something freeing about not holding yourself to a plan sometimes. Most of her more cherished memories were created by taking a leap of faith.

“Clothes!” Hoseok threw over his shoulder, waving his hand in the air to usher her along. Eunjae’s short legs had a hard time keeping up with his long ones and she internally cursed her genetics. At least being a 5’1” woman in South Korea was kind of average. Well, that’s what Eunjae liked to tell herself anyway.

The hallway they were walking down was empty and she took a moment to wonder if any of the other apartments in the building housed celebrities. Surely they had to, what with how expensive they were and the amount of security to even get into the building. Hopefully that meant that there would be little risk of someone exposing the nature of her and Hoseok’s soulbond.

That was just a hassle she didn’t want to deal with.

Eunjae almost ran into the back of the rapper, shoes scruffing against the carpet as she slid to an abrupt stop. Hoseok didn’t seem to notice, instead quickly keying in the code to the apartment and swinging it open. He turned to the side, back pressed against the door to hold it open, and motioned for her to enter first.

The situation was slowly starting to dawn on her. As an ARMY for a little over a year, the prospect of being granted access to Bangtan’s apartment threatened to bring out the fangirl in her. The shock of Hoseok being her soulmate had still not settled in, but as Eunjae was brought more and more into his world, the reality she once knew began to shatter. For now, the walls were merely cracked, but she didn’t doubt that once she met the rest of the members, it would implode into tiny pieces.

After taking a moment to compose herself and not let her inner ARMY show, Eunjae crossed over the threshold. As she passed through the doorway, her shoulder brushed against Hoseok and the electric heat that jolted under her skin almost made her trip over her feet. That feeling was something that Eunjae doubted she would ever get used to. The sound of the door closing drew her attention away from the wide hallway of the entryway and back to Hoseok.

“Need to hurry.” He waved her to follow him as he walked quickly through the wide hallway of the entryway.

Eunjae nodded in response, despite the fact that he couldn’t see it from where he walked in front of her. Hoseok turned left at the end of the short hallway wand the apartment opened up into the big living room. The far wall was made up of all windows, though the blinds were drawn halfway down so she could barely see the view of the city.

The building was located in Hanam Hill, which housed some of the most expensive apartments in Seoul. It was just far enough out of the heart of the city to provide privacy, but not so far that the boys had to travel a long distance to the company. Eunjae had yet to get the chance to see the view from her own apartment since she’d gotten in so late.

The boy’s living room was nice and spacious, but it wasn’t at all flashy. The two of them passed by a large cream colored L-shaped couch and with a wide screen tv mounted to the wall. It was decorated with various knick-knacks that must have been collected from various members.

The marble floor reflected the lights overhead and Eunjae had to stop her jaw from dropping at the sight of the luxury kitchen. It was big, way bigger than hers, and all of the equipment looked state of the art. Which made her wonder if the boys had some kind of personal chef, or if they all just ordered in whenever Seokjin didn’t want to cook.

Hoseok must have caught her rapidly wandering eyes because he threw a grin over his shoulder and offhandedly waved around the space. “See later.”

“You have to go?” Eunjae assumed that’s why he was speed walking through the apartment like a bat out of hell. She had to speed up to a trot in order to keep up as they passed various closed doors down the hallway next to the kitchen.

“Yeah.” Hoseok finally stopped at a door on the left that was already cracked open. He pushed it the rest way and spun around to usher her in. “Practice.”

Hoseok’s room wasn’t super huge, and Eunjae already knew through Miles that he shared it with Jimin. There were two beds against the far wall, separated by a bedside table. There were a few shelves hanging on the walls with various trinkets that Eunjae couldn’t tell who they belonged to. Hoseok crossed the carpet and stopped at a closet door. There was another one a little to the left, which must have been Jimin’s.

Without pause, the door swung open to reveal a smaller version of a walk-in closet. It was big enough to fit both of them if they squeezed, but not so large that she could fully stretch out if she laid down. There were clothes hung up in a random order that Eunjae couldn’t discern, bright colors popping out in between darker ones. Lines of drawers covered the bottom half of the opposite wall, but all of them were closed.

Back pressed up against the door frame, Hoseok gently laid a hand on her shoulder to guide her closer to the closet. “Pick any.”

“For me?” Eunjae pointed a finger at herself. She felt a little slow on the uptake.

Sure, he’d said that he was taking her to get clothes, but she didn’t imagine that he’d give her some of his. Her inner fangirl was starting to crawl its way out and Eunjae had to bite down to keep it from escaping. Was he really about to give her full access to his closet? Not only was her inner ARMY screaming, but the wannabe fashion designer inside of her couldn’t wait to pick through his designer clothes.

Her excitement at the situation must have been showing because Hoseok’s contagious giggle left his throat. He moved away from the door to stand behind her, both of his hands on her shoulders as he ushered her closer. “For you!”

As he let his hands drop, Eunjae turned to shoot him a beaming, grateful smile. The one that made her nose crinkle. “Thanks, Hobi.”

Hoseok grinned and mumbled something in Korean too fast for her to catch. Before she could ask what he’d said, the phone in his pocket dinged . He slipped it out and glanced at the screen before giving her an apologetic smile. “Got to go.”

“Go!” Eunjae waved him off with both hands, not wanting to be the reason he got in trouble. “Don’t be late.”

Hobi hummed and put his phone and opened his arms wide to gesture at his closet. “Stay. Pick any. I will see you...soon!”

For whatever reason, he’d decided not to use the translator on his phone. Either he forgot about it in his haste or he wanted to go without, Eunjae wasn’t sure. But she appreciated the gesture either way. If anything, him trying his best to speak English gave her more incentive to learn more Korean for him.

Eunjae was a little shocked that he trusted her, a near stranger, enough to leave her alone in Bangtan’s apartment. Sure, they were soulmates, but she could have been some kind of crazy sasaeng. So him gifting her that trust was something that she didn’t want to betray.

“See you soon.”

Hoseok gave her a cute little wave before disappearing out the room. As she turned back to the numerous amount of clothes hanging in the closet she could hear the front door open and close. With hands on her hips, Eunjae spun in a small circle, analyzing the different choices. She already knew that she didn’t have a chance in hell of fitting into any of the taller man’s pants. At least not if she wanted to be able to walk without tripping over herself every five seconds. Her fingertips brushed through the fabric with pursed lips.

She was going to have to get creative.

As he walked down the hall, Hoseok could hear the boisterous sounds of the rest of his members spilling out of the practice room. Jimin’s laugh greeted his ears as Hoseok pushed open the door and slipped inside the room. All six of the boys were sitting in a messy circle in the center of the room and the smell of fried chicken and sweat invaded his nostrils.

Jungkook turned at the sound of the door closing with half a piece of chicken sticking out of his mouth. A mumbled, “hey, hyung,” sent bits of chewed up food spraying from his mouth and onto the floor.

“Kook-ah!” Jimin scrunched his nose down at the mess next to his leg. “That’s disgusting.”

Jungkook just shrugged and shoved the rest of the chicken into his mouth. His greeting brought everyone else’s attention to Hoseok as he crossed the room to squeeze in between Yoongi and Taehyung. Neither of them moved to make room, so Hoseok just stretched his legs out between them, half leaning on Yoongi as he did so.

“‘Bout time you got here.” Yoongi raised a brow at the other rapper as he brought his chopsticks to his mouth.

Namjoon, who sat on the opposite side of the circle, quickly swallowed the food in his mouth before addressing Hoseok. “So, how is she adjusting?”

Leaning back on his hands, Hoseok gave a small half-shrug. All eyes were back on him again as they waited for his answer. The members had been just about as excited for his soulmate to arrive as he’d been. Though the language barrier was definitely a large obstacle, Hoseok still had faith that they could figure out an effective way to communicate.

Prior to his soulmate’s arrival, he’d been following Namjoon around in his free time to bug him for English lessons. Hoseok may have known enough English to somewhat follow along during American interviews, but he wasn’t knowledgeable enough to have full blown conversations. That was where the regret had settled in. He definitely should have been more adamant in the past about learning it, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

Hoseok had gone out on a limb when he first met Eunjae by giving her his contact information. Sure, she was his soulmate, but he wasn’t reckless enough not to take the fact that she was a fan into consideration.

The rest of his members had been a little worried and somewhat skeptical, but at the end of the day, they trusted Hoseok’s judgement. They knew that he wouldn’t do anything to put them in harm’s way. He’d had faith that the universe wouldn’t pair him with someone who wasn’t a good person, so he’d taken the risk. And it had paid off.

Though he didn’t really know that much about her and they hadn’t been able to communicate a whole lot with his intense schedule. But Hoseok held out hope that they could form a strong bond. He’d been taken by surprise by just how strong the magnetizing pull between them was. Even after all of the research that he did as he laid in bed late at night hours after practice and interviews and studio sessions.

Jung Hoseok would be the first to admit that he didn’t know a whole lot about soulmates. He’d never paid much attention to it during primary school. The only time it even crossed his mind was whenever a news article would come out, but even then he’d forget about it soon after. Which was yet another thing he regretted.

Maybe if he’d paid more attention, he would have been prepared for how addicting the touch of a soulmate was. It was like a drug that he couldn’t help but want to get his hands on all the time. Not that he would, since he barely knew her and didn’t want to scare her off somehow.

Hell, he was barely even conscious of his body’s own movements before he touched her. Hoseok wasn’t even big on copious amounts of skinship with the exception of the other members. Even then, he wasn’t as touchy as Jimin or Taehyung. So wanting to constantly initiate skinship with a near stranger was overwhelming.

“Earth to Hobi-ya!”

A kick to the bottom of Hoseok’s show brought him out of his thoughts. Seokjin raised an eyebrow from across the circle, waving his chopsticks like he could magically pull the thoughts from his head.

Hoseok shot him an innocent look. “Did you say something, hyung?”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Jin gave another kick to his shoe. “What’s got you all spaced out? Namjoonie asked how your soulmate is adjusting.”

“Ah.” The rapper gave Namjoon a sheepish smile, who just waved him off in response. “I’m not sure. It hasn’t even been a day.”

“But we’re gonna meet her today, right?” Taehyung turned to him with hopeful brown eyes.

He’d been one of the most excited ones to meet her beside Jimin. And Hoseok couldn’t help the grateful blanket that settled in his chest. The fact that his members were so accepting of the situation was something that he was thankful for. If they wound up not getting along with his soulmate, Hoseok wasn’t sure what he’d do. So he didn’t think about it.

Hoseok patted Tae’s shoulder with a smile. “Yup! She should be here some time later. Try not to embarrass me.”

He’d said the last part playfully, but a small part of him meant it.

“You said to make sure that we embarrass you, hyung?” Jungkook’s doe eyes peered over another piece of chicken that he was about to shove into his mouth. Though his overly innocent expression gave away his mischief.

“That’s what I heard.” Yoongi’s monotone voice did well to hide his playful sarcasm. He ignored the deadpan look from Hoseok and busied himself with downing the rest of his coffee.

“Let’s at least try not to scare her.” Namjoon, ever the responsible leader piped up with a shrug and a snort of amusement. “At least let her settle in first.”

“So don’t let her meet anyone then. Got it.”

The kick to the bottom of Hoseok’s shoe came from Jimin this time and he ignored it in favor of pushing Taehyung’s chopsticks away from his face. The smell of chicken must have broken through whatever tied over exhaustion gracing Hoseok’s system, because his stomach growled loudly enough for the whole room to hear.

Seokjin eyed him from across the circle, eyes narrowed and pouty lips pursed. His expressions morphed into one of concern as he nodded his head towards the food containers in the center of the circle of boys. “You should eat something.”

Hoseok’s nose wrinkled at the thought of putting any type of food in his mouth. The last time he’d eaten something, the taste of garbage had coated his tongue for the rest of the day. It wasn’t something that he really desired to repeat, so he wanted to forgo that option for as long as he could. “I’m okay.”

“Jin-hyung’s right.” Taehyung pushed the piece of chicken dangling from his chopsticks against Hoseok’s lips. “You should eat.”

With a grimace, Hoseok opened his mouth to reiterate that he wasn’t in the mood to scrape the taste of decay from his taste buds. But before he could, Taehyung shoved the food into his open mouth. Cringing in absolute disgust, Jin sent him a glare before he could spit it out.

“Chew and swallow.”

Not wanting to be on the other side of Seokjin’s wrath, Hoseok did his best to chew without letting the food touch his tongue. After he swallowed, Taehyung ducked his head to hide his smile of victory.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Hoseok would have answered Jin if it wasn’t for the fact that his stomach twisted in sudden nausea. The small bit of food that he’d just eaten was about to make a reappearance. Ignoring the looks of concern from the other boys, Hoseok shot off the floor and stumbled his way to the door. He’d almost made it too, but his system was fast working and he hadn’t been quick enough.

His fear of throwing up came to fruition--all over the floor of the practice room.

“Fuck.”

#bts fic #bts #hoseok fic #hoseok fanfic #hoseok #bts fic rec #won't let me link my Masterlist for some reason

126 notes · View notes

mochuelovelli · 4 years

Note

Hi man, love your fix it AU for the Moon arc. So my question is, how different are the first seven episodes of season 3 if it were to continue post Moonvasion considering how Donald lost his leg and whether he'd try to get it back in the Quack Pack wish?

Omgosh thank you (tbh i had this au on the back burner so this is kinda coming from the top of my head)!!

To get to the meat of your question first (bc I accidentally deleted my first draft answering this question), the episodes w/o Donald don't change at all and the ones that do feature him might only add a joke here or there. If I had to spitball, I'd say Quack Pack and Louie's Eleven would have the biggest changes to them though neither would change the narrative like my changes to S2. I think it be interesting for Donald to include getting his leg back in his wish during Quack Pack, especially if Della doesn't. His talk would Goofy would include that detail, him feeling as though its a hindrance to him but not her because he has always been the "worse" twin. Maybe Goofy's "find your own normal" speech can include something like "If it isn't stopping her [from doing what she loves], why would it stop you?" And also of course include examples either in this or throughout later episodes where Donald's prosthetic is used as an advantage and that he knows how to use it as one.

In Louie's Eleven, I'm not entirely sure I want to change the dialogue or draw attention to Donald's leg there. Maybe a joke where Daisy gets scared when she steps on it with her heels, apologizing quickly before she goes "oh!" And he gives a half smile and says "Don't worry I didn't feel it" as maybe something to initially break the tension. I don't see a bigger reason for it to play as a plot point other than maybe a segway to introduce that his family is strange, maybe planting the seeds to investigate him though that's probably a tired point since we as the audience would know the answers to her questions and would be bored waiting around for her to figure it out. But maybe it could change halfway into her fairly quickly finding out that Donald is Scrooges Nephew and turning into discovering FOWL. But... I'm not 100% sold on that.

I have a few extra details about my Fix It AU that weren't in the original two parts also! From Della's relationship as Goldie's first apprentice (ie "sharpie prime" lol) as a connection to Louie, to her failing/facing the consequences for her actions leading up to moonvasion a bit more, to a better rewrite of the entire Cornelius Coot Episode where her and LPs friendship/one sided rivalry is better paced as well as culminating in foreshadowing to the season finale where they build another plane together (since Lunaris destroyed the Sunchaser) and call it the Sunslayer. Also a bigger and sort of self indulgent connection between Della and Webby that leads to a really cute moment during the finale as well. And some more! But bc I dont want to bog down the tags you can ask me about them individually! I'd love to answer them!

#ducktales #dt17 #ducktales 17 #della duck #ducktales 2017 #donald duck #fix it au #ducktales au #ducktales fix it au #moonvasion #quack pack #louie's eleven

10 notes · View notes

aethelar · 4 years

Text

The shooting star that careers through the night sky and crashes, quite spectacularly, into the muddy lake is not, in fact, a shooting star. The man that pushes open the emergency hatch and hauls himself, gasping and wheezing, onto the ruptured ship is not, in fact, a man. And the emergency response comm he aims at the stars and swears at in a harsh and alien language is not, in fact, working.

Graves would like very much to know which utter dipshit in Transfers had managed to screw up his warp jump quite this badly and whether Graves was allowed to throw them out of an airlock when he got back.

Then the heavens open and Graves discovers that the delightful little planet in the middle of delightful fucking nowhere has a working water cycle, one that brings with it a great deal of cold, a side helping of misery, and a whopping dollop of wet.

Oh, and apparently when he crashed he broke several ribs, fried the electrical connections to his left knee, and rolled in a pile of broken glass. Grand.

He retreats into his broken spaceship and cannibalises a control panel to fix his knee. It… mostly works. That done, he digs through enough old textbooks to identify where he is (backwater, uncivilised, and uncontacted - glorious), what language he needs to program into the translator (there are a ridiculous number to choose from, more than any one planet should reasonably need; he goes for the first seven in the list and hopes that’s enough) and what basic field-notes he needs to add to his mental database (far too many, most of them gathered from a distance, at least half of them marked with question marks and sounding blatantly ridiculous). And, because he’s currently hurting and light-headed, he says screw it to health and safety and just uploads the whole lot at once. The resulting headache has him staggering into the wall, missing the wall and tumbling through the breach in the hull, flailing and half drowning his way through the lake, and fetching up somewhere on the bank. And he’s still getting rained on.

“Fuck this planet,” he coughs through a mouthful of lake-water, and faints.

He manages, somehow, to survive undrowned until morning and it’s Newt that finds him, sprawled unconscious in the mud. Well, Niffler that finds him, Newt that scrambles after Niffler and almost trips over him in the process, but that’s just semantics, really. Newt’s the one that asks, hesitantly, if he’s alive; when he doesn’t get a response, Newt’s the one that manhandles him into the case and cleans his wounds as best he can.

When Graves rejoins the land of the living, Newt’s the one who stutters to a halt, blushes lithium red, and throws a sheet his way while backtracking pronto out of the room.

“I’ll get clothes!” he squeaks from halfway up the suitcase ladder. “There’s food in the kitchen, see you soon, don’t let Niffler out thank you bye!”

Graves blinks. “Illgetclothes,” he repeats. “Thankyoubye.” Then, switching back to a more familiar language, “Identify and translate. Please.”

Whirr. Beep. Whirr whirr. Ding! English, the text across his vision reads. Activate real time translate Y/N

Feck it. The headache can’t get worse. “Activate,” he agrees. “Yes, that means yes. Yes. Activate - Y. I want the Y option.”

Activating real time translate. Target language: English. Please note minor vocal edits required for accurate pronunciation.

“Minor vocal what now - glerk.” Graves lifts a hand to his throat, frowning the disturbed and confused frown of someone who’s just had their voice box rearranged without sufficient warning. And, from the feel of it, the back of his throat as well. Maybe? He opens and closes his mouth a few times to get used to the new sensations. “That will never not be weird,” he mutters to himself. It comes out in English and translates itself back into real words by the time his ears pass it back to his brain and the double-overlap does exactly squat for his headache.

Graves predicts direly that he’s going to hate this planet and distracts himself by turning his attention to what’s around him.

The room is soft, muted colours with strongly yellow-orange tinted lighting. The basic set-up is surprisingly familiar - he doesn’t need the fieldnotes ticking over in the back of his mind to identify that he’s on a bed, or that the primary building material is some kind of local plant matter. The assorted objects strewn around the room are less familiar and Graves takes a minute to run through the new words that flash up for each one (chair is obvious, but what’s book or slippers and why does the door have handle is that the keypad? There’s no control panel on it, and this place really doesn’t look advanced enough for motion sensing so what?)

Bored with the room, he turns back to himself. He’s wearing a clean bandage, wrapped tight around his chest, and part of him wants to unravel it to see how his back is doing underneath. It hadn’t seemed so bad, but he had passed out so there was a potential that one of his internal systems was wonky; based on what he’d seen so far of the planet it was doubtful the Earth-inhabitant who found him had known how to fix them. On the other hand, he feels surprisingly fine for a ship-wreck survivor.

He rests a hand on the neatly tucked end of the dressing for a long moment before shaking his head. “Food,” he says instead. “Food, kitchen, no niffler.” They seem simple enough instructions to follow.

Error, the translator warns. No entry for “Niffler”. Update dictionary when possible.

Error, the fieldnotes warn. Nudity detected. Local customs require nudity to be dealt with before proceeding.

Graves groans.

It takes some trial and error to work out what, exactly, the nudity problem entails, but he finally narrows it down to his lower back and the tops of his legs. That sorted, he winds the sheet round his waist and shuffles his way out of the bedroom into what is either a kitchen or a health hazard, or quite possibly both. The field notes haven’t yet given him the intricate understanding of Earth culture he needs to tell the difference, but there’s something about the haphazard way pans and bottles and jars are stacked on the shelves that seems a bit unstable to him. He proceeds with caution.

After about five minutes of careful study he slumps down on a stool and confesses to himself that he has no idea what he’s looking for. The small four-legged creature that had followed him around the kitchen hauls herself onto the table and tips her head with a curious chirp, and Graves decides, somewhat desperately, that she looks like she might know.

“What,” he asks her, “What, precisely, is food?”

She chirps. It’s not English. Life wouldn’t be that simple.

“Identify,” Graves says tiredly. “Translate. Please.”

Language not supported. Download new language Y/N

“Screw it, why not.”

Four and a half minutes later, with a headache to rival a nova-shot hangover, Graves repeats his question.

Lots of things, the creature answers with a series of drawn out squeaks. Things that smell nice. Things that look nice. Things you want to eat.

Ah. Fuel. Graves reaches for the nearest bottle of thing that smells nice. He thinks. He doesn’t have much to compare it to, not of Earth smells, and it’s very different from anything he’s familiar with. It looks nice, that at least he’s more certain on, but wanting to eat is a stage he and the unfamiliar food-fuel haven’t yet reached in their relationship.

“Is this food?” he asks.

The creature wrinkles her nose. Not for me, she says, and Graves nearly puts it back - but Mummy eats strange things. It could be food.

Mummy, Graves assumes, is the blushing human. He squints at the bottle. It’s labelled, and it takes a second for the unfamiliar script to resolve itself into something Graves can read. Lavender, it says, which the fieldnotes classify as colour and plant. Graves squints further. How can a colour be bottled. Electromagnetic radiation doesn’t listen to cork stoppers. Are the fieldnotes sure about this.

Plant, the fieldnotes insist petulantly, and Graves allows that ‘colour’ may be a translation error - he’s stuffed a lot of data into his brain in the last eighteen hours, he can’t expect it all to go right. Plants, though. Plants are carbon. Carbon is a (primitive, but workable) energy source. Plants are probably food.

“Bottoms up,” he mumbles, and removes the stopper.

Lavender, he decides, is a bit dry, a bit difficult to swallow - and yes, he can now confirm that his throat has definitely been modified to speak English, he’s only glad it didn’t need further modification to speak the small creature’s squeaking language as well - but other than that, perfectly good enough. He toasts the creature with his bottle, and she makes a hopeful gesture at the door and asks if Graves is going out.

“Ah,” Graves guesses. “Niffler. Mummy said not to let you out.”

Mummy’s a killjoy, Niffler grumbles, and crawls her way into Graves lap to curl up and sulk. Graves shrugs; Mummy has also taken him in and, from the feel of his back, poured far too much time and effort into healing him. Even his hastily-repaired knee feels better. He’s happy enough to keep Niffler in the kitchen if that’s all Mummy asks in payment.

He’s two thirds of the way through the lavender by the time Newt returns.

“Hello?” Newt calls from somewhere down a corridor. “Are you in the - oh, hello, potions lab. That’s. That’s fine. Hello.”

Graves smiles. It feels awkward. Are smiles always awkward? Maybe he’ll ask Niffler later. “I found food,” he says, holding up the mostly empty bottle of dried lavender.

Newt manfully holds his tongue about potions ingredients and food and not really quite the same. “I found clothes,” he replies, holding out the bundle. Graves puts the lavender aside and stands up to take them, toppling Niffler to the floor as he does so.

Naturally, she digs in her claws and takes the sheet with her.

Newt eeps, bright red again as he all but throws the clothes at Graves. “Wasn’t sure about your size, hope you like them, do you want tea I’ll put the kettle on kitchen down the hall,” he babbles, and flees.

Graves stares at the empty doorway, completely bemused. “Mummy is odd,” he tells Niffler.

Well obviously, she grumps, wriggling backwards out of the sheet. He’s Mummy. It’s what he does.

Graves absorbs the new information while he struggles his way into the clothes. Unlike the sheet, they don’t seem willing to stay if he wraps them round, and there seem to be too many of them for the number of limbs he has. What, he wants to know, is wrong with skin-tight nano suits. Who thought clothes were a better idea and are they still alive for Graves to explain why exactly they’re not. “Fieldnotes,” he finally says. “Help?”

The fieldnotes give him a barrage of images. The translator helpfully annotates each one; petticoat, gauntlet, jumpsuit, scuba tank.

“Ok. Niffler. Clothes go how?”

She grumbles something about clothes being ridiculous (Graves privately agrees) but manages to talk him through the way Mummy wears clothes until they make some vague amount of sense.

Buttons, on the other hand, do not. Graves admits defeat and gives up. The trousers probably are the right size but without the buttons done up they hang low and almost falling off his hips; as for the shirt, Graves is lucky to have worked out the arm holes but he leaves the front open over his bandaged chest.

The belt, he abandons. No clue. Some sort of restraint, a collar of some kind? The fieldnotes suggest using it to tie his hands to a bedpost which seems highly counterproductive. He’ll ask later.

Niffler paws imperiously at his bare foot until he bends down and lets her climb to his shoulder. Get me a sugar cube, she demands. Mummy puts them in tea. I want one.

“More food?” Graves asks. Sugarcane the translator tells him is another plant, as is sugar beet but there doesn’t seem to be an entry for sugar cube.

You won’t like them, Niffler hurries to tell him. Kitchen is through that door.

Graves hums and follows. He suspects he may have to try a sugar cube for himself before he decides if he’ll like it or not.

“Hello Mummy,” he says politely as he comes into the kitchen.

Newt spins round with wide eyes, takes in Graves’ rather lax approach to getting dressed, and brandishes a teapot in distress.

Graves pauses and frowns, confused. He has clothes. He’s found the kitchen (it’s not much less of a hazard than the potions lab). He’s not yet let Niffler escape. He’s not sure what’s wrong, but Newt is bright red again, and all but hyperventilates as Graves steps nearer to cage him against the counter.

Error, the fieldnotes protest. Data suggests current breathing method is inefficient. Lack of oxygen fatal to earth residents.

“What are you doing,” Newt asks in a rushed, high pitched breath.

Graves presses their foreheads together. Newt’s skin feels hot against his, even moreso than their different biology can account for. Fever, the translator supplies worriedly. Sign of sickness and ill health. Then the fieldnotes chime in with increasing panic: Error: sickness leads to death. Reduce fever where possible.

“I’m helping,” Graves says out loud to all three of them, and modulates his skin temperature to be cool and soothing. It costs more energy than he’d hoped and it’s unnerving to see the proof of how weak he is, but when he leans back Newt’s sudden fever is gone.

He’s still flushed, and now his pupils are wide and his breathing has stopped altogether. The fieldnotes begin to bleep in distress but the translator shushes them. Earth phrase identified: take my breath away, it says soothingly, to which the fieldnotes start shrilling about giving it back. Graves deems him probably not in danger anymore and nods in satisfaction as he steps away.

“Better?” he asks.

“Newt,” Newt blurts (semi-aquatic, pond dwelling, small creature similar in size to a finger), which is an odd thing to answer with, but then he goes on to clarify, “My name is Newt.”

He lies, Niffler says. His name is Mummy. Don’t believe him.

Newt seems a lot larger than a finger, but he was near a lake when he found Graves so Graves elects to ignore Niffler in this. “My name is unpronounceable on your planet and may vibrate your vocal chords to shreds if you tried,” he says to Newt. “But I don’t mind if you call me Graves.”

Newt stares for a long moment. “Ok,” he finally says. “Graves. Ok. Vibrate my - ok, that’s. Ok.”

Graves smiles, and, potentially, it’s less awkward than before. Maybe. Graves is working on it.

Niffler pokes him in the ear and comes dangerously close to short circuiting his auditory processors. Sugar cubes, she reminds him.

Graves scans the table for something Mummy puts in tea and solemnly hands her a teaspoon.

It’s ok, she says, patting his hand. You’ll learn.

#gramander #percival graves #newt scamander #niffler #alien!graves #cyborg!graves #with two ai tagalongs #i had far too much fun writing this #niffler my darling #you hold too much power over graves please don't abuse it #my writing

96 notes · View notes