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angelisverba · 3 years

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thinkin’ bout you

in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and he’s too shy to ask for her number)

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...

author’s note: i’ve been working on this forever. not to pick fav’s but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, you’ll see!!

* * * * * *

When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nan’s house, he would often pick the latter.

He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat.

So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harry’s tastes weren’t what could be considered ‘average’ or ‘normal’ or ‘straight’ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society.

Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful ‘joking’ comments on how ‘peculiar’ his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room.

Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldn’t judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck.

Long ago, he’d stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin.

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit.

Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harry’s taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisse’s Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.

Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadn’t been in so long. Harry’s imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips.

The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had.

He changed them the week after that.

On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldn’t leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didn’t matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didn’t feed him more mango.

The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion). The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didn’t mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere.

For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mum’s cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didn’t mind it.

He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of H’s Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. ‘My wife just had our son, want to see a picture?’ or ‘my boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturday’ and even ‘my sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says ‘congrats you look like Kim Kardashain now’ how ‘bout it?’

Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didn’t like customers that gave flowers as a ‘fuck you’. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadn’t been enough.

However, Harry couldn’t deny that he didn’t love his job, because he did.

When he turned 16, he’d determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldn’t bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a momma’s boy. Harry loved his mother.

Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat.

On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door.

Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be.

And he wasn’t lonely anymore.

Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled ‘single’, but his heart couldn’t be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company.

She was the complete opposite of every girl he’d ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didn’t judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had… slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants, and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest.

She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, “it smells lovely in here!”

Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a lover’s caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupid’s-bow-struck fool replied with, “thank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything you’d like,” and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel.

But even then, it wouldn’t matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldn’t care because he was half gone for her already.

“In that case,” she smiled, and Harry’s heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. “I just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.”

He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a ‘blush’, but he didn’t know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from it’s bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.

But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because he’d stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, “there’s nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?”

He hoped that the meaning of his words wasn’t caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and ‘loser’-like.

When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy.

Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadn’t wet his wick in so long, and the interaction he’d had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didn’t even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation.

Right?

Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of baby’s breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasn’t the last one. He’s been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadn’t remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy.

Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupid’s arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet he’d made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table.

*********

A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so… struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in it’s purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon.

Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants.

Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harry’s passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harry’s favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny.

He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldn’t have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didn’t even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could.

The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he must’ve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again.

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

Harry donned his favorite pair of flared trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin.

He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.

A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class.

He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ‘nice boy’ along with ‘when are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?’. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go.

In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of ‘welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment!’, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince.

It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didn’t know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, ‘is she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.’ His second thought, however, was ‘how could someone be that beautiful?’. The third was something along the lines of ‘all my yoga has gone to shit, and I’m okay with that’.

He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, love!” His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasn’t sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence.

The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said.

“What was that?” He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement.

“The girl. You like her?” She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Don’t lie to me, I recognize that look. I’ve given and received that look many times throughout my life.”

The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible.

“I’ve got no idea what y’talking about,” he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didn’t hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked.

“Next time I come in,” Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, “I hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Don’t let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.” Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didn’t.

“Take care, Edna. And don’t forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,” he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited.

There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t! He didn’t want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible.

“Hello,” he wanted so badly to add ‘love’ at the end of his greeting. “Are y’finding everything a’right?” He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another.

At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harry’s husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that it’s just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart.

“M’s sorry,” he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, “didn’t mean to scare y’love.” This time he can’t restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent.

“It’s okay,” she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. “I want to buy these flowers.”

God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy.

She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, “Do you sell vases by any chance?” The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, “I had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.”

Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. He’s quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. She’s looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, “I’m rambling aren’t I?” she murmurs bashfully.

“No, no it’s a’right. I can look in the back for something if y’like?” He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the ‘back’ he mentioned. “Did y’want anything in particular?”

“Oh, I don’t wanna be a troubling customer!” She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didn’t want to be.

“Y’not a bother, love. M’promise. I’ll go look f’you. What color did y’have in mind?” He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her.

His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer.

“Something pink, please. If you have it.” That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didn’t owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning.

Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so… so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him.

But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked.

“‘Course,” he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. “Be righ’ back.”

Harry stalked off to ‘the back of the store’. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home.

His home.

Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of ‘saw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy it’, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didn’t help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture).

The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasn’t quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too.

A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didn’t think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didn’t want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did.

He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number.

Listen, I really like y’and would like to have y’number?”

Do y’wanna have my number so we can go out sometime if y’feel like it?”

“Is it alright if I get y’number so we can go out sometime?”

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

Nothing’s making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasn’t a ‘good time’. This was… a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room.

Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didn’t want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didn’t make much noise.

The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her.

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, “I’ve got the last one,” he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her.

“Oh my god!” She said, “It's so pretty!” The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harry’s presented her with. She’s got a smile on her face, and he can’t help but think, ‘wow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lily’.

There’s a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a ‘flower language chart’ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads ‘my love is pure’.

She asked him if it wasn’t too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added “I’ve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get here” just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry can’t keep his eyes locked on hers because she’s staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm. The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and he’s tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow.

“I guess I was right in waiting then,” she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up.

His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didn’t? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldn’t stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.

Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, “What d’you mean, love?”

“I was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,” the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf.

“Why would y’get in y’own head about coming to m’flower shop, hmm? It’s hardly that intimidating,” he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, “I don’t bite, either.”

And he hopes that his wistfulness isn’t meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. “I know! I know, it’s just that I can’t help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.”

Harry could coo at her right now. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, “That I get, too. But y’doing just fine with me, love.”

Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, it’s impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three.

“I thought I had cash on me today,” something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harry’s become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. “I guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,” she said.

“It is pretty easy to get lost in there, isn’t it?” He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.

Y/n.

Y/n, y/n, y/n.

This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret that’s worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harry’s heart is soaring with a closure he didn’t know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person ‘you know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessica’, because their looks and style just didn’t match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harry’s brain was thinking. The name was her.

“What?” Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“No! No, no.” Harry’s careful beam simmered down from it’s previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. “I just think y’name is pretty thas’ all.”

He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck. Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements.

Like dropping her card when she piped up again.

Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?” Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that she’d bury her fingernails into her palm.

“I think y’very pretty.” He whispered back. He can’t even bear to look at her in fear that he’s totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy they’re buying flowers that they’re pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses “the way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventies”? Jesus, fuck. He must’ve looked ridiculous.

Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, “welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who… was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that. Now please say it again’? Was he… dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-

“Thank you... what’s your name?” Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harry’s. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a bird’s wing.

“Harry. M’name’s Harry.” This time, he didn’t hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”

She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram.

Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,” she added.

He’s cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadn’t scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he can’t say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didn’t have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasn’t sullied with bouts of bad timing, “thank y’love. I like yours, too. You’ll have t’come over sometime and paint mine, yeah?”

Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been too bold, “I’d love too!” With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, “I don’t want to hold you back from a customer for so long. I’ll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.”

The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to ‘closed’ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma.

But he knows that’s unrealistic, and settles with, “it was my pleasure, y/n,” a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), “I’ll be waiting f’your next visit.” His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasn’t receiving back-handed compliments all the time.

He wasn’t superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates.

What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, she’d been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Don’t even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasn’t thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat.

It wasn’t until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store.

***

Harry was having a shitty morning.

Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldn’t make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should.

His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a lover’s caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage.

It almost made him wish that he’d opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead.

He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But… he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance.

He thinks he might know why he’s feeling this way.

While he’s stirring his scrambled eggs, he’s wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people ‘aren’t hungry’ in the mornings, though that’s only because they’ve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isn’t the case with y/n, and that she’s eating the proper three meals a day every day.

And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when he’d woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if she’d ever eaten strawberries like that.

It’s been a week and a half, he still hasn’t seen her, and his heart is yearning.

Harry knows he’s not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides it’s best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldn’t open that day because he didn’t want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says ‘H’s Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!’ followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart.

Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harry’s hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when it’s over, Harry’s sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down.

Cleaning wouldn’t help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.

There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read ‘women are smarter’ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesn’t get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product that’s supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because he’s being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content.

He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owen’s habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. He’s shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but he’d rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that he’s scared y/n off. There’s a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about ‘I've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?’ and it’s not helping his case at all.

It’s no use.

There’s a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isn’t always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isn’t true.

Harry is very… well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never ‘I really like you we should go out sometime’. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when he’d take them to his apartment they’d ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friend’s palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldn’t be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be.

Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didn’t get out of this apartment he’s going to breakdown and cry and there’s no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. They’ve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where… where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didn’t understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him.

A walk, he decided, would help him… air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier.

He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin.

There’s a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesn’t turn back because it’s the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible.

Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. He’s not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, you’ll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then he’ll actually be happy.

Right?

Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. It’s only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasn’t in a shitty mood already. He’s so out of it, that he nearly yells ‘get your hands off my windows!’. He doesn’t though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear ‘they’re closed, darling, let’s go somewhere else’ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips.

That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from it’s place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay.

Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. There’s no intended destination, he’s just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasn’t. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but then…what kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day?

He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeff’s Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. There’s so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look.

“Back again so soon, H?”

Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him ‘H’ in silent homage to his flower shop.

“Y’know I can’t stay away,” Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, “plus, I think I needed s’more of the peppermint essential oils f’my diffuser.”

“‘Course ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!” Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kid’s section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. “Go on and look around then, I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He said.

Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. Macramé potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal.

Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be ‘100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with ‘healing power of crystals’, two of them ‘citrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining ‘garnet guava’. The brand name is something in Italian that he can’t read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and-

“Harry?”

A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart.

His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, “Harry, is that you?”

Is this really happening right now? He’s embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he can’t put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isn’t perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off.

Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove.

“Y/n…” He’s breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, “hi.”

She’s wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. It’s pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.

Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, “f-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.”

It’s quiet again, and they’re both fidgeting. Y/n’s knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that aren’t there. She’s staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he can’t think of anything to say because he’s so paralyzed by the fact that she’s actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence?

While she’s hiking up the ends of her sweater so that they’re situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Aren’t y’cold?”

Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, “a little bit.”

Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isn’t that what he was doing now?

“D’you need a ride home?” He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, “t-that is if y’walking, I wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything like that. S’bit chilly out today.”

Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, “thank you, for the offer, but uhm… it’s my friend’s baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because she’s crazy about the whole ‘no preservatives’ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so I…I’m rambling again.” She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out.

Harry smirked at her antics, but it’s more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle.

“S’alright, love.” He’s still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture that’s collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. “Y’wearing pink. I take it y’want the baby to be a girl?”

“Actually, I know it’s a girl. She told me,” y/n pips, shrugging smugly.

Harry laughs at her this time, “Did you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up f’you.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-”

He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice.

“Y/n, it’s fine. D’ya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if you’d like.” Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

“Uh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,” she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesn’t mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like.

He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. “A’right. I’ll wait f’you in the front, then. Take y’time, love.”

“‘Kay,” she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before there’s a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants.

At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance.

“A little love-struck, mate?” He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought.

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.”

Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).

“Yup. I knew it. Have y’asked her out yet?” Niall doesn’t stop to let Harry refute his question, “y’know she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.”

Harry’s head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.

“What? Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” He doesn’t mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is… well, it’s thrilling.

Alarmed, Niall’s hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, “no, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.”

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, “I’m all finished.”

“Already, babe? I’ll rig ya up, then!”

He’s quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niall’s gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to ‘aid with goodnight night’s sleep’, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles.

Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesn’t say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, “there yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!”

Harry’s eyes widen at Niall’s last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.

Y/n, however, quips back with “I’ll be nice only if you’re nice,” and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry who’s smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all.

He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else.

When they’ve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time,

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-”

Harry and y/n giggle at each other,

“You go first.”

“Y’speak first.”

And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, “I’ll drop this off in my friend’s car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.”

Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driver’s side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they can’t mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands.

“I’m sorry about Charlotte,” she said when she got back, “she doesn’t know how to mind her own.”

“A bit like Niall, it seems.” Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. They’re so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. It’s cold, and she’s still this warm?

“Maybe,” her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, “they should meet.”

“Tha’s exactly what I was thinkin’!” His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose.

As they get closer, to H’s Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldn’t have to stand in the cold for so long. He didn’t want her to get sick.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,” she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. “It’s your day off, and I’m bugging you.”

They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her.

He sucked on his teeth, “oh, love, please worryin’ about it. Don’t wanna see that frown on y’pretty face anymore okay?” His confidence was slowly coming back, “s’not my day off, I just didn’t feel like speaking to customers today.”

Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured ‘oh, okay’, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didn’t anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum.

Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from it’s slot, the amount of force in Harry’s push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face.

However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body.

This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything.

He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and it’s almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harry’s semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because he’s being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if she’s okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers.

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and she’s beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes.

He clears his throat (something he’s doing a lot around her) and asks if she’s okay.

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. This was on the floor,” she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?

It’s a notice from the delivery men that said, ‘sorry! We missed you!’ with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning.

Cursing, he takes it from her, “t-thank you. Now how ‘bout those flowers?”

It’s awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harry’s still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesn’t add any fuel to the fire because there’s more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet she’s ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and he’s suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole.

Harry asks her questions on what flowers she’d like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and baby’s breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahlia’s stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesn’t say anything. Not even a nod or a hum.

Eventually, he decides he’s had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention.

“Love, I’m sorry about what happened,” he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, “I know it probably made y’uncomfortable, and I didn’t do much to make the situation better, but I just didn’t wanna see y’fall.”

Y/n’s head is already dipped, so he can’t see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows he’s utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the baby’s breath he’s holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didn’t want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.

He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, “y/n, what’s wrong?”

She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, “you probably think I’m weird now or something after that.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if he’d been struck, and her words practically had. He can’t believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didn’t even know her that well, yet. “No, no. I don’t think that. Y’tripped, that’s all. Happens to everyone. If anythin’ I’m the weirdo for grabbin’ y’the way I did, and I’m really sorry about it.”

Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, “that was so embarrassing, I should’ve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-”

Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that mean…

His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, “y’think I’m cute?”

She stills with awareness of what she’s just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about ‘don’t rub y’eyes anymore, love, y’gonna hurt’ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists.

There’s a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, “I mean- I- I-”

Harry decides that it’s now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, “can I have y’number?”

A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didn’t start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, “okay.”

He’s elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesn’t waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They don’t share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry can’t believe that he’s finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning.

When she’s finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while he’s tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. He’s fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching.

“Will you text me?” She asked him.

He’s careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick ‘Hi. It’s Harry :)’. He hits send, “until you’re sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She shakes her head, and Harry’s reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while she’s in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. ��How much do I owe you?”

Harry waves her off, “it’s on the house.” She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, “y’better go or you’ll be late, love.” He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of baby’s breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center.

She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, “fine, but you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

“Of course,” he smirks, “with dinner, maybe?”

They’re both gleaming at each other now, “okay.” Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, “bye, Harry.”

His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesn’t recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent.

She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling.

Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men.

********

Harry can’t stop thinking.

Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasn’t? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning.

This?

This was different.

As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didn’t stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom.

Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.

His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. That’s how gone he was. That’s how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and they’d been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him.

Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldn’t take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds.

He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface.

The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldn’t wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. It’s so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button.

There’s a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this hard over a girl before, and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, he’s thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If she’s that soft on an external part of her body that’s used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like.

Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When he’s completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut.

He hikes up his knees so that they’re resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images he’s picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/n’s. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock.

Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but what’s turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her.

He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself.

The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be ‘well-endowed’ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after he’d bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harry’s this broken over just the thought of her, then he’s sure he’s going to lose himself beyond recognition after he’s buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm.

Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harry’s pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge.

His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base.

For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/n’s nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. She’d whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, ‘please, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, please’, and he’d speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, ‘c’mon, darling. Give m’another then. Y’want it so bad, yeah? Give me a’fucking ‘nother’, and she’d release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. She’d squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum.

The water in Harry’s tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that he’s closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he can’t contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because he’s right on the edge. He’s about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/n’s face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, ‘please let me cum, Harry. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please let me cum.

He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out.

With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water that’s still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again.

Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, “fuck me,” at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body.

Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...

It’s her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads:

y/n <3 : so… dinner?

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though he’s just completely physically spent himself, there’s something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name.

He couldn’t be happier.

* * * * * *

and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! i’d love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, don’t be afraid to press that reblog button <3333

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zodiakuroo · 3 years

Text

copycat

18+, eren jaeger x fem!reader

part two of pierced

inspired by the 'big stick' scene from jawbreaker (iykyk)

wc: 3.7k

contains: mild dubcon, light dom/sub, ball play, choking, dumbification, degradation, spit, creampie

Eren can’t help but admire you from the doorway of your shared bedroom. One would think, that after 30 days of edging, you would learn not to be such a fucking tease. But here you are flitting around the kitchen in nothing but one of his t-shirts and a frilly pair of lilac panties.

‘Stop being a perv. It’s hot out.’ You don’t have to say it. The ‘you’ in his head is already chastising him for the lascivious nature of his thoughts.

The ‘you’ in his head is also already bent over the granite top counter, panties long discarded, presenting yourself to him, begging ‘Please Eren. Fuck me.’

He can’t help it. Everyday he’s found himself face to face with your cute little pussy, absolutely begging to get filled and not being able to do anything about it. It’s not his fault that when he sees you wearing next to nothing, he just wants to stick his cock in you.

Except it’s entirely his fault.

That’s why even though you can feel the weight of his stare as you move around the kitchen, you don’t even spare a glance in his direction.

If there’s one thing these last few weeks have taught you, its willpower. And thanks to your newfound self-discipline you’re able to resist the urge to pounce on him when your boyfriend pulls your back against the solid wall of his chest. “Baby.” He rasps. “I’m all healed up.”

The statement makes goosebumps appear on your skin despite the sweltering heat but other than that, you show no signs of exactly how pent up you are.

Eren made you swear not to touch yourself whining about how unfair it would be and how he would really appreciate your support in his hour of need. Yes he used those exact words. You kept your promise but not without intending to receive payback. It was only a matter of how. The idea hadn’t come to you yet.

“Really?” You don’t even bother to turn around, pushing past him. Partly as a way to tease him but also because you don’t trust yourself to be able to resist him once you get a good look at him. From his scent alone you can tell he’s fresh from a shower and that’s when he’s the most dangerous. He smells cool and fresh like his shower gel, spicy and warm like his aftershave and fruity and floral like his your shampoo. It’s hypnotic.

The trance is broken when he pulls you even closer to him, grinding his bulge into your backside.

“Stop buying that 2-in-1 shit if you’re gonna use mine all the time anyways.” You grumble.

Right.

Revenge first. Dick second. The voice in your head reminds you.

You wriggle out of his hold, remembering why you came into the kitchen in the first place. You breathe a sigh of relief as you open the freezer door, the cold air providing a brief reprieve from the near suffocating heat of your apartment. Once you’ve obtained your target; a cherry popsicle hidden behind some ice packs and frozen peas, you finally take a look at your tormentor.

“Babe c’mon.” Eren persists.

He looks good. Unfairly good considering the fact that he’s not even trying. Fresh from the shower, he has on a worn out white t-shirt, stretched around the neckline which gives you a mouthwatering look at his perfectly sculpted collarbones and no more than the top of his pecs that peak out above the seam. His grey athletic shorts hang low on his hips and outline his print a little too well so you know he’s not wearing boxers. Eren hasn’t bothered to tie up his long hair leaving the damp tendrils dangling above his shoulders with a few stray strands framing his handsome face. He’s putting up a nonchalant front but the tick in his eyebrow gives his irritated disposition away.

Surely he didn’t believe that you would let him have his way with you that easily.

Except he did. Because under most circumstances he would. But today, your own stubbornness (only marginally) drowns out your desire for your Adonis of a boyfriend so you push past him into the lounge, plopping down on the couch with a dramatic sigh.

“Later.” You bring the frozen treat to your lips. “It’s so hot.” Again, Eren tries to keep his face expressionless but you easily spot the way he clenches his jaw as his gaze fixes itself onto your mouth.

Bingo

You close your eyes, enjoying the sweet cherry taste and cool sensation that spreads throughout your body.

“On second thought,” You start, as a mischievous grin spreads across your face. “There is something else I’d rather have in my mouth.”

“Yeah?” Eren dons a matching smirk and stalks his way over to you, sitting down so that you can straddle him. “Tempting but honestly, your mouth isn’t what I had in mind.” His voice trails off, large hands moving down to cup your ass, giving the soft flesh a squeeze for good measure. But before he can take it any further you’re already manoeuvring your way between his knees.

“Oh. You don’t want me to suck your cock?” You pout, resting your head against his thigh, trying your best to sound disappointed.

Eren swallows whatever argument he was about to present when he sees your pretty eyes, shaded by fluttering lashes looking up at him with the tip of the crimson popsicle pressed against your sinful mouth. The same sinful mouth he’s been dreaming about for a month.

Fuck.

“Yeah, okay.” He grumbles while you watch him pull his already half hard cock out of his bottoms. It’s so pretty and long, perfectly thick in all the right places, decorated at the tip with a vertical running titanium barbell.

He’s got a hand around his base, waiting for you to replace the sweet treat in your mouth with his aching cock but much to his dismay your attention is drawn a little lower.

The sight of his plush balls all swollen and full of cum proves to be too much for you to resist. He shudders when your cold lips press against the taut skin. You know he’s sensitive from being so backed up. That’s why he starts panting as you leave wet kisses on his sac, leaving your saliva all over it while his shaft grows harder above you.

“Hold this for me.” You pass him your popsicle, that is slowly starting to melt which he takes in his free hand.

“Okay can you just- fuck.” One more kiss, right on the shiny metal of his newly healed piercing, shuts him up quickly.

Your own hands find their place on his thighs. You dip your head down again and take one of his balls in his mouth massaging it with your tongue.

“Christ.” He groans, slowly jerking himself off while you worship his balls.

“Oh poor baby…. so full.” You murmur letting go of the left to suck on the right one, savouring the weight of them.

“Yeah.” His voice is about a whole octave higher than usual. “Hurts.” He scrunches up his face when you let go of his ball with a pop.

“I bet.” You giggle. Eren is now at full mast, veiny shaft resting against his abdomen, dribbling precum which coats the shiny piercing that crowns his angry-red tip. His wrist flicks ever so elegantly as his hand moves languidly up and down, up and down, up and-”

“Princess.” Your boyfriend whines, yanking you out of your daze. “Enough with the teasing. You wanted to suck me off. Do it already.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, not losing sight of your revenge plot.

“Baby,” You pout. “I really want to but-” It’s so hard to bite back your laugh. “But I don’t remember how.”

“Wait what?” His hand stops right in his tracks, brows furrowed in confusion.

“It’s been so long. Can you show me?”

Eren’s expression goes from perplexed to vicious but you don’t budge, blinking up at him with wide innocent eyes.

“How?” He huffs impatiently. It’s funny actually, seeing him struggle to tolerate a fraction of his own bitter medicine.

Your eyes shift to the frozen treat still in his hand that’s starting to drip down his knuckles. “I’m a visual learner.”

He moves like he’s about to stand up but you won’t make it that easy for him. “Please, Rennie? Please teach me how to suck your cock?”

As much as Eren has you wrapped around his finger, he’s just as whipped for you. So when you look at him with those sparkly eyes and call him the pet name he swears he hates but brings him to his knees when you use it, you know you have him.

Hook, line and sinker.

You use your thumb and middle finger to make a circle around his base, positioning yourself eye level with his leaking slit.

His tongue peaks out cautiously, eyes trained on yours as he flicks it across the tip, testing the waters. Immediately you follow suit, tasting his precum for the first time in so long. His hips buck off the couch, chasing the gone-too-soon sensation but you dig your nails into his thigh, reminding him who’s in control right now.

You quirk your brow at him, making sure he understands what you want.

How many times have you found yourself in this exact position: sitting between your boyfriend’s thighs while he looks down at you, both of you equally as lust drunk as the other. But this time he’s the one panting and whimpering while you have your turn to torture him.

Eren doesn’t like it. Not one bit. He wants to smack that smug little grin right off your face but instead he pulls at your hair, tugging right at the roots and making you yelp in pain. Now you’re scowling. But it’s hard to look at all intimidating sitting beneath him with your head tilted at such an awkward angle. He doesn’t miss the way your thighs clench together either.

Never breaking eye contact, he uses the flat of his tongue to lick a broad stripe up the length of the popsicle. You squirm in place, remembering how it feels to have him lick across your cunt exactly like that.

Fine. He’d play along with your little game. But on his own terms.

You lean forward to copy him but the hand holding your head keeps you in place. Without looking away, Eren launches a glob of spit onto the already drippy ice-cream before licking it away. It’s that simple for him to put a crack in your domineering façade and have you whimpering right at his feet as per usual.

The corners of his lips twitch as a silent challenge to you.

Never one to back down, you use your tongue to trace the vein that runs along the underside of his cock, feeling it pulsate. As you get closer to his prince Albert, you can’t hold back from swirling the wet muscle around the cold metal.

A soft whimper escapes his lips as you pull away, keeping your mouth agape, looking up at him expectantly.

It’s silent for a moment before Eren realises what you’re wordlessly pleading for. “Fucking slut.” He mutters, almost amazed before he gathers more of his saliva to drop into your mouth with a loud khwa pto echoing throughout the quiet apartment.

You close your mouth with a satisfied smile, savouring the taste of sweet, tart cherry and a flavour that is uniquely Eren, letting it mingle with your own saliva before spitting it on to his cock. You use your tongue to spread the wetness all along the shaft, leaving it covered in slick sheen.

“So fuckin’ nasty.” He groans, moving his hand from your head to push his own hair out of his face, not wanting anything to obstruct his view of you right now.

You feel the way his thigh twitches under your palm every time you come even close to his puffy cockhead and your tongue brushes across the sensitive piercing. The idea that you have him like this, desperate and whining, after weeks of him toying with you is exhilarating to say the least.

You have to rein yourself in before you end the fun too soon.

Reluctantly, you pull away and patiently await your next command.

You know what he wants next and so does he but Eren can’t help but feel self-conscious.

Of course, he loves the way you look when you’re going down him. His gallery is filled with pictures of you with your eyes filled to the brim with tears and your lips stretched impossibly wide around his girth. When you’re not around he gets off to the videos him fucking your face, relishing in the way you gag while you try to accommodate him in your throat. He doesn’t think he could ever measure up to how sexy you look with your pupils blown, lips all swollen and your spit dripping down your chin.

But just like you, he’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

Ever so slowly, he opens his mouth and latches on to the blunt top of the popsicle. His plump lips form a perfect O-shaped pout, stained beautiful crimson from the fruit juice. Your gaze is transfixed on his face, the sharp lines and edges tinted with an uncharacteristic blush as his cheeks hollow out, to suck it in deeper.

“So pretty baby.” You breathe out.

He shudders as the cool air fans out across his wet skin.

“Yeah? ‘m pretty?” He smirks, using his free hand to drag his cock across your face, smearing his precum on your lips. “Show me how you treat pretty boys. Please?”

And how could you deny him?

Centimeter by centimeter, you pull him in. Only the first few inches, get to enjoy the warm, slippery cavern of your mouth while the rest of him has to make do with the soft skin of your hand gliding up, down and around.

“Fucking take it inside. Christ.” He groans, frustration evident as he glares down at you.

You simply shake your head a ‘no’, far too content with the taste and the weight of him in your mouth to stop suckling at his cock. If he wants more, he knows what he has to do.

The frozen treat is back between his lips and far too quickly, with not enough thought he pushes it inside as far as it can go until his gag reflex forces him to abort his mission, sputtering out red-coloured saliva.

You pull off of him as you erupt into a fit of giggles.

Eren takes advantage of the fact that you’re unguarded and in a matter of seconds he has you pinned to the floor. The poor popsicle is left in a sad, melting puddle on your couch while his long, sticky fingers circle around both of your wrists, the other hand keeping a harsh grip on your jaw.

Yeah. Not laughing now, are you?

“Was that funny to you princess?” He questions you, almost daring you to hit back.

Knowing when to quit was never one of your strong points.

“Not funny.” You say despite your giddy smile. “My pretty boy just needs more practice.” You snicker.

You’re pushing his buttons on purpose now. At best, you expect some degrading words fitting of your bratty attitude. At worst, you expect the sting of his palm to come down against the side of your face, reminding you of your place.

What you don’t expect is a wry chuckle before he says, “I forgot how bitchy you get when you don’t get stuffed full of cock enough.”

Eren frees your hands in favour of placing both of his on your knees. He spreads apart your legs as wide as they can go, dragging his coarse palms up and up to rest at the apex of your thighs. He flicks up the hem of your shirt to reveal to him the crotch of your panties that's soaked through with your arousal. He pulls them to the side to expose your cunt to him. Eren barely stops himself from tearing the flimsy fabric right off your body and only because he thinks they're pretty and wants to see you wear them again.

He can smell you. But he suppresses the desire to bury his face between your pillowy thighs for as long as you’ll let him. He knows that’s not what either of you really want.

“This needy pussy been missing me?” He coos, keeping his voice sugary sweet and dripping with condescension. He grinds his pierced tip all along your cunt, dipping under your hood to press right against your clit.

You feel it before you realise what’s happening; the burn of his fat head of his cock prodding at your tiny hole, forcing it to stretch around him.

“Jesus fuck- ‘s tight.” He grits out, managing to pop just the tip in.

Tears gather at your waterline as he impales you further and further on his cock, reintroducing your insides to him and his newest body mod. The bulb of the piercing drags deliciously over every bump and ridge that lines your walls. It just keeps going and going until it’s all too much.

Instinctively, your hand flies to Eren’s abdomen, fingers splaying across his tummy. You want to ask him to stop or wait or at the very least prep you. But you’re just so full.

He’s not even all the way in and you’re full of him everywhere. Did it feel like this before?

He doesn't give you a chance to remember.

“Move. Your fucking. Hand.” He grunts before moving it for you and sheathing his cock fully in your spasming cunt.

“Fuck Eren. ‘s big.” Your voice breaks as you utter that last word right one Eren fills you to the hilt. Your arms fly to his biceps, squeezing the muscle so tight that you’re certain it hurts him but he doesn’t complain.

No one would believe that mere minutes ago Eren was the one under your thumb. Not when he’s so quickly managed to turn you into a blubbering mess.

“Where’s that smart mouth now?” He mocks you as if he’s doing any better. In reality he’s keeping himself still, with his pressed against yours trying to regain a semblance of control, not wanting this to end so soon.

Slowly, he starts to rock his hips against you and little by little you open up around him, offering less and less resistance. Hand on the bible, he swears he can feel your gooey pussy sucking him in every time he pulls back, almost like it’s begging him to never leave again. Hand on the bible, he swears that he won’t.

“Huh?” He taunts. “Where’s the bitch who thought she could fuck with me?” He emphasises his point with one sharp snap of his hips that hits the bull’s eye.

“Eren! Right there!” You cry out as you back arches up into him but he forces you to stay down by pressing his palm firmly against your sternum.

“Right there?” He mimics your voice, with a high pitched, nasal tone. You can’t even cringe at how it sounds because the feeling of the rounded metal hitting that squishy patch deep inside you with pinpoint accuracy is too overwhelming for you to think about anything else.

“You want me to fuck you here?” His thrusts start to pick up pace. You’re finally getting used to him again and the slick juices from your pussy let’s him move as fast as he wants, as deep as he wants so you he can use his cock to abuse all of your sweet spots

You can’t exactly speak; only nod, as you dig your nails into his shoulders and back, leaving a trail of crescent shaped indents in your wake. The coil at the base of your belly twists tighter, tighter and tighter still as all your nerve endings work overtime to register the way he fills you up completely, the way the metal rubs along all the right spots and the way Eren rams into you like a man possessed.

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease.” Now you’re begging. It’s impossible to stop the fear bubbling in your chest. You’ve become well-acquainted with this feeling. Absolutely drowning in pleasure and right on the edge of an unimaginable peak before having it ripped away. It’s not unreasonable to be worried that Eren might leave you high and dry once again.

He halts his movements the moment he notices the doubt behind your eyes.

Your pleas become more and more frantic, already thinking the worst. “Don’t stop Eren! Please don’t stop.” You sob but go silent when his hand rests itself firmly around your throat.

“Told you.” He punctuates the sentence with one, deep thrust.

“Fuck. What did I say?” He growls as he falls back into the same brutal rhythm that had you teetering on the very brink of an orgasm before.

God above as your witness, you try and answer but all that comes out is a pathetic squeak of his name before he cuts you off completely by squeezing your neck tighter.

“S-said I was gonna fuck you stupid. Right?”

You nod as best you can, head spinning from the lack of air and your orgasm approaching rapidly.

“Now fuckin’ cum for me so I can keep my promise.”

The second his hand meets your clit, you’re a goner. The calloused pad of his thumb rubs the neglected nub with exactly the right pressure to push you over the edge. Every muscle clenches as that tightening coil finally snaps. The intoxicating pleasure that shoots through your body reaches your head at the same time as the pressure on your throat is released, much needed oxygen flooding your brain and prolonging the high.

You wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him deep inside you as cream around his cock. It’s pointless to hold off his release any longer and with nowhere else to go he spills his load deep in your pussy. The feeling of his hot cum seeping into your pussy has you twitching around him, trying to milk every last drop from him.

You may have blacked for a second, eyes fluttering open as Eren gently taps your cheek. His handsome face, all flushed and sweaty comes into focus. Both of you are wearing equally dopey grins as he asks you, “Did it feel as good as I said?”

#tw dubcon #eren jaeger #eren x reader #eren yaeger smut #eren jaeger smut #eren yaeger x reader #attack on titan smut #eren smut #aot smut #snk smut #eren yaeger x reader smut

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taetaespeaches · 3 years

Text

“I’m sure you were great, Peaches.”

taehyung x reader (oc) genre: fluff beta reader(s): @stayjimin word count: 2.1K

a/n: Hi lovelies! Here’s a moment from early on in Tae and Peaches’ friendship. There are small signs of deeper feelings but they are both too naive to realize what those feelings are. Peaches is shy, Tae is adorable, and oh yeah, this is where he starts calling her Peaches. I hope you all enjoy, and thanks for reading :))

The knock on your apartment door may as well have been completely voided as the damn thing was pushed open before the thump even sounded. Your best friend stepped inside with a loud groan, throwing his bag to the floor carelessly.

“I hate when practice runs late,” he complained, his gaze finding you, sitting on the couch, your laptop positioned on your lap as you stared at him.

“You know, one of these days your sudden entrances are going to give me a heart attack,” you told him as you moved the laptop to the coffee table. The man responded with a guilty grin as he approached the sofa.

“Have you picked out a movie?” He asked, you throwing your head back dramatically.

“Tae, I’m so indecisive, you know this about me,” you complained. “Can’t you pick it?” The man sighed dramatically, looking to the ceiling in exaggerated thought.

“Some day you’re going to have to make some decisions for yourself,” he teased, you rolling your eyes as you waved him off.

“Not today,” you replied sassily, crossing your arms over your chest. Taehung met your attitude with an adorable boxy smile, you returning the expression with a grin of your own. “You can sit down,” you told him, eyeing the way he leaned up against your couch.

Looking at you bashfully, you cocked your head back at him. “I didn’t have a chance to shower after practice,” he mumbled shyly, you nearly cooing at how cute he was.

“Do you smell?” You sat up on your knees, leaning toward him, Taehyung giggling boyishly as he set his palms on your shoulders, shoving you away. Falling back against the couch cushions, you laughed loudly as Taehyung playfully called you a weirdo. “You can shower here if you want,” you suddenly told him, his eyes widening in what appeared to be surprise.

“Is that ok?” He asked timidly, the man’s demeanor taking you by surprise as he was typically so confident and exuberant and, well, hyper. He was always so youthful, kind of like a young boy within a grown body.

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” you told him, standing up to point down the hallway to your bathroom. “There’s clean towels and washrags in the little plastic drawers next to the sink, and I can get you a change of clothes to wear. Sweats and a t-shirt ok? Want a hoodie?” You asked him, the man smiling at you fondly as you looked to meet his gaze. “What?” You suddenly became shy under his stare, Taehyung shaking his head.

“Yeah, that’s ok,” he said simply. “I’ll wear whatever you give me.”

“Ok,” you giggled bashfully. “You can use any of the products in the shower.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, “I’ll be quick.” Stepping away from you slowly as he started down the hallway.

“No, take your time, you’re fine,” you assured him as he made his way to the bathroom. “Hey Tae,” you called out, the man whipping around to look at you, wide eyed and innocent. “You only stink a little bit.”

“Oh shut up,” he laughed, his low chuckle ringing through the apartment making you smile and giggle in response.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you looked around at your own photos on your apartment walls, as though you weren’t sure how to conduct yourself with the knowledge that your best friend was currently stripping down just a few feet away. You waited until you heard the shower curtain open and the water turn on before stepping to your bedroom to find some clothes for him to wear.

Sitting on your knees in front of the bottom dresser drawer, you dug around for a pair of sweats that would be baggy enough for his comfort, though your attention was pulled from the task at hand when the sound of Taehyung’s muffled singing rang out down the hallway. Smiling to yourself, you halted your actions to listen to him for a moment.

The song was Girls Generation’s ‘Gee’ which was typical but still funny even after your few months of close friendship with the guy. Shaking your head at his antics, you grabbed a pair of sweats and stood. As you left the bedroom, you found yourself humming along to his singing as you approached the bathroom.

Knocking on the door a couple times, you called out, “Tae, can I come in? I have your clothes.”

“Yeah!” he yelled out enthusiastically, sounding as though his head was submerged under the water. Giggling, you opened the door slowly, careful to not catch him in an indecent position.

Stepping inside the bathroom, Taehyung poked his head out from behind the shower curtain almost immediately, you snorting at his quick action. Water dripped from his drenched locks as he stared at you with wide eyes.

“What does this mean?” He asked, pushing his arm out from behind a curtain, a bottle of body wash in his hand. “Pretty as a peach,” he read the label.

Eyeing the bottle, and then his wet face, water falling from his hair to the bathroom mat in front of the tub, you hummed with a shrug. “I don’t know, I guess peaches are pretty?” He looked at you with the same confusion as you tried to come up with a suitable answer. “I think, like, peaches are soft and sweet, right? So, pretty in that way. I think it’s just a cute way to call something pretty and soft and sweet.”

“Hmm,” he nodded as if he understood suddenly. “So like you.”

“I don’t think so,” you whispered under your breath though a chuckle as you became bashful under his innocent stare. He threw compliments at you in the most pure, nonchalant ways that would have your head, and heart, reeling. “I’ll leave your clothes here,” you sat them on the edge of the sink and patted them, the clothes more squished into a pile than folded.

“Thank you,” he smiled happily just before ducking his head back inside the curtain as you smiled, heading back toward the doorway.

“Hey, Tae,” you called out to him, the man sticking his face out of the shower once more, you already wearing a smirk when he met your eyes. “Hurry up in here,” you teased, holding back a laugh at how Tae’s jaw dropped open. “More cleaning, less singing.”

“But you said take my ti-” he began to defend himself as you cackled, leaving the room and shutting the door behind you.

“You’re mean, you know that?” He yelled at you through an obvious smile and chuckle as you laughed down the hallway, heading to the kitchen to gather some snacks.

Taehyung entered your life suddenly as a goofy overgrown kid, friendly and kind. Complimenting you since day one, he had done nothing over the past several months but lift you up, while entertaining you constantly as he did so. The day you met him, the day you missed your bus and spilled coffee all over your shoes, he had done most of the talking. He bought you a drink, using the little money he had as a member of a group that was just barely debuting, and he sat in that cafe with you for over an hour, just chatting away about everything from how hard dancing was to the movies he had been watching recently.

“Have you seen Moonrise Kingdom yet?” He asked through his eye smile, the boxy grin reaching every feature on his face.

“No, not yet,” you had responded, taking a sip of your new iced coffee. “Is it good?”

“Oh, it’s amazing!” He told you enthusiastically. “You’ll have to come over to the dorm and watch it,” he said simply, no hidden agenda behind the words. You felt safe. The man, as pretty and charming as he was, just desired a friendship with you.

And you found yourself gladly accepting that friendship into your life, soon letting it become the most valuable relationship you’d ever had.

Over the course of the few months of knowing Taehyung, movie nights and cafe hangouts became a regular thing for you both- when he had time, that is. And though he had been in your life for less than a year, it was hard to picture a future without Taehyung in it. You knew if life caused you both to drift apart, as people often did, you would be ok. But you also knew your world just simply would be a lot less bright and a lot less interesting without him.

Removing the bag of popcorn from the microwave that you had placed in there a few minutes earlier, you shook it just as the sound of the bathroom door opening resonated down the hallway. Tearing the bag open and pouring it into a bowl, you grabbed a piece just as Tae rounded the corner into the kitchen.

Throwing the piece at him, you giggled at the man’s flinch, his eyes wide in shock, the expression only furthering your laughter. His mouth opened into a wide smile as a deep chuckle left his throat just before gesturing at you to throw another piece.

Grabbing a piece of popcorn, you lined up your shot with your best friend’s open mouth, giggling as you tossed it, the man jumping to the side to catch it. Simultaneously, you both threw your arms up in victory, Taehyung cheering as he bounded toward you, reaching for another piece of the snack and popping it into his mouth, shooting you a big close-mouthed grin.

Eyeing up his frame, you couldn’t help the smile that curved on your lips at the sight of him in your old volleyball t-shirt with your high school’s name and mascot printed on the front of it. Taehyung caught you staring at his chest, his hand coming up to run over the lettering and the image of a volleyball passing over a net.

“I didn’t know you played volleyball,” he commented, the words coming out as a question as he seeked further information. Your gaze meeting his own, you admired the way his wet fringe hung over his eyeline slightly.

“Oh yeah,” you smiled shyly. “I was a setter. I was actually somewhat decent.”

“I’m sure you were great, Peaches,” he complimented easily, tacking on the new pet name as if it was nothing.

“Peaches?” You questioned, your heart skipping a beat before racing, playing catch up.

“Yeah,” he grinned, quite pleased with his newfound term of endearment. “It’s fitting.”

“Is it?” You smiled, shy but intrigued.

“I told you, you’re soft and sweet,” he shrugged, “and pretty,” he smirked. “As a peach.”

“You’re such a dork,” you giggled, brushing off the way the compliment made you feel, your stomach fluttering as your heart danced inside your chest.

Smiling proudly, he placed another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “Did you pick a movie?” Sighing dramatically, you threw your head back in feigned frustration, Taehyung laughing at your acting. His hands moved to his head, shaking out the wet strands, his eyes widening as he leaned toward you. “Hey, smell my hair,” he told you, you pulling your eyebrows together in question. “It smells like yours.”

Holding back a fond smile, you inched forward, pressing your nose to the side of his head to smell the shampoo that stained the tendrils in a sweet vanilla scent.

“Ooh, I must smell good,” you grinned, the man nodding happily.

“I’ve always loved the smell of your shampoo,” he commented innocently, though the words made your heart swell. Because he knew the scent of your hair.

The scene felt weirdly intimate, in a way it never had before between you both. The man was standing in your kitchen, adorned in your high school t-shirt, his hair drenched in the fragrance of your own shampoo, munching on popcorn as he threw compliments at you left and right, leaving you shy and giddy, though you’d never let him know that.

Ever since Taehyung came into your life, he fit right into it, as if there was a place for him just waiting for his arrival. But this moment felt different, and you couldn’t place just why. As your heart pounded inside your chest, watching as Taehyung grabbed the bowl of popcorn off the counter before retrieving two drinks out of your fridge, then making his way across the apartment to the couch as if he owned the place, you just knew he was meant to be there with you. And you hoped he’d stay for life.

“Tae, let’s watch ‘Moonrise Kingdom’ again,” you called out to him, making your way toward him.

Turning around to look at you as you approached him, he wore a bright smile as he nodded happily. “Look at you making decisions!” Laughing at his comment, you rolled your eyes. “I knew you could do it, Peaches.”

“Oh, shut up.” Peaches. You liked it. You really, really liked it.

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queenshelby · 3 years

Text

The Last Semester – Part Two

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Words: 1,331

Warning: Flirting, Fluff

***

After having traded spots with Emma, over the next two weeks, you worked on your new drama project with the other group. But this didn’t mean that you didn’t see Cillian. To the contrary. You saw him more often than you were comfortable with and your attraction towards him intensified every time you interacted with him.

Every morning, Cillian would get his coffee at the local coffee shop where you worked as many as four days per week. In addition, just like you, he would spend a lot of time at the nearby second-hand bookshop looking for random and interesting novels.

The small bookstore had a reading area upstairs which no one really knew about and, on a rainy Tuesday evening, you sat there for three hours, researching for one of your other literature units.

That day, Cillian had the same idea as you, evidentially bored on his own since temporarily moving to London for the drama project.

‘Interesting choice’ Cillian said as he saw you sitting in the reading area with a stack of books by Charles Dickens.

‘Oh yes, Dickens. He is making some good points which I can use for my literature project’ you explained.

‘And some random ones too’ Cillian chuckled, causing you to raise your eyebrows as if you were asking a question.

‘For example, he states that there is no greater gift than the love of a cat. I would question this statement’ Cillian laughed.

‘I am fairly sure it was a contextual question’ you chuckled.

‘Nah…I think he just likes cats’ Cillian then went on to say before sitting down next to you and asking you whether you wanted some help with your research.

You nodded in agreement and probably spent the next hour or so with Cillian in the small book store looking through Dicken’s many novels.

***

Then, the following day, when you came walking out of your bedroom, you couldn’t believe your eyes when Cillian stood in the kitchen with Emma.

That was two days in a row that you saw each other by chance. Clearly, he didn’t live far from campus either.

‘Oh…uhm…hi’ you said when you realised that he saw you, although deep down inside, you hoped that he didn’t as you were wearing nothing but an old grey t-shirt, cotton panties and a pair of bed socks. Your hair was messy and tied up in a bun and you wore your black framed reading glasses.

‘Hi Y/N’ Cillian said with a warm smile, unable to take his eyes of you, causing your cheeks to flush.

‘Cillian was nice enough to help me carry these upstairs as I ran into him on the street and one of the shopping bags broke’ Emma explained and Cillian was quick to advise her that he needed to leave as he had a call scheduled for 3pm.

‘See you’ you quickly said just as you stumbled back into your room and Cillian nodded, having a slight chuckle as you appeared rather clumsy.

‘Did you instigate this?’ Thomas then laughed and you couldn’t help but poke your head back out of your room, waiting for Emma’s response.

‘Maybe’ Emma then went on to giggle and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her. She clearly had a crush on Cillian and you certainly couldn’t have told her about why you wanted to change to the other group.

The truth was that you liked Cillian a lot and every day you saw him, you could feel butterflies in your stomach. But it wasn’t like a silly crush. Instead, it was an attraction not only on a physical but also intellectual level. He was funny, smart and you loved talking to him. There was something that distinguished him from guys your age and from other men you’ve met and this is what attracted you.

Every time he came into the coffee shop at which you worked and ordered his latte, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement, something you had never really felt around a man before. But then again, you knew this was pointless and inappropriate and you quickly realised that you shouldn’t waste your time and energy in pursuing anything with man who you barely knew and who was 20 years older than you. You knew you needed to steer clear from him, avoid him wherever you could.

***

Unfortunately for you, it was the Monday on the fourth week of the drama project that Aiden had called in sick for the week after having contracted food poisoning and it was Cillian who took over his project until Aiden’s return.

Instantly, when Cillian walked into the theatre room, your butterflies returned. But, at the same time, you were incredibly nervous. You really didn’t want to work with him again. It was the whole reason you changed groups, so you didn’t have to be around Cillian.

Luckily for you, in this group, you only played a minor part in the play and Cillian was focused on the other students who needed more help than you with the script.

However, following the three-hour program for the day, Cillian asked whether you could see him after class. There was something he wanted to give you for your research program.

You nodded shyly and, after everyone had left, followed him to the office he was assigned temporarily by the university.

‘This is for you’ Cillian grinned as he handed you a print out entitled ‘Dicken’s fascination with Cats’ and you couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Geez, are you still on about that?’ you asked as you realised that Cillian didn’t like to be wrong.

‘What can I say Y/N? It kept me up. I had to research it further’ Cillian laughed before handing you a second print out.

‘Oh common’ you laughed as he handed you a thirteen-page research paper on Dicken’s different cats.

‘Perhaps it is you who likes cats’ you then went on to say and Cillian confirmed that he does, in fact, have a ginger cat named Garfield back in Dublin.

‘Garfield? Now that is a creative name for a ginger cat’ you giggled just as Cillian pulled out his phone and showed you a picture.

‘Cute’ you giggled as you looked at the picture while leaning in closer, your arm brushing against Cillian’s arm gently.

Just as your skin lightly touched his, you could feel goose bumps raise all over your body and it was almost as if Cillian had noticed.

He cleared his throat and you startled, collecting your thoughts before telling him that you should probably get back home.

Cillian nodded but, just as you were about to walk out of the door of his office, he called after you.

‘Y/N?’ he asked and you turned around and looked at him while a short ‘yes’ escaped you.

‘Nothing, sorry’ he then went on to say, realising that, what he was about to ask you was highly inappropriate.

‘Alright, uhm, see you later’ you said just as your cheeks turned red instantly.

***

Later that evening, when you arrived at home, Emma had told you that she had a surprise planned for you.

‘I’ve organised a date for you. Tomorrow night. His name is Patrick, he is Irish and a little older than you. He works at the university hospital and he is taking you to see the game tomorrow, Ireland vs France’ Emma said with some excitement.

‘Emma, I am not going on a date with someone I don’t know’ you fussed but Emma was insistent.

‘You haven’t been with anyone for two years Y/N. Common. Despite we are having a party at the apartment and I know you hate frat parties. Just give him a chance’ Emma said and you immediately rolled your eyes.

‘Fine’ you huffed. ‘But I will meet him at the sports bar at 7 o’clock. He isn’t coming here’ you demanded and Emma nodded excitedly.

Tag List (Cillian):

@lilymurphy03 @deefigs @theflamecrystal @desperate-and-broken @weepingstudentfishhorse @livinginfantaxy @rosey1981 @atomicsoulcollecto @peakyboyslover @nerdy4itall @elenavampire21 @hanster1998 @mariapaiva13 @fairypitou @harry-is-my-sunflower @zozeebo @lauren-raines-x @kasaikawa @littlewierdalien @sad-huffle-nerd @theflamecrystal @peakymalfoyscullymulder @themissthang @0ghostwriter0 @stylescanbeatmyback @1-800-peakyblinders @datewithgianni @momoneymolife @ntmynouis @lilymurphy03 @mcntsee@cloudofdisney @missymurphy1985 @peakymalfoyscullymulder @otterly-fey @janelongxox @uchihacumdump @basiclassy @being-worthy @chaotic-bean-of-smolness @margoo0 @chocolatehalo @vhscillian @ysmmsy @littlewierdalien @crazymar15

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@l0tsofpennies @trolleydolly @avonlady1985 @chrisevanshoeee @daydreamingnymph @fookingshelby

#cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy imagine

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think?#but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

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watchyourbluesturngolden · 3 years

Note

Omg you should write about Y/n spoiling Harry for his first father’s day!! And he’d definitely get all emotional for his girls 😭

i’m sorry this took so looooong but i rlly love it and i hope you do too <3

here is the first gift I imagine, the charging station

and here is the star map (but with some minor changes that i tried to explain in the writing, i’m not that good at explanations so it’s probably slightly confusing sorry about that :) )

father's day

warnings: none

word count: 1.7k

"Good morning," you said in a quiet sing-song voice, opening Stevie's door slowly. She smiled brightly, standing with her hands grasped on the bars of crib.

"Hi mama," She said, bouncing in place.

"Hi baby," You smiled, moving over to the window to open her blinds. Early morning light streamed into the room, shining on the baby's face and reflecting off her green eyes. "Did you have a good sleep?" You asked, picking her up from the crib. She cuddled into your side, smiling as you bounced her softly on your hip.

You treasured mornings like this, where you could just hold your baby. You really didn't get to do it much. Harry typically woke up earlier than you, taking care of Stevie so you could sleep a little longer. You felt bad at first, but he always reassured you that he liked having these quiet moments with her. He said it was the perfect way to start his day, and it put him in a good mood since he had to go to work and wouldn't get to see either of you for the rest of the day.

Not today, though. Today was Father's Day, and you were determined to make it a good one for him. He really was an amazing dad, and you wanted to make sure he knew. So this morning when you heard Stevie fussing, you pushed him back down in the bed and got up yourself. He objected at first, but you wouldn't hear another word. You had rushed out of the room before he could get up, leaving him to flop back down and (hopefully) get some more sleep. You figured it wouldn't be too hard for him. Stevie had a rough night, and neither of you had gotten much rest the night before. You didn't care, though. Harry was always the one to be selfless and let you relax, so today you wanted to do the same for him.

"Should we go get some breakfast?" You asked Stevie as you finished changing her diaper. "Hm?" You tickled her feet a bit, smiling when she giggled loudly. "Shh, daddy's still sleeping!"

She lifted her arms up to you, clearly wanting to be held again. Of course you obliged, picking her up and closing the container of wipes on the changing table. You settled everything back into the drawers before you made your way downstairs and into the kitchen.

"What should we make today?" You hummed thoughtfully, opening the fridge. Stevie was still balanced on your hip, but she reached for the yogurt cartons. "Yogurt it is," You smiled, leaning forward so she could reach easier. "Maybe an orange, too."

She didn't respond, completely engrossed by the container in her small hands.

"I think I'll do pancakes. Daddy might like those," you decided, grabbing an orange for her, and one for yourself. You set Stevie in her highchair, opening the yogurt and handing her a spoon so she could begin making a huge mess and (maybe) actually eating some yogurt. You moved to the cutting board, slicing the orange into small pieces she could eat safely. Once she was settled, you grabbed the milk and eggs from the fridge.

You started your morning playlist, the rich sound of Hozier's voice drifting through the kitchen as you found the recipe you needed. Then you began mixing the batter, humming softly as you worked.

It really was the perfect morning. It was still early, so the light coming through the large windows was soft and red tinted. The kitchen smelled like oranges and pancakes, the sweet scents complementing each other. You had the windows open so the soft breeze came in, bringing the smell of early summer with it. Your playlist was soft, adding nicely to the domestic feel of the morning. Stevie would babble every once in a while, wanting to be involved in what you were doing. You would explain every step to her, telling her what each ingredient was for. This was something you and Harry did often. Of course, there were times when you baby talked her, but you also liked to have normal conversation with her. You knew it would help her develop and begin to talk faster. Also, it was funny when she babbled and Harry acted like he understood everything she said.

Once the pancakes were finished, you began the process of cleaning everything up. You wanted Harry to have a relaxing morning, and you knew he would try to do something to help since he had gotten to sleep in. You weren't about to let him do a bunch of house chores. Not today.

You put all the ingredients away before wiping off the counter top. Then you moved to set the table. You put the stack of pancakes in the middle, along with the bottle of syrup and a bowl of berries. You set out plates, silverware, cups, and the pitcher of orange juice. Once you were satisfied, you brought the washcloth over to Stevie.

Your earlier thoughts had been correct. She had at least half the carton of yogurt smeared on her face, hands, and shirt.

After only a small amount of fighting and fussing from her, you had cleaned her off and lifted her out of the highchair.

"Let's go get daddy," you said, smiling when her face lit up at the mention of one of her favorite people.

-----

"Morning, Harry," you said softly, pushing open the door with Stevie still balanced on your hip. You hadn't been loud enough, apparently, because he didn't move. He would never admit it to you, but he had been exhausted lately. He wouldn't tell you that getting up in the night and early every morning was taking a toll on him, because he knew you would feel bad. Which is why you really wanted to let him sleep this morning.

It was much later then he usually slept, though, and you didn't want the food to get cold. So you put Stevie on the bed next to him, settling down on the other side of him and letting her do her thing. She immediately crawled on top of him, giggling and bouncing.

"Good morning," he smiled sleepily, reaching up to grab her and stop her jumping. Stevie squealed, laughing when he pulled her against him and cuddled her. She wasn't in the mood to be still, though, and she quickly squirmed away from him. "What, I can't have a hug?" He pouted, but smiled again when you leaned into him.

"You can have a hug from me," you said, "But it might not be as good as hers."

"Nonsense," he grinned, pulling you against him. He grabbed Stevie again, pulling her into the hug even though she squirmed. "Stevie, this is family time. Calm down for a minute."

She laughed again when he danced his fingers along her tummy.

"Well, she's not gonna calm down if you tickle her," you laughed. "That much should be obvious to you."

"Right," he smiled. "Anyways, why did you make me go back to sleep this morning? I'm not complaining, but I feel bad you had to get up early."

"Harry, you get up early with her every single day. You deserve a day off. And it's Father's Day. And you are a father. So you should get to relax today."

"Well, thank you," he leaned up to kiss you. "That's very sweet of you."

"Of course," you smiled. "But now you have to get up. I made pancakes."

"Did you?" he perked up immediately at that.

"I did," you laughed. "Come on, everything's ready and it'll get cold."

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," he said, throwing the blankets off and picking up Stevie. "Let's go eat some pancakes!" He looked at her, grinning when she smiled up at him.

-----

"Thank you so much, love, breakfast was delicious," He said, placing the plates in the dishwasher. He had insisted on helping you clean up the table, even when you protested.

"Thank you," you smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "Sit back down, I have something for you."

"C'mere, Stevie," he said, lifting her out of her highchair and onto his lap. "What did you and mommy get for me?"

She babbled in response, and you smiled to yourself as you went into the hall closet to find the box of his gifts. You could hear him responding to her, acting like he understood all her babbling.

"Ok, here we are," you said, setting the two items on the table in front of him. "Open this one first." You pushed the box closer to him, the wrapped picture frame farther back.

He did as you said, pulling the paper off the box. Inside was a wooden charging station with a space for his phone, watch, and airpods.

"Thought that might be good, since you're always losing everything. This way you can keep them all in one place," you explained.

He rolled his eyes playfully. "Well not always," he said, but smiled nonetheless. "Maybe sometimes. Thank you," he pulled you closer by your waist.

"And that next one is more personal," you said, pulling the flat item closer.

He tore the paper off again, his eyes softening when he looked at the images. There were three circles, each with a star map inside them. The outer two were larger and set slightly above the middle, one printed with your name and one with Harry's. The middle one had Stevie's name. Birthdays were printed under each name, all in gold scripty font. "You, me, and Stevie," He said fondly, running his finger over the lettering at the top which read "The Styles Family".

You nodded. "I saw it on Etsy and I had to get it. It's just such a cute idea, and it'll look really nice on the wall above the bookshelf."

"It will," he agreed. "I love this. Thank you," he smiled, pulling at your shirt until you leaned down so he could kiss you.

"You're welcome," you smiled. "I hope this makes for a good first Father's Day."

"It's perfect, love. Better than I could have ever asked for."

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles/you #harry styles/reader #harry styles x you fanfiction #harry styles x reader fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles/reader fanfiction #harry styles/you fanfiction #stevie #stevie fics #one direction #one direction fanfiction #dad!harry

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the-slasher-files · 3 years

Note

Hello there! I’m back with another request. Can you write some headcanons of Michael, Jason, Bo and Bubba if their S/O was an artist? I’m an artist and I would love to see their reaction if I showed them one of my latest drawings.

Yay.. ok so I’ve got a few requests for this (from a shy s/o to a confident one) so I kind of mixed them together :) also btw I don’t write for Bubba but I will write for all the others, plus more! hope you enjoy 🔪💕

MASTERLIST

SLASHERS WITH S/O THAT LOVES TO DRAW OR IS AN ARTIST

INCLUDES JASON, MICHAEL, BO, VINCENT, and CHROMESKULL

JASON VOORHEES

First of all living where you do at the cabin there is so much inspo from deer, to the lake, to changing of the seasons.. It is honestly the best place for an artist

Jason always noticed a black notebook lying around with pens and pencils on every other surface, and you were oddly protective of the book, so he left it alone respecting your boundaries

Sitting with him in the quiet cabin Jason loved the sounds of the pencils scratching along the paper, and he loved to watch the soothing motions of your wrist going to work

Slowly he will become more and more interested in what you're doing and he needs to see. Sneakily inching himself closer to you as you work away and stretching his neck as far as he can, catching a glimpse then feeling guilty

Jason wants to respect you so much but it kills him that you’re not showing him. So when you were in the shower he quickly ran to the book and gently ran his fingers over your work, amazed at how good everything was and how you brought the nature/animals to life in the book from around the camp

Flipping a page then he is met with sketches of himself, with the mask and without, his hands, some of his wounds with the bones sticking out... it was beautiful and he couldn’t look away until you walked into the room pushing him away from the book but seeing his expression made you melt, he loved it so much and slowly brought out confidence in you, making you show him your work all the time

A few times he had brought some art supplies home from a group of teens that came along

One day he came home to canvases all over the floor and red paint splattered all over your old t-shirt Jason freaked out thinking it was blood in the dim lighting, he stepped on your canvases with muddy boots and held you up making you yelp... “Baby it’s just paint”... well now he feels foolish and upset for stepping on your art

The next night he still felt bad but you showed him what you had created from “the incident”... Bright colours framed the bootprint and brought out the muddy tones, some of the canvases had pressed flowers along the details of the print and it was so beautiful Jason immediately hung them on the wall

Just an fyi he wants to always do crafts with you lol so make sure you help him

MICHAEL MYERS

Now this guy is pretty indifferent to everything but something about your art brings out a new side in him

You can say a lot of things about Michael but you cannot say he isn’t observant, he sees everything and knows everything

Like Jason he notices your many notebooks and various art supplies around the house, but he is far more intrusive than Jason and will rip the notebook from your hands holding your neck if you protest as he flips through it

Watching his face nothing changes, he just scans the pages then throws the notebook down walking away leaving into the night

The next morning notebook, paints, pens, brushes and other supplies litter the kitchen counter... wonder who got those???

Michael loves watching you work on your art, watching your facial expressions, the way the pens run along the paper and how the paint coats the canvases.. oop you just gave him an idea

One night he came home gruesomely cover in blood a little more than extra, and Michael moves above you and the art you are working on, whoops he is dripping blood on the canvas, then smearing it, then moving his knife along it using it as a brush, I guess

You yelled at him at first but watching how he seemed to enjoy the colours mixing together and the way the blood dried was sort of.. cute

You knew Michael had a funny and creative side just by the way he walked into the bedroom one night with a sheet over himself and sunglasses on, and the way he leaves marks on your body in a certain pattern or framing his favourite features of you. Michael’s art was his kill you realized

He really loves your pieces, even though he would never say so and Michael’s favourites were the sketches of himself you did and he would paint blood along them

You weren’t gonna lie it made the portraits more interesting and honestly beautiful, they quickly became your favourites as well

I’m sorry but my horny self just wants to see Michael in an all-black suit at an art gallery admiring the masked portrait of himself covered in blood... sorry but it’s hot lol

BO SINCLAIR

So Bo is not really observant so it might take him a while to notice the art supplies around the house but even then he thinks it’s just Vincent’s

You will probably have to do just do the art in front of him before he gets that its your art supplies.. man sucks lol

Bo really enjoys your company when he is in the shop, you just sitting there working away in your notebook and him under the hood of his truck

He doesn’t necessarily push to see what you’re drawing but Bo teases, the harder you hide it the harder he teases... “what ya got in there sex drawings?” “Fuck darlin’ let me be your model”

If you don’t want him to see what you’re doing never leave your notebook behind because the man is a snoop in every sense of the word

Bo 100% supports your art even though he isn’t very interested in it and doesn’t really get it, if it makes you happy he will steal supplies from his twin and if victims have notebooks or pens he will bring them to you immediately

On a day where you decided to spend the day at the shop, sitting on your chair sketching away while Bo was organizing his tools, he kept catching your glances and smirked “Baby, you need somethin?” he would ask smugly.

“Nope” a simple answer not stroking his ego “gonna grab a beer from downstairs you want one?” Bo nods as you make your way to the mini-fridge. Quickly the man strides over to the notebook, opening the page where you had placed your pencil. He knew it, sketches of himself, it makes his ego skyrocket.

“BO!!” pushing him away and he grabs the book holding it just out of your reach smirking “Momma always said I’d be a good model” “Don’t flatter yourself Sinclair, you’re the only man around for miles that doesn’t wear a mask or look like a trash man” you laughed as him smirk fell... run

He honestly loves your art even though Bo gives you a hard time... His favourite thing is falling asleep to the pencil sounds against the paper when you’re laying in bed together

VINCENT SINCLAIR

SAAAAAAME... lol

The man notices right away that he begins to lose his an unused notebook and some of his best art pencils

It made you very nervous to show Vincent what you sketched and painted since he was just so good at art in every way. It was unfair

His favorite thing to do with you is make little sculptures from wax or clay, he could tell you were very creative and good at what you made, and he would always be super supportive

Vincent’s praise and support made you more comfortable with doing your art around him and even showing him. The man loves it and loves all of it

Different from his brother, Vinny respects you a lot and is fine with not looking in your notebook until you’re ready to show him. He hates when people see his unfinished work and flip through his notebooks as well

The good thing about dating him is Vincent’s art stuff is now yours

Also he is a very good teacher, somehow though he cannot talk, Vinny never makes you feel bad about your art and if you need help he is more than happy to support

Art date nights!! Getting the idea from your phone, you lit all the candles and brought down all the paint you could along with the large unused canvases you had found. When Vincent strolls downstairs his eyes go wide, seeing you in just your bra and underwear “I’m ready for art class Vin” you giggle

When he finds your paintings or sketches of himself without his mask Vincent’s heart melts, finding someone like you to love him, let alone see his destroyed features as art kills him

CHROMESKULL

Jesse is a very watchful human, even when he isn’t at home the guy has cameras literally everywhere

When he was gone on a "business trip" you had all the free time in the world, plus you had picked up some new art supplies, so why not work a large piece when Jesse isn't around to distract you... When you had worked on for a few hours you got a text 'How's the painting coming along?' And that's when you realized cameras are everywhere!

If you are a shy person with your art he basically doesn’t allow you to be, he’s a pushy spoiled man but he is also very supportive and it makes you more confident in showing him

Jesse honestly loves art and has many expensive paintings in his large home, so when he sees your art you better believe he will have Preston frame the art and put it on the walls, with special art gallery lights really making it look perfect

If you need any and I mean any art supplies no matter how expensive Jesse supports it *hands you his gold credit card*

"Oh.. renovations? To the already perfect mansion?" "Yup.. it's your new art studio"

Art, wine and cheese nights... the perfect date

Feeling uninspired? alright time to change the scenery, let’s go to a tropical destination or a wintery cabin. The man wants to spoil you and put your passion at the top of his priority list, plus he just wants a vacation and see you in your swimwear

It doesn't matter if you're shy about your art or confident Jesse will say he is taking you to an event, get you all dolled up and take you to an art gallery event that is just your art... surprise! Dumb rich bastard loves your work and flaunts it to everyone he can

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20moonchild21 · 3 years

Text

𝗦𝗲𝗵𝗻𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗵𝘁 [𝗯𝘁𝘀]

⇉ 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 10

[pairings]

JK x female!oc, Bunny!JK x human!female!oc, Jin x female!oc, Leopard!Jin x human!female!oc, Jimin x female!oc, white Tiger!Jimin x human!female!oc, Taehyung x female!oc, black Tiger!Taehyung x human!female!oc, JK x Jin x Jimin x Taehyung x female!oc

[warnings]

actually none who need to be mentioned

[words]

4.1k

[author]

Today was soo exhausting for me, but uploading a new chapters somehow makes me happy again. I hope you all have an amazing day!

If you want to make your day even more amazing, I can only suggest you to check out Inferiority complex written by my favorite author @starlightauroras-main. Please, make sure to show her your support, because she deserves it so so much!

You can also leave this chapter a like or comment, if you want to. It would make my day!

Stay healthy and safe!

Mꨄ

[chapter 9 ||| chapter 11]

“Jin.” The girl nudged the older boy’s shirt, as he was about enter the kitchen. “Could I talk to you for a moment?”

It had become quiet in the apartment, since the sun had set a few hours ago. She had waited for the right moment to talk to Jin, because Jungkook had been around him all day long but right now, it seemed like he was occupied in his room.

Jin had followed the girl into the kitchen. He looked quite confused, as Hope looked back into the hallway to make sure no one would ear dropping, before she turned to the leopard, a wide grin played on her face.

“Where is Jungkook?” She almost whispered.

“Ehm – I think he was already asleep when I left the room.” Jin’s confusedness began to grow. “Why? What is with him?”

The girl’s grin went even wider, when she walked past Jin over to the end of the kitchen. On the counter next to the fridge was his cookbook laying upside down. When she reached it, she flipped it around and pointed her finger onto the opened recipe.

“Kookie’s birthday is tomorrow, do you remember?” She said happily, while clapping her hands in excitement. “I thought that you could help me to surprise him?”

Jin didn’t say anything at first. He just kept staring at the book with his eyes wide open, while he mumbled the word ‘birthday’ under his breath. Hope knew that they had probably never celebrated his or Jungkook’s birthday, but this chapter of their lives had ended when she adopted them. From now on, she would give them anything they deserve.

“Yes, his birthday and I am planning on surprise him.” She carefully pushed the book over the marble counter. “You will help me, won’t you?”

Jin nodded immediately, he started to gather up all the supplies he would need to prepare the cake from the book. Meanwhile, the girl got all the wrapping paper from her storage, before she spread it out on the dining table. She had printed and framed the picture of Jin and Jungkook after she had gone to the authority, a few days ago. This picture, she would just hang up at the wall for him as a surprise when he would look over the wall in the morning.

In addition to that, she had also printed another picture of Jungkook sitting on the couch and staring at the camera with his eyes wide open and his ear up in the air. This picture would perfectly fit onto the small shelve under the TV. She looked at the picture for a few seconds, before she started wrapping it up.

She placed the picture of Jungkook upside down onto the sheet od wrapping paper, before she carefully folded and taped it. When she was almost done, the sound of an opening door suddenly rang through the apartment. Hope stopped in her track and prayed that not Jungkook would come out of his room or else the whole surprise would be ruined.

To her luck, someone else stepped out into the hallway: Taehyung. The black tiger sniffed the air, before he cocked up his eyebrows and slowly walked up towards the sitting girl. When he had reached the table, his eyes fell onto the picture of Jin and Jungkook.

“Aww, what a cute little picture of your pets.” He had taken the picture from the table and was now fake-marvelling over it.

“Please, don’t break it Taehyung. It’s fragile.” She tried to sound stern and be quiet at the same time. Taehyung just gave her a look, before he carefully placed to frame back down on the table. She quickly took it and placed it in a safe distance next to her, before he could have a sudden outburst. “How can I help you, Taehyung.”

“My brother is snoring.” He pulled himself a chair back and sunk down.

Hope cocked an eyebrow up at his reason to be up this late. She didn’t know what he wanted, but she deeply hoped that he wouldn’t reveal her birthday secret to Jungkook because he couldn’t stand the girl.

“Jimin is – snoring?” She asked again, and he nodded. “You wanna tell me that a snoring Jimin caused you to leave your room and sit down next to me willingly?”

Taehyung didn’t say anything to that. He kept staring at the girl with wide eyes and nose trail, before he breathed out and sunk his head down, mumbling something under his breath she couldn’t understand. When she asked him to reaped what he had just mumbled, he just tapped his fingers against the wooded table, before he turned his head after a few minutes.

“My arm hurts, okay?” He snapped at her, crossing his not injured arm over his chest. “Just – just help me human. Please.”

If it wasn’t so damn funny to watch him jumping over his pride, she would clearly be angry at the boy. Anyone could see that he was embarrassed to ask her for help, but somewhere deep, deep down inside her, she somehow felt proud that he had asked her willingly for help.

“Okay.” She sighed and shoved the wrapping paper to the side, before getting the first aid kid. “I will look over your wound. But please try to stay quiet, I don’t want Jungkook to wake up and see his surprise.”

“Ah, you want to surprise your bunny.” He sarcastically stated, leaning back in his chair. “What did he do? Is he finally potty trained?”

Hope just rolled with her eyes and kept unwrapping the bandage around the boy’s arm. She could understand that he was angry with her, but why he couldn’t stand the other Hybrids, she didn’t know.

“No.” She simply relied, tossing the blood stained bandage aside. “It’s Jungkook’s birthday tomorrow. We will give him presents and eat the cake Jin is preparing right now. You are very welcome to join us, if you behave and not ruin his day.”

His arm didn’t get any worse over the day, which was a good sign. The skin around the scratch wasn’t as swollen and red as two days ago, and on the top there was already a new layer of skin forming.

“Naaah, I think I won’t come.” The tiger tried to sound cool, but she didn’t miss the sad undertone in his voice, as he kept talking. “Your cat and that bunny can’t stand me joining you at the table.”

Hope sighed. She knew that Jungkook overreacted the previous day when he had growled at Taehyung and Jimin, but the young boy had also been knew to this situation. He never had to share his territory with strangers, and the past day had been simply too much for him to process all at once.

“No one does not want you here, Taehyung.” The girl carefully added some more salve onto his arm, before she looked up at the older boy. “Jungkook – he is just scared, like you and – “

“I am not scared.” Taehyung quickly interrupted her.

“Whatever.” She just rolled her eyes and wrapped the new bandage around his arm. “What I wanted to say is that you and your brother are welcome here. Jungkook just needs to warm up to the both of you, and I think he already likes Jimin. He is a good boy.”

Taehyung just looked away, not saying anything else. Hope knew that secretly he just wanted to belong somewhere, where he and his brother would be accepted and loved. He wasn’t a bad person, but he was thought to act the way he was, because he had no other choice.

“Okay, your wound is okay. I will give you some painkillers, though. It will make the pain go away within the next minutes.” Hope announced, before she stood up and went into the kitchen, where she had placed all her medicaments.

When she came back, Taehyung was still sitting in the same position like when she left, but now, his eyes were once again fixed on the picture of Jin and Jungkook. She felt her heart breaking when she saw the sadness in his eyes. She waited a few more seconds, before she carefully placed the pills in front of Taehyung.

He quickly took them and stood up from the table. When he stood there, she could see his mouth opening to say something, but in the same moment he closed it again, before slightly shaking his head. Instead, he bowed his head almost unnoticeable and turned around to go back to sleep. It wasn’t the ‘thank you’ she had expected, but it was a beginning.

She tossed away all the supplies she had used to change Taehyung’s bandage, before she sat herself back at the table to continue wrapping up Jungkook’s giftss. While she thought about how she would set the presents and cake up the next morning, she heard how Taehyung just opened the door to enter his room, but he didn’t went in.

“I – “ He stopped his sentence, and the girl shot her head up. “I think he will like his presents.”

Before she had a chance to reply, the tiger was already entering the room, carefully closing the door behind him. Hope looked surprised into the dark hallway, before a small smile formed on her lips.

“One more step, Kookie.” Hope pulled the bunny’s hand slightly, until the four of them reached their final destination.

So far, it had been a wonderful birthday. When Jungkook had woken up this morning, he didn’t even remembered that it actually was his birthday. He had been so surprised when he had stepped out of his room and saw the set table in the living room.

Jin and Hope had prepared the table at night and just added the candles and cake in the morning before the bunny had woken up. They had placed the cake in the middle while gathering the candles and presents around it. In addition to that, they had added some confetti, balloons and streamers. Jin had already been overwarmed form all that colours, but Jungkook’s reaction had been priceless.

His eyes had been so wide that they had seemed to pop out of his head, when she had told him that they had prepared all this for him, and only him. But he looked even more speechless when he had opened his gifs.

First, Hope had bought him ‘The Lord of the Ring’ in addition to his hobbit book, hoping that he would also read something else if hobbits were included. All her worries had been gone when he immediately had started to flicker thought the pages, almost forgetting about his other present. Before he had the chance to unwrap it, a curious Jimin had come out of his room, lured by the scent of the cake and the candles.

The white tiger had looked shocked when he saw all the colourful balloons and streamerss. He had shyly asked what they were doing, and when they had told him that they would celebrate Jungkook’s birthday, Jimin had backed away immediately. He had told them that he didn’t want to be a burden and that he would just go back to his room, but to the girl’s surprise Jungkook had told him that he was welcome to celebrate with them.

Jimin had hesitantly agreed, but he didn’t want to sit down on the table or step too close towards it, so he had just been standing a few inches away, watching wide eyes what Jungkook was doing. Meanwhile, Jungkook had been occupied with opening his second present. Once he had pulled away alle the wrapping paper, he had been looking like paralyzed at himself at the picture.

Together, they had placed the framed picture at the small shelved under the TV, next to the single portrait of the girl that had already been placed there. While Jungkook had squeezed the girl to death, she had announced that she would need a single picture of Jin too, so he could be the next one on the shelve.

Despite all the happiness she felt when her two Hybrids were excited about their new found ‘family shelf’, she hadn’t missed the sad expression on Jimin’s face. He had wrapped his tail tightly around his leg, with his ear pressed against his head and his head sunk down. She had been wishing for nothing more than to hug him tightly.

So right now, the four of them were making their way over the photo wall. Jin had blinded his younger brother’s eyes with his hands, Hope was guiding the bunny by his hands and Jimin was trailing behind them down the hallway.

“Where are you taking me?” Jungkook asked for the fifth time, as he twitched his ears back and forth, hoping to hear something that would reveal the surprise.

“Here we are.” Stopped and turned back towards the still blind Hybrid. “Are you ready for you last surprise, Kookie?”

Jungkook didn’t hesitate a moment. He nodded his head like crazy, as the girl gestured for Jin to take his hands away from Jungkook’s eyes. The younger boy moved his eyes wildly around, trying to take in his surroundings. When his gaze fell onto the wall on front of him, he pulled his eyebrows together in confusion.

“Why are we here?” He asked, eyes still roaming round his favourite pictures. “Not that I am complaining but – “

He suddenly stopped in his mid-sentence when his gaze fell on the new picture hanging on the wall. Hope had replaced the picture of her friends with the picture of Jin and Jungkook. It wasn’t an easy decision for her, but she knew that it was time for her to move on.

Her friends form high school would always be her friends, but with them moving away all around the country, they hadn’t been able to hold their contact with each other. They had stopped talking, and they had stopped meeting several month ago, and she for a long time now, she had loose hope that they would ever talk again. It was time to move on.

“Is that – is that – “ Jungkook looked wildly between the photo on the wall and the girl, who was smiling like a child on Christmas eve. “But how – why – that is Jin and me.”

“Yes, Kookie. Do you like it?” The girl was looking at him with wide eyes.

Jungkook had her wrapped in his arms so fast, she didn’t even had a chance to react. He buried his nose in the creak of her neck and pulled her closer, squeezing and hugging the small female in his arms.

“But Hope.” The bunny suddenly pulled away, cocking his left eyebrow up. “What is with your friends? Why did you remove them?”

“You know, Kookie.” She sighed, as she looked at the spot where now the photo of Jin and Jungkook was hanging. “I haven’t seen them in a very long time and I think I won’t see them in a very long time again. I just – they are not in my live anymore. It felt right to let go of the past, because I have you now as my family, and I just thought that it was the right time to move on, you know?”

Jungkook’s eyes were wet, as his gaze flickered between the picture and the girl. It was heart-warming to his hi happiness. That was everything she had every wished for.

“Come on, Jimin.” Tae heard Jin saying from outside of his room. “We want to cut the cake soon. You should join us.”

The black tiger was standing next to the door inside his and Jimin’s room, with his ears pressed against the piece of wood. It wasn’t difficult for him to take in the voice from the other since he had animal-like instincts.

Today was the bunny’s birthday and Jimin had been with them the whole day. He had asked a few times, if Tae wanted to join them, but he had refused every time. It wasn’t that he cared about that bunny or even the girl. The only reason he was leaning against that door, ears roping what the people outside were talking about, was because he wanted to make sure that Jimin was okay. Yes, that was the only reason. At least, that was what he told himself.

“I – can I ask my brother if he wants to come, too?” He heard the quitter voice of his brother. “Maybe he wants to come out of the room today.”

Quicker that quick, Taehyung pushed himself off of the door when he hear the steps getting closer. He sprinted over to the bed, threw himself onto it and leaned against the headboard, before he crossed his legs and grabbed the book from beside the him.

Jimin entered the room, quickly closing the door behind him. Trying to look as if he wasn’t caring, Tae flicked open another page, not looking up at his brother, who was just about to sat down next to him on the bed.

“You smell like those people.” Tae muttered when Jimin put his head against the younger one’s shoulders, wrapping his arms tightly around his slim torso.

“I helped Hope with decorating the table earlier.” Jimin whispered.

Taehyung growled slightly when Jimin used her name. He had seen the way Jimin was warming up to the girl and her Hybrids over the past few days they had been staying here. He had joined them for breakfast a few times and today, he had spent the whole day celebrating that bunny’s birthday. He didn’t want his brother to be so close to them.

“I don’t like you smelling like them.” Tae just muttered back flickering open another page of his book.

“Hmm.” Jimin completely ignored his younger brother’s statement and lifted his head from Tae’s shoulder, looking up at him and the at the book Tae was holding in his hands. His eyebrow cocked up. “Are you really reading this or are you just flickering the pages, because you are holding the book upside down?”

Taehyung breathed out sharply, before throwing the book at the end of the bed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Stupid human book.” He hissed, as he looked at his brother. “I can’t understand why they are reading this. This is nothing but boring.”

Lie. The girl had given the book to Jimin the other day, recommending to read it. Because he had been bored, Taehyung had started reading the first pages. The book was quite interesting. It was telling the story of a small white whale and a boy named Ishmael. The other night, Tae had found himself being fascinated by that book, but there was no chance he would admit that.

He tried to tell himself over and over again that that girl and her pets had some bad intentions in everything they do. He tried to find something he could use as a reason to hate her, but he couldn’t. And that was what made him even more grumpy.

“Maybe if you weren’t so negative you would like it.” Jimin suddenly chuckled, as he put the book back onto the nightstand next to the bed.

“I am not negative, Jimin.” Tae snapped back, rolling his eyes when he saw Jimin’s amusement.

Jimin had always been the one to always see the positives sides of life. Even if they had been threatened badly or they had been living on the streets for months, Jimin was joking and smiling constantly. Even though he knew that Jimin was also putting up a façade, he sometimes just needed his bubbly personality.

“Whatever.” Jimin mumbled. “Jin made a cake and they invaded us to join them. I thought that maybe you would want – “

“No, I don’t want to.” Tae’s voice changed into an angry tone, before he stood up from the bed and walked over towards the window, not wanting to face Jimin. “You can go and eat with them but without me. It’s not like they want to have me there anyway.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked outside, where the fresh autumn wind was twirling around the colourful leaves. He didn’t like that time of the year. Autumn always reminded him that winter was coming, and winter meant that they would have to be out in the cold for a couple of months again. They would have to find a warm place to stay, they would have to find something to eat. He hated that time of the year.

“Why would you think that they don’t want you there too?” Jimin’s innocent voice ripped him out of his thoughts, as the older one walked up behind him.

The black tiger wrapped his tail tightly around his thigh when he thought about that night a few days ago. He knew that he had tried a few times to intimidated the girl or the other two Hybrids, but when he heard that they were really scared of him, and only him, it was like someone would punch him into the stomach.

“They are scared of me.” He just muttered, his voice held a tiny spark of sadness, but he tried to over play it.

“Why – why would you think that, Tae?” Jimin was fiddling with his hands when Taehyung turned around to face him. “I don’t think they are scared of us.”

“No, Jimin. They are scared of me, not of you.” He walked closer and towards his older brother, who was looking heartbroken because of what he was hearing. “Since the night we first came here, I can hear that bunny guarding her door at night. He said that he wouldn’t trust me, and that he thinks that I want to hurt her at night. I heard them talking about me. Pah, pathic little bunny. As if I would get my hands dirty with some human blood.”

He had sat down onto the edge of the bed, fiddling with his fingers while talking. It somehow bothered him that the girl and her Hybrids were that scared of him, even though he knew it had been his own fault when he showed off his fangs a few times. But it also made his jealous that Jimin had already found such a good relation towards the other three.

“He was just worried about her, Tae.” Jimin had waked up and sat down next to Tae. “He cares much for the girl, and when we came into his territory, he was just scared about her. I don’t think he really thinks that you would hurt her or his brother. You and me would do the same, Tae.”

Jimin was right. Of course he would try to protect his brother if there were any random intruders strolling around his territory. He really couldn’t blame that bunny.

“Come on, Tae.” Jimin whined as he stood up from the bed. “I don’t want you to pout in that room by yourself all the time. Let us enjoy the time we are allowed to spend here.”

Unwillingly, Tae’s gaze fell onto his still wrapped up arm. The girl had offered them to stay until he was healthy again, and that day would be coming along soon. His arm was getting better with every day.

A shiver ran down his spine when he thought about being on the streets again. Alone and scared, not knowing if they would survive the next night, or if someone would catch them and bring them God knows where to.

He only noticed Jimin’s absence when he heard the clinging sound of dishes and the sound of singing coming from outside. Slowly, he rose from the bed and walked towards the door. His pride was arching in his chest, as he battled with himself whether he should go out or not. He carefully peaked his head around the doorframe.

Down the hallway, at the dining table, he spotted Jimin, the girl and the other two Hybrids sitting at the table, clinking their glasses and eating the cake which’s smell was swirling around the apartment. The warm light the candles from the table and the happy voice sounded inviting to Taehyung, as he was still watching them having fun.

He wanted to go out and join them. He wated to sit at that table too, like Jimin did, but his pride and his pain were fixed too deep in his bones. At some point, they would have to leave anyway, so there was no use in getting attached to them. It would only break his heart at the end, so he took one last glance at the four people in the living room, before turning away and leaving the scenario.

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katie-writes24 · 4 years

Text

Twisted Sheets

Pairing: Poly!Hamilsquad x reader

Warnings: SMUT! Oral sex, fingering, loss of virginity (kinda), also another dirty thing at the end that I don’t want to physically write out, language, fluffy beginning, alcohol, translated French, terrible innuendos and an increasing amount of shameless writing

W o w, so I’m just gonna leave this here while I’m trying to come up with an ending to my next Laurens fic! I am struggling and it is way overdue, sooooo have this which I wrote like eight months ago? Anyways, this is literally just....like I see fics where it just focuses on Y/N when it’s going down and I- don’t look at me like that, I know you think about how it would go down to! I combined it so- nvm just...you’ll see. Sooo yeah...I should be ashamed with the vast amount of detail I think I added, but you know what, you dirty little fuckers have probably done worse! Give me some feedback and enjoy!

It was their five month anniversary, and Hercules just came home from work to find the table set with some food. He smiled and looked into the kitchen to find Y/N and John dancing to music. Lafayette was bobbing his head and picking out some wine.

Hands snuck around his waist and he felt a kiss against his back. "Happy anniversary, beloved," Alex whispered in his ear and Herc turned around to give him a kiss.

"Happy anniversary," He took off his shoes and ran to the bedroom real quick to change out of his clothes.

"Mon amours, you're gonna burn the food," Lafayette set out glasses on the table and looked to find Y/N and John still in their own little world.

"Guys, I'm not eating burnt lasagna," Alex moves passed them and took the food out of the oven.

"My garlic knots!" Y/N races to the top oven and pulled the bread out, hearing Alex snicker. She punched his arm. “It's not funny."

"It is when it would've been your fault," Alex smirked and went to sit at the table, Hercules coming out of the room with sweatpants and a lose t-shirt on.

"There you are," John went over and gave him a passionate kiss. "Happy anniversary!" Lafayette made his way over and greeted the man the same.

Y/N came out of the kitchen, bowl in hand and sat down next to Herc and Alex, rubbing the formers leg and giving him a kiss.

Laf raised his glass and smiled, "Joyeux anniversaire, mon amours!" They all clinked glasses and smiled at each other.

They talked about their day, and how grateful they were that it was finally the weekend. They've been in their new apartment for two months, and while Herc still worked, the rest of them stayed at home most of the time.

"This is great, babygirl," John said around a mouthful of salad, earning him a kick from Herc.

"Thanks, you helped," Y/N stuck her third garlic knot into her mouth and got snickers from the boys. "Don't test a girl and her bread."

Once they were all done eating, Alex and Herc did the dishes, while Laf cleaned up the table. John and Y/N went to the couch and browsed for a movie to watch.

They decided on some Hugh Jackman movie none of them had seen, and about forty minutes in there was a graphic sex scene.

The couch groaned when Laf shifted in his seat. He was on one end, with Herc in the middle and Y/N on the other end. Alex was laying on John on the couch next to them, and suddenly Alex popped his head up and looked at John with a smirk.

"You want some help with that?" His whisper made John shiver, and he struggled to get into a sitting position.

"Wh-what, what do you mean?" John was getting nervous, avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially when he saw Y/N look over at the commotion.

"Dude, you're hard," Alex gave him his space, but still looked down at the obvious dick print on his pants. John flushed in embarrassment, making Alex speak softer, "There's nothing wrong with that."

They brought it up before. They've all been dating for five months, there was obviously an urge. They were all new to it, none of them knew where to start with having sex with five people at once. Laf had made some dirty comments that got Alex all hot and bothered, but John shyed away from the idea, saying it was too early. They all had an unspoken agreement that their first time had to be with everyone, together.

"It is a night of celebration," Laf paused the movie, and looked towards the freckled boy. "And you're obviously ready for a party."

John blushed further at his predatory look, still not making eye contact. Herc ran a hand up Y/N’s thigh and it made her shift.

"We won't force you, John, if that's what you're worried about," Y/N looked at him sincerely. She obviously wanted to do it, but she wouldn't want anyone to feel uncomfortable.

"No, I want to," John finally looked up, taking a deep breath. "I do, trust me..."

Alex started kissing up his neck, and it made him get lost in thought.

"Then let's get this party started," Alex whispered in his ear and it made him whimper.

"I'm a virgin!" He decided to rip off the band aid, screaming out his fear.

It got quiet. John had his eyes closed, and his heart was beating rapidly. What if this was the breaking point?

"Okay," Hercules got up from the couch and crouched in front of him, resting a hand over his cheek. John finally opened his eyes when Herc said, "Nothing wrong with that, either. We'll go slow, if you'd let us?”

John glanced to see all the flustered looks turn into ones of understanding. "You're...you guys aren't upset?"

"Why would we be upset, babe?" Alex looked at him curiously. "There's nothing wrong with being a virgin. Hell, I'm still a virgin some places."

That made Y/N scratch her neck shyly, feeling her face heat up.

"We'll go slow," Herc took his hands in his, rubbing his thumb on the backside. "Is that okay?"

John looked around to see four people who loved him, who he loved.

Slow.

"Okay," John nodded, and then Herc was leading him into the bedroom. Behind them, Alex had pulled Y/N up, giving her a toe-curling kiss. It made Laf bite his lip and then Y/N was intertwining their fingers and pushing them towards the bedroom.

John and Herc were making out on the bed, and Laf snuck up behind John and started kissing his neck. Alex shut the door and wrapped his arms around Y/N, walking them over to their lovers.

"So, uh," John scratches the back of his neck, looking at his partners. "How do we start this?"

"We'll go slow," Laf reminded him. “What do you want to do?"

John closed his eyes softly and thought it over. He didn't want to do anything too far tonight, he didn't want to get overwhelmed. Y/N sensed this and sat next to him on the bed.

"I wanna watch someone give you a blowjob," She shrugged at Herc’s surprised look at her bluntness, but made John groan nonetheless. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah, hell yeah," John grabbed her face and pulled her into a kiss.

Herc started undressing himself, watching Laf do the same. Y/N moves onto John's neck, sucking a bruise onto his collar bone. Laf ran a hand up her backside and pulled at the hem of her shirt.

"Let me undress you, mon amours," He sat up and pulled John's shirt off him, taking in his broad chest and soft muscles. Him and Alex had the same kind of frame, and he's seen both many times before, but never like this.

Herc ran his hand through Johns curls and tugged a little, noticing the wince of delight coming from him. Alex helped Y/N take her shirt off, smirking at the bra she wore.

"It's nothing special," She scoffed. Alex shook his head and kissed her.

"Doesn't have to be," He whispered against her lips. "You're special enough."

Laf pulled off her shorts as she sat up, running a hand slowly over her ass, looking up to see her softly bite her lip. He smirked and turned to see Herc watch hungrily.

"Now, I believe the lady asked to see a blowjob?" Alex sunk down on his knees, pulling John further down onto the bed. Laf got up and walked around, wanting to watch the show. Herc took his place and wrapped comforting hands around John's upper body. Fingers wrapped around the hem of his boxers and tugged hesitantly.

"I'm gonna take these off, okay?" Alex looked up to see dark eyes, full of lust and anxiousness. John nodded and gasped as he pulled the fabric off slowly.

Y/N went over to Laf's side, caressing his cheek with her blunt nails. They both watched Alex stroke John's cock, pulling his foreskin back and watching precum leak from the tip.

Alex slowly licked up his base, and John moaned loudly, moving a hand up to cover his mouth.

"No, no," Herc took his hand and intertwined it with his own. "None of that, we want to hear you."

John felt goosebumps on his skin, feeling eyes on him. He looked up to see Laf and Y/N completely flustered.

Alex finally moved his mouth down, going about halfway down and hearing his boyfriend moan. He felt himself get uncomfortable with the restriction in his pants, and noticed that he was the only one fully dressed. But that would have to wait.

Herc snaked his hand around John's chest and tugged at a nipple. He grew harder by the second at his moans and Alex's mouth wrapped around his dick. Y/N squeezed her thighs together, and it didn't go unnoticed. Laf smirked as she squirmed, caressing a hand over the back of thigh, making her shiver.

"Fuck, Alex," John threw his head back against Herc's chest, gasping as Alex took him fully into his mouth.

Soon enough, Alex was sucking hard, rubbing the inside of John's thighs and licking around the tip. John's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he let out a shuddering gasp and eventually came down his throat.

Laf rubbed himself through his boxers, and Y/N covered his hand with hers, earning a gasp from the man.

As Alex pulled his shirt over his head, John looked back and kissed Herc, moaning into his mouth. "I want to suck you.”

Herc quickly moved off the bed, kneeling one leg by John’s shoulder. He lowered his boxers to his thighs and John started stroking his cock, Herc groaning at the sensation.

"Y/N, come here," Herc looked back and saw the girl looking completely overwhelmed. And she hasn't even done anything but watch.

She got on all fours, facing Laf still, her backside to Herc, and John watched her underwear fold in as her legs bent.

"Take them off, babe," He looked up and found Herc looking at him eagerly. John reached up with his free hand and pulled down her panties. She gasped and Laf stepped out of his own underwear. Alex was finally naked, too, stroking himself while watching the scene before him.

Y/N pulled Laf towards her and began to lick the tip of his cock, pulling at his ball sack and feeling Herc run a fingertip up her wetness.

Alex sighed as Laf pulled him over and got a hand on him, kissing behind his ear and moaning.

"Holy shit," Y/N gasped as Herc put a finger in her, pulling off Laf and adjusting to the feeling. John's eyes got wide as he saw his finger disappear into her, making a squelching sound.

Moans filled the room as they all tried to take in everything. Herc was holding back, trying not to fuck into Johns mouth. He had a hand on Herc's ass and the other was stroking what he couldn’t hold in his mouth.

Y/N moaned around Laf and his face scrunched up in pleasure. He slurred to himself and kept the pace on Alex's cock. Alex gripped his shoulder as he whispered how good Y/N’s mouth looked around Laf's dick.

Herc sped up the pace, thrusting two fingers into her pussy at a speed that made her tremble. She fisted the sheets in her hands and bobbed her head quicker, trying to get Laf to release.

John was close, again. Hearing all the dirty noises that was coming from his partners did something to him. He loved the feeling of Herc on his tongue; he sucked harder and soon Herc was grabbing his hair and pulling out of his mouth. He stroked his cock fast, cumming on John's chest with a grunt.

Alex watched with dark eyes, thrusting into Laf's big hand and feeling his toe curls. Laf turned to give him a deep kiss, moving his hand faster.

Y/N had been neglected as Hercules bathed in the afterglow; but soon enough he put three fingers in her and focused on curling his fingers and making her cum only seconds later.

The vibrations against his cock made Laf finish in her mouth, some leaking out. That did it for Alex, watching her cheeks hallow and Laf's semen leak down her chin. It was a complete sin.

Heavy breathing filled the room. Y/N pulled off and before she could wipe her chin, Alex leaned down and shoved his tongue into her mouth. It was something filthy; it made John's eyes go wide when he saw Alex run his tongue over her jaw.

He got so lost in the sight that he startled when he felt a hand run over his hip. Laf looked down at him with a smirk, and proceeded to lick Herc's cum off his chest.

"Shit," John's head fell back against the pillows and he let out a sigh. Herc moaned and sat down next to him.

Laf licked all the way up into John's mouth, going slow and making him taste their lover.

Alex put his hand on Herc’s shoulder and gave him a deep kiss, “That’s hot."

"Totally," Herc looked up at him with complete love, holding onto the hand on his shoulder.

Y/N threw wet rags at them, alreayd having thrown on a nightshirt. “I'm not sleeping with sticky men."

"Don't worry, ma cheri," Laf headed to the bathroom, looking her up and down as he said, "I got it all off."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help purse her lips. Herc was smirking and she threw a rag at his head.

Once they all cleaned up, they settled in bed, all throwing on new underwear.

Y/N had fell asleep as soon as she hit the bed, John snuggling close next to her, softly snoring. Laf was looking at something on his phone while Herc snuggled on the other side of John.

"That was fun," Herc looked at the two sleeping with a smile. "Really fun..."

"That it was," Alex pulled back his sheets and waited for Lafayette to come over and scoot towards Y/N. Alex cuddled behind the Frenchman and closed his eyes. "By the way, I'm totally fucking one of you next time."

Laf laughed, "Funny you think you're the one doing the fucking."

"Yeah, Alex, you're totally gonna be the one getting fucked," Herc whispered and heard the man gasp in shock.

"Shhhh," John reaches over and hit Herc in the chest, making the three giggle at his crankiness.

....🙈 okay let me know if you want to be tagged...

@wwaywardwinchester @vemazing

#polyhamilsquad x reader #poly!hamilsquad x reader #hamilsquad x reader #poly hamilsquad #hamilton fic #hamilton smut #hamilsquad fic #john laurens x reader #alexander hamilton x reader #hercules mulligan x reader #marquis de lafayette x reader #lafayette x reader #my writings #this is why I will never do a face reveal #but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy writing it 🥴#sorry not even remotely sorry #but seriously don’t look at me

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plus-size-reader · 3 years

Text

Overboard

Thor Odinson x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1342 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Thor visiting his mortal other half and finding her apartment filled to the brim with thor merch

——————————————————————————————————

The media on earth blew up after the attack on New York.

All everyone was talking about were the heroes who had shown up out of the blue and saved the planet. As far as you knew, they had saved life as you knew it, and that wasn't something people were going to be quick to forget.

The shops weren't going to move on from that either.

The Avengers and the craze that followed them provided an opportunity to make quite a bit of money off of merchandise and they had everything. From action figures, clothes, sneakers, pillows, and jewelry, when you said everything, you meant it.

The people who were tracking the developments in the story, especially those who had been present that day, became completely enthralled with the Avengers as an idea. The absolute shock of superheroes in general took the world by storm.

...And it was fair to say that you were no exception to that.

Everywhere you went, there were t-shirts, and socks with every member of the avengers printed on it. Not to mention all the other things they stuck their image on, notably the coffee cups, which you'd gathered quite a collection of.

It was insane but you took to it immediately, without apology. However, it wasn't for the reason that most others did, where they just wanted to take part in the latest craze.

You had bought every single piece of Thor memorabilia you could get your hands on, not to fit in, but because the god of thunder was your boyfriend.

Having met at a coffee shop during one of his many escapades on earth, and from that moment, you were head over heels in love. It wasn't all honey and sugar though, as the you would come to learn. The trouble with having an interdimensional being for a lover was that he was hardly ever on earth, and you grew to miss him when he was gone.

The merchandise you picked up didn't make you miss him any less, and it wasn't even close to having him in person but it helped a bit when he was gone. It actually helped a lot when you couldn't spend time with him.

Though you may have, admittedly, gone a little bit overboard in your ordering.

By this point, you were almost positive that you had every single thing that had Thor's name or image on it that you could find. It was everywhere, filling every square inch of your apartment, and even though you acknowledged it was a bit much, you didn't care.

You loved it.

Most people didn't take it as far as you did, and even if they did, they didn't advertise it. Not that you did, but there was a single cavoite to that, Thor was actually going to see your apartment. Really you didn't think about all the merch most of the time, but that was because you lived alone.

It changed a small bit when there was a knock at your door.

You hadn't been expecting anyone today, and didn't usually get surprise visitors at all, so it was quite the shock. Still, you didn't care about anything else when you opened the door to find your towering, blonde standing there.

The doorframe looked a bit smaller compared to him than it did for you but you didn't pay that any mind as you jumped into his arms, a small squeal leaving your lips. In the past, you had been nervous about an action like that due to your size and weight, but not anymore.

Thor had made it very clear to you that no amount of weight would affect him at all, and that gave you more than enough permission to just launch into his arms as much as you pleased.

"What are you doing here?" you gasped, holding him tightly as if he was going to slip from your fingers at any moment. Frankly, he couldn't blame you as it had been quite some time since he'd come back from Asgard.

At first, all he did was laugh, holding you just as tightly in return. Though, once he'd decided to set you back down on the ground, something else caught his attention. Dressing your curvy frame was a matching set of pajamas, patterned with what looked like Mjölnir.

"I wanted to see you. What are you wearing?" he chuckled, gesturing down to your body, which you hadn't even given much thought to since opening the door. It was embarrassing enough that it was almost 3pm and you still weren't dressed in real people clothes, but now you had to explain the pattern too.

While the Avengers craze was abundantly common on earth, it seemed that it had yet to spread to the rest of the outside realms.

"Um, these are my God of Thunder pajamas" you giggled, embarrassment flooding you for a moment or two as you waited for him to react in some way. Thor hadn't been to earth in quite a while, and missed the whole thing.

He didn't even know he was this popular here to begin with. Though, as he ventured further into your apartment, it became clear to him just how popular he was. There was a throw blanket tossed over the back of your couch with his face on it and towels of his likeness hanging in the kitchen.

It was a bit much but even as you stood there, waiting for some kind of reaction from him still, Thor just kept looking around. Everywhere he went, there was more and more for him to find, proving that you'd been busy since he'd been here last.

You didn't even move from your place when he ventured down the hallway toward your bedroom, which you shared when he happened to come to Midgard. It was there that you heard that deep belly laugh you loved so much.

As soon as you heard that, you made your way over to the room in question, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving him to his own devices with whatever he'd found.

...And that turned out to be the right call.

You found Thor sitting on your bed, holding a cloth doll in his hands. He didn't even address you at first, just sitting there, playing with both of the dolls little arms. When he did finally turn to you, a huge grin on his face, he laughed again.

"What is this?"

That was the question of the day, wasn't it?

"That is a plush doll of you" you allowed, confirming what he'd already suspected. You worried initially that he would somehow be upset or uncomfortable with the strange way you'd chosen to decorate, but Thor didn't really seem angry.

If anything he was just having a good time, enjoying all the things you'd bought since he'd left. It was funny, if not flattering, at least for a man like him.

All things considered, Thor had been raised under constant praise which shouldn't have been shocking with his father being the All Father. If nothing else, there was something very sweet about how much you clearly liked him.

"It's very cute" he smiled, booping the smaller version of him before discarding it fully to the side to take your hands in his own.

The large man pulled you in until you were standing comfortably between his thighs, holding both his hands in your own. "You really don't mind?" you asked, finding it kind of hard to believe after how sure you'd been he would hate it.

Though, maybe you should have been glad that he'd reacted this way. It was much better than the alternative.

"Of course not. Perhaps I will find a doll of you to take with me" he teased, pressing a gentle kiss to your face. It may not have been what you expected, or how you thought today was going to go when you woke up this morning, but at least Thor was home.

Having him home added the final piece to your collection, and you couldn't have been happier.

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hime-hana · 3 years

Text

JEONG YUNHO ♡ DADDY A TO Z ♡

A = Announcement.- How do you tell him and the world that you’re expecting?

Yunho was a little confused when he saw a note on the kitchen counter "Treasure Hunt - Find all the hidden notes around the house and follow the clues to retrieve the treasure". Excitement was written all over his face as he looked everywhere for clues. It seemed a little strange: a baby shoe, a toy, colored crayons. The last one told him to go outside for his last mission. You were expecting him in the backyard, trying to hold your smile as he finds the key to the chest and opens the treasure. A small velvet bag awaits for him, the words "CONGRATULATIONS FUTURE DADDY" printed on a baby shirt. It takes him a moment to realize and he almost trips over the chest as he can't wait to hug you faster.

B = Books.- Did he read the books?

No, he won't be able to concentrate on any book, but he is more than happy and willing to listen to you reading the books out loud or telling him all the new information you learned.

C = Cuddles.- Who cuddles the baby more?

Both of you, he will love holding you and the baby at the same time while laying in bed and spending quality time together.

D = Daddy.- His reaction to being called Daddy and it setting in.

Ecstatic, more than happy he ever felt. Honestly, he can't believe this is real and his baby just called him daddy. Won't be able to hold back his smile and stop talking about it.

E = Empty.- Who goes to the store when you guys run out of supplies?

It would mostly be Yunho, he knows you sometimes need a moment to relax and chooses to do errands or grocery shopping himself. As long as you give him a list.

F = Feeding time- Who does feeding time?

It would be mostly you as Yunho watches from behind, but if you would ask him to step up and help you he definitely will. He will also do it if he notices you are too tired.

G = Grumpy baby. - Who is better at dealing with a grumpy baby?

Yunho. He just knows how to make the baby calm down and turn his frown into a smile in an instant. Playing with his toys or making silly faces - Yunho can do it all.

H = How?- how many kids does he want?

I think this would be debatable, but probably around 1 or 2. The most would be 3 but you will both need to be completely sure you will be able to handle another baby, though he may want the last one when your children were a bit older.

J = Jokes.- best dad joke?

All day, every day. Yunho finds them so funny and even if you hate his dad jokes, he always managed to put a smile on your face with them.

K = Kisses.- His favorite place to kiss the baby.

His forehead and chubby cheeks. Whenever he passes by the baby's crib as it's sleeping he won't be able to stop and lean down pressing a gentle kiss on its forehead.

L = Little.- How he feels when he holds the baby for the first time.

He won't be able to contain his happiness. He would be a little scared holding the baby for the first time because he would fear he might hurt it, but it will feel as if everything faded away for Yunho when he embraces it tightly to his chest.

M = Mommy.- What does he call you?

He would call you sweet nicknames, but his favorite will probably be "cutie" since it will be a nickname he has called you ever since you two became a couple.

N = Nappies.- Who deals with the really bad ones?

He will help you, but I think you will do it more often than him. Nonetheless, he will do it if he notices you struggling or you need a break.

O = Onesies- Who likes to dress the baby in ridiculous outfits?

Absolutely Yunho. Especially if it's a very cute animal costume. Your baby will have a full collection of animal costumes by the time he turns 2.

P = Pet names- names he calls the baby.

He would call the baby all types of silly nicknames, most that would make you wonder what the hell is he even saying. Your baby would be dressed in a shark costume and for the next few days, Yunho will call it "baby shark" while singing the song in the background.

Q = Questions.- How many questions does he ask the nurse?

Many, many questions. He wants to be informed about everything so he will probably make a mental list of the things he wants to ask the nurse about.

R = Rely- What is the biggest thing you rely on each other for?

The main thing you would rely on Yunho would be the way he always boosts your mood and makes you happy no matter what. In return, he knows you will always be there if he ever has any doubts about his duties as a daddy.

S = Sleep duty. - Who gets up when it’s really late at night?

It would be you most nights, but if you pat his shoulder gently and ask him if he could get the baby Yunho will definitely-although very sleepy-agree and calm down your child.

T = Trepidation.- Fears as a new parent.

Since Yunho would be a goofball even after your baby is born he will have many questions about the way he wants to raise the baby and that maybe he is not being strict enough on him.

U = Ultrasounds.- His reactions to the ultrasounds.

He will just watch in awe as the doctor points to the screen and the shape of what will soon be his baby pops up. Pressing kisses to the back of your hand as he takes the small photographs from the nurse. He will want to keep them forever and will most likely tuck them safely in a tiny frame next to your bed.

V = Values.- What is the most important value he wants to teach your child.

He will want to teach him to be responsible from a young age but also keep his liveliness and child-like innocence. To always pay attention around him and not be careless to the other's needs.

W = Water.- Who gives the baby the bath

Yunho would volunteer for this job since it will be a time when he can have as much fun as he wants with the baby. Bringing the dolls, rubber ducks and basically, almost every toy your child will own. Bath time will be his favorite and your child's as well.

X = X-mas- What do you guys plan for the holidays?

He would want to do everything with your baby, but having fun in the water with your baby would be the funniest thing ever. The baby safely put in an inflatable seat as Yunho runs and splashes around him making everyone laugh at how cute they are.

Y = Yelling.- How many fights do the two of you get in?

Arguments won't happen often and when they do, they will be short-lived. The most common causes of your fights would be stress and tiredness.

Z = Zoo- How crazy is the house after the birth?

Not very crazy, except for when he is acting silly trying to make the baby laugh. Everything will be calm and rather peaceful.

#ateez headcanons #ateez scenarios #ateez fluff #yunho fluff #ateez yunho #ateez #ateez yunho imagines #ateez imagines #daddy a to z

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brooklynmuseum · 3 years

Photo

Closing out National Poetry Month, our Spring Interns paired some of their favorite poems with works from our collection. We hope you enjoy!

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas

Image: Suzuki Harunobu (Japanese, 1724-1770). Page From Haru no Nishiki, 1771. Color woodblock print on paper. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Peter P. Pessutti, 83.190.1

from Citizen: “Some years there exists a wanting to escape...” [Excerpt] By Claudia Rankine

I they he she we you turn only to discover the encounter

to be alien to this place.

Wait.

The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.

The opening, between you and you, occupied, zoned for an encounter,

given the histories of you and you—

And always, who is this you?

The start of you, each day, a presence already—

Hey you—

— Halle Smith, Digital Collections Intern Catherine Green (American, born 1952). [Untitled] (West Indian Day Parade), 1991. Chromogenic photograph, sheet. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 1991.58.2. © artist or artist's estate

Ode to Enchanted Light by Pablo Neruda

Under the trees light has dropped from the top of the sky, light like a green latticework of branches, shining on every leaf, drifting down like clean white sand.

A cicada sends its sawing song high into the empty air.

The world is a glass overflowing with water.

Consuelo Kanaga’s black and white photograph captures a dazzling, yet fleeting moment from everyday life. Three textured glasses cast shadows whose patterns are almost kaleidoscopic in effect. We can imagine Kanaga passing by her kitchen table, as she is brought to a halt to take a closer look at, and ultimately to photograph, the simple beauty generated by the play of light and everyday objects. The close-up scale of this image emulates the singularizing framing techniques deployed by Surrealist photographers, who also took parts of everyday life and blew them up in the photographic frame, thereby encouraging their viewers to look at life around us from a different angle. It is a way of saying: Here, take a closer look. Viewing the world with wonder, along with the joy that this act brings, are encapsulated in Pablo Neruda’s poem Ode to Enchanted Light. The speaker observes the way light passes through trees and creates enchanting patterns. He not only observes, but feels the beauty in the simple details of life, from the way light falls from the sky, to the sheen of leaves, to the buzzing of cicadas. Approaching life through such a hopeful lens evokes a glass-half-full perspective. In fact, the speaker is so hopeful that he believes “The world is/a glass overflowing/with water.” I think Kanaga would have felt the same way.

— Kirk Testa, Curatorial Intern, Photography Consuelo Kanaga (American, 1894-1978). [Untitled] (Glasses and Reflections). Gelatin silver photograph. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Wallace B. Putnam from the Estate of Consuelo Kanaga, 82.65.25

Easter Wings By George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

Though foolishly he lost the same,

Decaying more and more,

Till he became

Most poore:

With thee

O let me rise

As larks, harmoniously,

And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne

And still with sicknesses and shame.

Thou didst so punish sinne,

That I became

Most thinne.

With thee

Let me combine,

And feel thy victorie:

For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Easter Wings by George Herbet and Martin Bach’s flower vase from the Brooklyn Museum’s Decorative Arts collection reveal the interrelationship between form and function. In Easter Wings, Herbert strategically varies the line length to create an image that enhances the meaning of the poem; when you turn the poem on its side, it resembles the wings of a bird, of which are symbolic of the atonement of Jesus Christ. In doing so, the author is not only telling us his message, but he is showing it visually as well. Similarly, the vase takes the visual form of its function. Its floral design amplifies the meaning of the object, as the vase is meant to hold flowers. In both instances, we see how aesthetic properties of a work echo the meaning and function of the work itself.

— Amy Zavecz Martin Bach (American, 1862-1921). Vase, ca. 1905. Opalescent glass. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mrs. Alfred Zoebisch, 59.143.16. Creative Commons-BY

I am the Earth (Watashi wa chikyu) [Excerpt] by Kiyoko Nagase, Translated by Takako Lento

I am warm, moist soil I am a single supple stalk I draw my life all the way up into corollas of wild berries on the roadside

I am amazed at a breast of water welling to flow into the inlet of a muddy rice paddy I am amazed at myself being hot steam blowing fire and sulfur up from the bottom of the great ocean, deep indigo. I am amazed at the crimson blood flow covering the earth’s surface in human shape; I am amazed that it swells as the tides ebb and flow, and gushes out monthly under distant invisible gravity … I am the earth. I live there, and I am the very same earth.

In the four billionth year I have come to know the eternal cold moon, my other self, my hetero being, then, for the first time, I am amazed that I am warm mud.

The vivid imagery conjured up by Kiyoko Nagase’s poem is beautifully visualized by Emmi Whitehorse’s painting. The emphasis on deep Earth tones and abstract corporeality in both the poem and the painting really creates an intense metaphysical link between the environment and the self.

— Amanda Raquel Dorval, Archives Intern Emmi Whitehorse (Navajo, born 1957). Fire Weed, 1998. Chalk, graphite, pastel and oil on paper mounted on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Hinrich Peiper and Dorothee Peiper-Riegraf in honor of Emmi Whitehorse, 2006.49. © artist or artist's estate

Seventh Circle of Earth by Ocean Vuong

On April 27, 2011, a gay couple, Michael Humphrey and Clayton Capshaw, was murdered by immolation in their home in Dallas, Texas.

Dallas Voice

________________________________________________________

As if my finger, / tracing your collarbone / behind closed doors, / was enough / to erase myself. To forget / we built this house knowing / it won’t last. How / does anyone stop / regret / without cutting / off his hands? / Another torch

streams through / the kitchen window, / another errant dove. / It’s funny. I always knew / I’d be warmest beside / my man. / But don’t laugh. Understand me / when I say I burn best / when crowned / with your scent: that earth-sweat / & Old Spice I seek out each night / the days

refuse me. / Our faces blackening / in the photographs along the wall. / Don’t laugh. Just tell me the story / again, / of the sparrows who flew from falling Rome, / their blazed wings. / How ruin nested inside each thimbled throat / & made it sing

until the notes threaded to this / smoke rising / from your nostrils. Speak— / until your voice is nothing / but the crackle / of charred

bones. But don’t laugh / when these walls collapse / & only sparks / not sparrows / fly out. / When they come / to sift through these cinders—& pluck my tongue, / this fisted rose, / charcoaled & choked / from your gone

mouth. / Each black petal / blasted / with what’s left / of our laughter. / Laughter ashed / to air / to honey to baby / darling, / look. Look how happy we are / to be no one / & still

American.

Ocean Vuong’s “Seventh Circle of Earth” has persisted as one of the great, affective moments of poetry in my life since I first heard Pádraig Ó Toama’s gorgeous reading and discussion of it on his podcast, Poetry Unbound. I decided to pair Vuong’s poem with Mary Coble’s Untitled 2 (from Note To Self) because both works are urgently immersive into the violence and experience of LGBTQ people in the U.S., and for how each work uses text and physicality to address presence, pain, and erasure. Vuong’s poem is actually footnoted to a quote from a news article about a gay couple murdered in Texas. The page is thus blank, absent of text. The reader has to sink below the main stage, the accepted space of word and story, to find the voices of this couple and the depth of their story’s tenderness, eroticism, and utter devastation. Coble’s piece foils the structure and effect of Seventh Circle of Earth by taking what was subverted by Vuong—text and the narrative of violence—wholly to the surface. Her photograph captures her own legs tattooed without ink with the names of LGBTQ individuals victimized by hate crimes. I cannot help but think of Franz Kafka’s short story “In the Penal Colony,” in which prisoners’ “sentences'' are inscribed by the needle of a “punishment apparatus” directly onto their bodies. I was struck by how the curator’s note for this photograph describes Coble’s artistic endeavor here as “harrowing.” The needle in Kafka’s short story is indeed called “The Harrow”. The noun harrow is an agricultural tool that combs plowed soil to break up clumps of earth and uproot weeds and clear imperfections. The verb to harrow means to plague, and in the story’s original German the verb for “harrow”, eggen, is also translated as “to torment”. Kafka and Coble conflate these definitions of “the harrow” in their respective works: they use a needled device, like the true noun definition, as an instrument of torment because of someone else’s idea of punishment and justice. Here, violence is brought to the surface, intimate in as much as we are brought right up to the artist’s skin and into the presence of her and her community’s pain. Together, one can see how each creator physicalizes their respective artistic space to tell the stories of LGBTQ people, of what is tender and harrowing, below the surface and written into the skin.

— Talia Abrahams, Provenance Intern, IHCPP Mary Coble (American, born 1978). Untitled 2 (from Note to Self), 2005. Inkjet print. Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the artist, 2008.10. © artist or artist's estate

To my daughter Kakuya by Assata Shakur

I have shabby dreams for you of some vague freedom I have never known. Baby I don't want you hungry or thirsty or out in the cold. and I don't want the frost to kill your fruit before it ripens. I can see a sunny place Life exploding green. I can see your bright, bronze skin at ease with all the flowers and the centipedes. I can hear laughter, not grown from ridicule And words not prompted by ego or greed or jealousy. I see a world where hatred has been replaced by love. and ME replaced by WE And I can see a world replaced where you, building and exploring, strong and fulfilled, will understand. And go beyond my little shabby dreams.

This poem is featured in Assata Shakur’s memoir, Assata: An Autobiography. It details her hope for a better world that her daughter can grow up in. This poem is positioned in the book when Shakur is facing increasing prosecution as a result of her activism and affiliations with the Black Panther Party and Black Liberation army. Being written more than 30 years after this picture was taken, the poem summons me to think about the trauma that many Black women face and how much of that trauma gets passed down to their children. The black and white photo of a mother and daughter provides a nice visual to the poem. “The image of a Black mother and child sitting on their luggage reflects the little-discussed history of segregated transportation in the northern United States. Through the 1940s, Penn Station officials assigned Black travelers seats in Jim Crow cars on southbound trains” (Brooklyn Museum). The photograph of train passengers waiting outside of Manhattan’s Pennsylvania Station especially echoes the verse “I don’t want you hungry or thirsty or out in the cold.” The overall optimistic tone of Shakur’s poem alters our relationship to the image as we imagine the mother pictured above hoping for the exact same things

— Zaria W, Teen Programs intern Ruth Orkin (American, 1921-1985). Mother and Daughter at Penn Station, NYC, 1948. Gelatin silver photograph, sheet: 13 15/16 × 11 in. (35.4 × 27.9 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Mary Engel, 2011.22.3. © artist or artist's estate

Crunch. By Kailyn Gibson

I retch as a mass of sinew lies between my lips. The sensation is unbearable. Fortunately, the jar of flies has gone missing again.

Slowly, surely, and yet never sure at all, the quiet of buzzing rings through the in-between.

It is a symphony wrought from blood and bone.

Saliva drips from bleeding, hungry gums, And the crunch of glass echoes the grinding of molars.

If I proffered a sanguine smile, would masticated shards look like teeth? Would they gleam just as prettily?

The flies ring, and the rot calls.

— Kailyn Gibson Edgar Degas (French, 1834-1917). Portrait of a Man (Portrait d'homme), ca. 1866. Oil on canvas. Brooklyn Museum, Museum Collection Fund, 21.112

Excerpt from Autobiography of Red A novel in verse by Anne Carson

7. If Helen’s reasons arose out of some remark Stesichoros made either it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) or it was not.

8. If it was a strong remark about Helen’s sexual misconduct (not to say its unsavory aftermath the Fall of Troy) either this remark was a lie or it was not.

9. If it was not a lie either we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way we are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros or we are not.

10. If we are now in reverse and by continuing to reason in this way are likely to arrive back at the beginning of the question of the blinding of Stesichoros either we will go along without incident or we will meet Stesichoros on our way back.

11. If we meet Stesichoros on our way back either we will keep quiet or we will look him in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen.

12. If we look Stesichoros in the eye and ask him what he thinks of Helen either he will tell the truth or he will lie.

13. If Stesichoros lies either we will know at once that he is lying or we will be fooled because now that we are in reverse the whole landscape looks inside out.

This excerpt comes from Appendix C of Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red, a novel in verse. A translator and classicist herself, Carson mixes fact with fiction in her unconventional retelling of the myth of Geryon and Hercules, beginning with a roundabout introduction to the poet Stesichoros. Autobiography presents a captivating example of recent Queer projects that take up Classical material as their basis. A fascination with the Classical past has pervaded our modern conception of sexual identity politics, down to the very etymology of the word “lesbian.” In this fascination, I see the same desire to capture Classical imagery as cultural heritage which has also pervaded American museums, albeit with significantly different aims. The fresco pictured above comes to mind, which passed through many collectors and was even purchased by the museum before anyone pegged it as a modern piece—not an original Roman fresco. John D. Cooney, a 20th century curator of our Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art collection, wrote that “the unclad and somewhat winsome charms of the lady [probably] diverted objective glances.” Both in the case of the fresco and Carson’s novel, the “unclad and somewhat winsome charms” of the Classical past shape and reshape our understanding of history.

— Kira Houston, Curatorial Intern, Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art Modern, in the style of the Roman Period. Part of a Fresco, early 19th century C.E. Clay, paint. Brooklyn Museum, Ella C. Woodward Memorial Fund, 11.30.

Late Fragment by Raymond Carver From A New Path to the Waterfall, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1989.

And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

— Shori Diedrick Brackens (American, born 1989). when no softness came, 2019. Cotton and acrylic yarn. Brooklyn Museum, Purchased with funds given by The LIFEWTR Fund at Frieze New York 2019, 2019.12. © artist or artist's estate

Jaguar By Francisco X. Alarcón

some say dicen que ahora I'm now almost estoy casi extinto extinct in this park por este parque but the people pero la gente who say this que dice esto don't know no sabe that by smelling que al oler the orchids las orquídeas in the trees en los árboles they're sensing están percibiendo the fragrance la fragancia of my chops de mis fauces that by hearing que al oír the rumblingc el retumbo of the waterfalls de los saltos

they're listening están escuchando to my ancestors' el gran rugido great roar de mis ancestros

that by observing que al observar the constellations las constelanciones of the night sky del firmamento

they're gazing están mirando at the star spots las motas de estrellas on my fur marcadas en mi piel that I am and que yo soy always will be y siempre seré the wild el indomable

untamed espíritu silvestre living spirit vivo de esta of this jungle jungla

While the author of the poem speaks about animals, their words can also speak on behalf of the erasure of indigenous peoples in South America. Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions and culture are very important to life in South America. Despite their marginalization, Indigenous peoples throughout the Andes used coca leaves to help with the altitude. The use and cultivation of coca are criminalized throughout most of South America despite it being essential to indigenous cultures. This vessel was used to contain lime which would activate the coca leaves. Much like the jaguar, indigenous traditions are also faced with endangerment despite being woven into the fabric that is Latin America. Through the opposite man and woman figures, the vessel shows the duality that is important to the Quimbaya people which is still relevant to Colombians today.

Aunque el autor del poema habla sobre los animales, sus palabras también comunican el sentimiento común de la supresión de los indígenas en Suramérica. Con la mención del jaguar, se puede entender en el poema que la cultura y las tradiciones de las personas que son indígenas son sumamente importantes para la vida en Sudamérica. A pesar de su marginación, los indígenas en Los Andes utilizan la hoja de coca para ayudar en la altura de las montañas. El uso y el cultivo de la hoja de coca fue criminalizado (penalizado) a través de Sudamérica, aunque su uso para los indígenas era vital y esencial para su cultura. Este recipiente que se utiliza contiene limón lo que activa la hoja de la coca. Similarmente al jaguar, las tradiciones de los indígenas siempre estaban en peligro aunque estuvieran entrelazadas en las telas de lo que sería Latinoamérica. A través del hombre opuesto y las figuras de mujeres, el recipiente muestra la dualidad de lo que es importante para las personas que son Quimbaya, algo que todavía hoy es relevante para los Colombianos.

— Jeffrey Alexander Lopez, Curatorial Intern, American Art & Arts of the Americas Quimbaya. Poporo (Lime Container), 1-600 C.E. Tumbaga. Brooklyn Museum, Alfred W. Jenkins Fund, 35.507. Creative Commons-BY

#national poetry month #poetry #art #poems #art history #brooklyn museum #bkminterns

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