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bakusquadup · 5 years

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Same anon as before!! Some detailed descriptions of them would be absolutely awesome if you wouldn’t mind!! :D

Hey friend! I’m happy to provide some descriptions for you! All of them are under the cut.

Onishi and Yamamoto are at the top of the list because you mentioned them last time, but I included everyone else in PP just so I could have all the info in one place (it’s kinda a lot of characters, sorry). I still can’t believe anybody would consider drawing them 😭 Enjoy, I guess?

-Shelley

Just a note: I’m using feet and inches here because I’m more used to it, but obviously everything would translate to centimeters because most of them are Japanese

Onishi Tokito (aka RedBolt)

Body: SMOL boy. He’s not even five feet and yet he is full of rage (he’s about 4′10″, but tells people he’s 5′0″). And even though he’s small, he does have three years of UA hero courses under his belt and has enough muscle to get by. He has crimson red skin

Features: His hair is a slightly darker shade of red than his skin and his eyes are a slightly lighter shade of red and seem to glow slightly (they also reflect light like animal eyes). His hair is mid-length and shaggy, curling up at the ends naturally, but he will sometimes spike it up into a mohawk just because he thinks it looks cool (it doesn’t) and makes him taller. His eyes are wide and rounded, which makes him look younger than he is

Personality: He’s incredibly high-energy and is usually stuck in one of two moods: angry/bitter or smug/sarcastic, so he’s either smirking or frowning all the time. On the rare occassion that he genuinely smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle up and he has one dimple on his left side. He has a big sense of pride and likes to pick on others when he does better than them, but despises having the favor returned

Hero Costume: A baggy black jumpsuit that cuffs at the bottom like a pair of joggers and has a sleeveless top. He wears a thick red belt around his hips with small bags hanging off that hold small metal items (like screws and washers) and hand cream (because his hands dry out from using his quirk too much). In the colder months, he throws his favorite zip-up sweatshirt over top of the costume (it’s also red, he really likes red)

Quirk: “Red Lightning.” The true nature of his quick is hard to pin down, as it has the thin, branching sparks of electricity and its shocking capabilities, but it is a pale red and it seems to flow like a liquid. He’s speculated that it’s a combination of lava and electricity, but he doesn’t really care enough to figure it out

Other Info: He gets super competitive, even with things that he knows he’s bad at, so he’s known to cheat at any competition that he feels he needs to. He’s probably only ever said sorry twice in his life

Yamamoto Kei (aka Midas)

Body: Super tall and lanky. He stands at about 6'6", but he also hunches, so it’s more like 6'8" when his posture is good. He’s a certified bean pole that shot up in first year of high school, but never gained the weight to fill out his frame. He’s so pale, his skin seems to be transparent sometimes

Features: He has two different colored eyes, which are slanted and narrow. His right eye is gold, which is his natural color and the other is a muted brown. The brown eye is a piece of tech that a support company built for him when he lost his left eye in second year during finals. There is a thick pink scar running around the outside of his left eye, which he likes to show off because he thinks it’s badass. His hair is just above chin length, dark brown (almost black), and perfectly straight. His fringe covers his gold eye because he likes to hide it and he can see better out of the artificial eye

Personality: Yamamoto is pretty low-key most of the time. He speaks in a low voice and really only contributes to conversation when he feels he has something worth saying (although, sometimes those important topics are just a dumb meme). The only one that’s able to really rile him up is Onishi because he draws out Yamamoto’s competitiveness. He does have a slight wild streak as he loves anything thrilling and may act a little crazy when it comes to seeking those things out

Hero Costume: He wears many separate items so if he needs to solidify one of them with his quirk, not everything solidifies right away, limiting his mobility. Has loose black shorts with thick gold stripes that run down the outside of his legs. Under that, he wears black compression sleeves with two royal blue stripes and one thinner gold stripe between them. The compression sleeves are tucked into knee-high black boots with fabric soles to allow him to slide on smooth surfaces, but sometimes they will appear gold when he needs to activate his quirk on them (the weight it great for kicking enemies!). On top, he wears a matching black tank top with the same gold stripes. He has a royal blue belt that clips around his waist with a gold buckle shaped like a crown. He also wears the same compression sleeves on his arms and a pair of royal blue fingerless gloves

Quirk: “Golden Touch.” Pretty much self-explanatory. He is able to turn the things he touches into gold (any part of his body, not just his hands), but it acts more like a golden shell rather than solid gold. He can also remove the gold whenever he wants without injuring a living thing inside it. If he keeps his quirk activated, it will not only solidify the thing he is directly touching, but whatever that item is touching as well. For example, if someone grabs his jacket sleeve, he will solidify his jacket and then eventually the person holding him (although, he tries to avoid this because his clothes become much heavier). He can use this to skate along the ground by creating a path on the ground and sliding with his specially-designed boots

Other Info: He will sometimes pin his hair up during hero training because of its length (he doesn’t like the sensation of it flopping around while he’s running). Because of this, he always has bobby pins in his pockets and the girls have started going to him if they need some

Amy Coleman (aka Oracole)

Body: Tall and lean. She’s just under 6′0″ and has a dancer’s frame with long limbs and toned muscles. She has naturally tan skin, but does not tan more if she’s out in the sun, only freckles a little

Features: She has white-blond hair that previous went down to her waist and is naturally straight. She would wear it in a tight ponytail, until it got singed off by Endeavor. It is now chin-length, so she curls it in the morning to get a wavy texture and more volume. Her eyes are piercing ice blue and angle down on the outside. Her brows are darker than her hair, closer to dirty blond. She has a spattering of very faint freckles across her nose

Personality: She’s very outgoing and loud; always willing to make a friend and needs to know what’s going on at all times (basically, a typical American). This can often be her downfall, as she ends up as somewhat of a gossip. She feels that any information she gained without the help of her quirk is fair game for her to talk about. She’s generally high-energy and gets riled-up easily, except when she is using her quirk, in which case she makes a complete 180

Hero Costume: She wears a dark teal fitted jumpsuit with a high neck, ¾ sleeves, and white white piping that runs up her limps and down the center of her torso. Over top of it, she wears a black corset-like/belt thing around her ribcage. It’s wide and has two clasps that hang down and connect to the bags strapped around her legs (also black). She wears black, steel-toed combat boots on her feet that her father bought her from an army-navy surplus store back in the U.S.

Quirk: “Third Eye.” When her quirk is activated, she gains the ability to see into the future or events that are currently happening for which, she is not present. She does not use it to see far into the future and it tends to get unreliable and multiple possibilities arise, but she will use it for events within a couple minutes to allow for preparedness when fighting. She also uses it to keep an eye on her teammates in the middle of a training session. No, she does not use it to cheat on exams

Other Info: Whenever she gets too excited, her American accent becomes more pronounced and she starts making grammar mistakes. Her accent is always a little present, but it becomes much worse. She will also occassionally swear in English (Onishi has started picking up on them and copying her)

Suzuki Youta (aka Umbra)

Body: He’s about average at 5′7″. He has some muscle, but he’s also on the scrawnier side because he relies on his quirk most of the time. He hasn’t built up the bulk that some hand-to-hand fighters have. His skin is pitch black, so it’s sometimes hard to see his features unless in direct light

Features: His hair and whites of his eyes are also black, but because they aren’t matte like his skin, they reflect light and are a little easier to see. His hair is short on the sides and a little longer on top, puffing up when it gets frizzy. It’s difficult to discern his appearance head-on without pointing a light directly at his face, but he has narrow eyes with monolids and a rounded nose. When looking at him from the side or back, he just appears to be a silhouette

Personality: Suzuki is a man of few words, speaking very little except to Inoue and choosing his words very carefully. He has a keen eye for detail and analysis, so he is very good at determining someone’s weakness and how to take them down or make them improve. For this reason, he is often sought out by classmates for training tips, but the attention makes him uncomfortable

Hero Costume: It’s literally just a jet black body suit. It has some structure to it, like bubbled-out sleeves and slouchy pants, but it’s meant to blend in with his skin. The only item he carries with him is a metal flashlight that fits into a pouch on his suit. He’s going for an aesthetic and damn, if he’s not gonna stick to it

Quirk: “Shadow Manipulation.” He can manipulate his shadow to do as he wills it, including things like grab people, holds falling structures, slide under doors to see inside the room, etc. If he is standing in the shadow of a larger object, such as a tree or something, he can control the larger object’s shadow, but only if the surrounding area is light. This means, he cannot control anything in total darkness (he’s basically useless) or on cloudy days. He needs a very defined shadow, which is why he carries a flashlight, so he can at least make a small shadow to work with. He’s best on very sunny days

Other Info: He doesn’t get very animated, except when talking to Inoue. Sometimes, classmates will sneak up to conversations between the two of them in a hopes of catching one of Suzuki’s rare smiles (his teeth are also black, don’t get too excited though)

Inoue Yumiko (aka Alchemia)

Body: 4′11″ and besides that, pretty much average in every other way. She has an average build without much muscle because she mostly relies on her quirk. She has a medium-light skintone that is more warm-toned

Features: She has cute, rounded features with a small rounded nose and wide, dark-brown eyes. Her face is very circular. She has dark brown hair with a slight wave to it that comes down to her mid-back. In comparison to her classmates, she is probably the most “ordinary” looking

Personality: Pretty much everyone likes Inoue. She is kind, smart, and humble, so most of the class likes being able to work with her on anything. She has a tendency to be indecisive, which is unideal for hero work, and she sometimes has a hard time speaking her mind because she doesn’t like conflict

Hero Costume: A sky blue and grey outfit with wide-leg shorts, a sleeveless top with a slouchy, layered neck and thigh-high matching socks that tuck into a pair of high-top sneakers. The outfit has silvery triangles that go around her hips, the cuff on her shorts are silver, and the soles of her sneakers are as well

Quirk: “Morph.” She can transform anything she touches into a different shape/molecular configuration so long as it has the same chemical makeup (i.e. no making diamond from iron, sorry). She has the easiest time just changing the shape of something, like turning a steel pipe into a sword, but can do more complicated transformations when given more time

Other Info: Her younger sister is a first year in the general studies department. She (the sister) didn’t want to be a hero and doesn’t really have a quirk strong enough for it, but she wanted the connections that came from going to UA

Himura Kenji (aka Obsidian Fire)

Body: Taller than average at about 5′10″ and with a lean build. He is trained for hand-to-hand combat, but is more agile than just strong, so he does not have the bulk of somelike like Mirio, for example. He has relatively pale, cool-toned skin

Features: He has short, inky-black hair that he normally slicks back with gel (he’s not ugly, so it looks good on him, but it’s still douchey looking). His eyes are firey red, narrow, and many would describe them as “boring a hole through your eyes” based on the cold intensity behind them. He is classically handsome, with high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and sharp jawline, but he’s also one of those people that once you know their personality, they aren’t as attractive

Personality: Selfish and competitive. As he has gone through training at UVA, he’s slowly developed a superiority complex and often treats those he deems unworthy significantly worse (he especially hates Quirkless people). He is rather talented and intelligent and, because he puts on a mask for the public, people tend to like him initially. Most of the hero course hates him, but students in the other courses usually like him

Hero Costume: His top is fitted and long-sleeve and has a thick black lapel, similar to a tuxedo, and there are two black bands around his wrists. For his pants, he wears solid black with grey kneepads and a pair of low grey boots (shapes similarly to Timberlands) with tungsten soles. His clothes are all made from a high-tech breathable fabric that can resist extremely high temepratures

Quirk: “Heat.” Pretty much exactly what it sounds like. Himura can produce heat from his hands in the form of a dark red glow. If he directs it in a very specific beam, he can cause it to stretch further. Currently, his maximum temperature is just over 4000 degrees F, so hot enough to melt most metals, but not things like Tungsten. In first year, it was closer to 2000 degrees

Other Info: Himura actually has a close friend in the support department. The two of them collaborate on a lot of stuff and he is probably the only person at UA that Himura will be a genuine person around without acting like a complete asshole. No one has figured out why he’s so special

Ishigaki Kaito (aka Dagger Fin)

Body: He’s about 5′9″ and he’s partially a shark, so he has a giant shark head with gills and his fins come out in the water. Because of the shark head, he’s pretty thicc. Bluish-grey skin that matches his quirk

Features: What do you want me to say? He’s a fucking shark man (think great white). He doesn’t have any hair. His eyes are jet black

Personality: Ishigaki (who insists everyone call him Kaito) is very outgoing and excitable. He doesn’t have the best social skills as he’s on the dorky side and has a hard time conveying what he means, but he’s easy to like and fun to talk to. He’s definitely not the brightest bulb, but he makes up for it with raw enthusiasm

Hero Costume: It’s basically just a wetsuit made from a more breathable, thinner material so he can swim faster

Quirk: “Shark.” I mean, it’s pretty self-explanatory. He can do basically anything a shark can in the water and some of it out of the water. Highlights include: High speed swimming! Multiple rows of teeth and powerful jaws! Sensing electric fields!

Other Info: When coming up with a hero name, he first chose “Shark Boy,” but he got yelled at for stealing the name of an American hero. As a joke, he still repeatedly tells people he’s “just a Shark Boy, looking for his Lava Girl”

Fujii Megumi, Megu for short (aka Lancette)

Body: Another smol child. She’s not super short (about 5′0″), but she’s very skinny. She has some muscle on her body and it’s quite defined because she has so little fat. She’s albino, so she has very white skin

Features: As mentioned before, she’s albino, so she has blond hair that is practically white with eyebrows and eyelashes that match. Her hair is very straight and thick and goes down to her butt to help her quirk. Her eyes are wide and constantly look like a deer in headlights because they’re so big. Her eyes are a light reddy-pink color

Personality: Megu is slow to open up to people, generally wary of strangers and quiet around those she hasn’t spent much time with. Once she has opened up to you though, she has a quick temper and hotheaded personality. She often winds up in arguments with Onishi because he likes to push at her buttons or Ishigaki because he’s a little inept at talking to girls. Sachi is her closest friend in the class and she would do absolutely anything for the people that she cares about. Her loyalty runs deep

Hero Costume: A full-body light pink fitted suit with overlapping white rings along her hips, shoulders, ankles, and wrists.

Quirk: “Dagger Hair.” She can sharpen her hair into blades that float around her and can grow and shrink at will. Because it hardens into a nearly impenetrable material, she can also use it as a defense

Other Info:

Mifune Sachiko, Sachi for short (aka Sachi)

Body: She is about 5′5″ and is on the curvier side, again with the normal muscle that someone would have from constant training. She’s half-black, half-Japanese because her dad’s American, so she has a darker skin than her classmates

Features: She has dark brown, almost black eyes that are almond shaped with long lashes. She has very curly, black hair that comes down to her shoulders and she parts in the middle

Personality: Sachi doesn’t like to be involved in drama, so she often comes across as a silent observer. She’s generally more mature than some of her classmates (*cough* Onishi *cough*) and is more laidback. She’s more open and accepting of differences between people and because she thought she was quirkless for a while, she doesn’t discriminate. Because of her relaxed attitude, she can come across as cold and uncaring

Hero Costume: Her costume leaves a lot of exposed skin so she can touch people (must be her actual skin, not clothes), so she has neon yellow biker shorts and a matching high-necked sports bra. A black cursive S runs along the right thigh of her shorts. She also wears a pair of distance-vision goggles that help her see what villains she may be attracted to from afar

Quirk: “Attraction.” She can make anybody that she thinks is attractive into a zombie of sorts, so long as she touches them. Their minds and eyes will go fuzzy and they automatically move to protect her. Many people misunderstand her quirk and think it either applies to anybody or think it only applies to men, but she’s pansexual and it’s just whoever she thinks is cute. Just for fun, here’s a list of people in the class that her quirk works on: Yamamoto, Amy, Mirio, Hadou, Inoue, Suzuki, Himura, and Reader. She thought she was quirkless until she was about 12, because she didn’t get the whole attraction thing until then

Other Info: Because she’s got bigger boobs than many of her classmates, she dealt with quite a bit of harrassment her first year at UA. Some of her classmates didn’t like that and so developed the Sachi Protection Squad (Ishigaki, Megu, Suzuki, and Inoue). She doesn’t really need the help because she can kick-ass, but they like doing it anyway. Also, she knows English because of her dad, so Amy and she can be seen whispering in English to each other sometimes

#anon #asks #shut up shelley #my ocs #powerless prevail #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #i know this is not what you were probably looking for but im just saving this for reference lol

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sodoyouknowbts · 6 years

Text

Namjoon x Reader - Pages of Petals

Summary: A change in the weather stirs a sweet encounter between a florist and a bookshop owner, where one begins to learn the language of flowers.

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Sweet romance, chance meetings

Author: Pilot

A cool droplet of rain falls onto your cheek. Then another and another. The rain picks up and you bring your hands up to cover your head. You spot a flower shop at the corner of the road.

A mustard yellow bike sits outside, resting against one of the windows to the flower shop. Its walls are painted a shade of blue. A young cherry tree stands in a brown terracotta pot next to a small table and two chairs. Pot plants sit on upside-down brown crates that you presume used to hold apples and oranges. A short step ladder is home to succulents and pink, yellow and white daisies, comfortably framed on each step. It’s charming.

Looking left and right, you jog across and take shelter under the beams of the shop. You wriggle your pale grey beret off your head and hold it out in front of you, patting the droplets of rain from it. The weatherman hadn’t predicted rain today.

You had been on your way home from the bookstore you owned, although you hadn’t walked home this way before. You had made a quick book delivery that afternoon, after you had given your delivery boy the day off. He had wanted to take his girlfriend out for her birthday. You smile to yourself at the sentiment, watching as the passers-by on the street rush to escape the unexpected rain, their arms up over their heads in an effort to momentarily shelter themselves from the downpour.

A spring shower. It had been such a long time since it had rained like that. You put your beret into your tote bag, joining the five books you had stashed inside and look down. You watch as the concrete path slowly becomes a darker shade of grey with every droplet of rain.

You turn around and bring your nose up against the window of the flower shop, cupping your hands in front of your face to better focus your view. You peer inside and spot the back of a young man who is moving around the store, a small bouquet of flowers in his hand. You scoot over, tiptoeing to get a better view, wondering if it’s still open.

You pull yourself from the window. You’d have to wait for the rain to pass. Your shoes weren’t meant for walking through puddles. You pause in front of the glass door, checking it’s open, reading the words on the small chalkboard hanging on the other side of the glass. The name of the flower shop is scribbled in white chalk, the handwriting elongated and messy. Sough Flower Shop.

You open the heavy glass door and step inside. As you close the door, the most beautiful mix of perfumes drift to your nose, enhanced by the scent of the rain on the pavement outside. Your eyes scan the store. Empty pots, glass jars of various shapes and sizes are stacked oddly on the bottom shelf, next to a large metal watering can with a long spout. A long workbench takes up one wall. On it sits rolls of brown paper, bundles of ribbons in varying thicknesses and yellow tissue paper.

Dried flowers and tree branches hang from the roof beams, wrapped with white and brown twine. Buckets of flowers, organised in sharp bunches of colour sit on top of a hand-made wooden table in the centre of the shop. They’re housed in a mix of tall and short cylindrical glass vases. Small ready-made bouquets of flowers in colourful, atomic, complementing colours, are wrapped in brown paper and sit in tin milk buckets.

There’s a little sink area tucked away at the back of the shop. A white tiled splashback is adorned with another small string of dried leaves, hanging upside down, accompanied by pegged polaroid photographs and torn scribbles of paper and receipts. Edison light globes hang from the ceiling.

On the opposite side of the shop, near the door, a small and thin bookshelf houses three shelves of old vinyl records. You note a record, slightly open, the black vinyl hanging out, balanced precariously a top a pile of books.

He watches as you inquisitively scan his flower shop. He had noticed you outside before, when you had been hovering by the window. He had watched you, as you had bounced on the balls of your feet, peering into the store.

He continues on, snapping the leaves off the long-stemmed rose in his hands. You glance at him. He’s wearing a checked shirt, a brown newsboy cap and a brown apron. A pair of scissors and roll of twine stick out from his apron pockets. He’s wearing glasses, simple wire frames that pinch the slight bridge of his nose. He is handsome, in an understated way.

The table is a complementary mix of flowers and greens and you begin to move around the table inspecting the flowers, your fingertips gently touching the fragile petals, some of which are ready to bloom and others already blossoming.

It’s still raining outside, you can hear it pattering on the roof. One particular flower catches your eye and you pull a stem of it from the bucket. It’s unique, the long, sturdy green stem covered in sweet purple clusters, four petals to each flower.

“Lilac. It means love at first sight.”

You jump back, slightly startled. You bump into the bookshelf behind you and he quickly moves over, steadying it with his hand. The vinyl clatters to the floor. You apologise and he smiles down at you.

“Sorry.” You say, picking up the vinyl, sliding it back into its thin cardboard case.

“No, it’s okay. It’s probably a sign that I should listen to these a bit more…” he says, sticking the flower he’s holding into the front of his apron as he takes the record from you. He moves over to the record player, lifting the needle and placing the vinyl down. A soft and melodic sound of piano and violins fills the little shop.

You bend forward, examining the titles, curious as to what he was just reading. He watches you and cocks a brow, smiling to himself.

“Moyes?” You say, taking the first book from the pile on the shelf, turning it over in your hands. She was one of your favourite authors.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Do you know this author?” he asks, walking over to you.

“Yes, it’s funny actually. I own a bookstore.” You say, sheepishly.

“Raconteur bookstore?” He asks.

“Yes...how did you -”

He eyes your tote bag and his face breaks into a smile. You close your eyes and sigh at yourself. Of course. It was written on your tote bag. You had made a number of them especially, screen printing your bookshop name and logo onto the canvas which you gave out to customers instead of paper bags.

You go to pull your tote bag around in front of you but in the process accidentally bump one of the tin milk buckets from the table next to you.

You pause and just look at him, a little frustrated and embarrassed that you were so clumsy.

“Sorry. Again.” You say. It’s rocking side to side between your feet. “Maybe you should pick it up. I might end up knocking something else over.”

He chuckles and does as he’s told. He inspects it, pointing at a dent you had caused at the base of the tin.

“It looks a little like my dimples, don’t you think?” He says, examining the dented tin bucket, smiling proudly, making his dimples ever more evident. You laugh at his joke, noticing his left dimple is deeper than his right. You resist the urge to bring your finger to his face to poke it.

“I’m really sorry -”

“Don't worry about it. One of my friends owns a farm. I can always get more.” He says. “Besides. I think the dent adds character.”

You ease and smile again. He pops the tin bucket back onto the table and pulls the stem of the flower from his apron, popping it into the bucket.

“I don’t think that the rain is stopping just yet.” He says, looking outside. “I have to close up now, but - do you want some cake?”

“Cake?”

“One of my other friends had made some yesterday and brought it over. It’s really nice. I have a lot left.”

“Oh, I really shouldn't intrude.”

“It’s not intruding.” He smiles, luminous. You watch as he moves outside, pulling in the set of tables and chairs to the door. You rush up to him and hold the door open as he wriggles the legs of the chairs across the floor of the flower shop. Once he’s happy with where they are, he goes to the kitchen sink and grabs a tea towel, using it to dry off the water.

He then walks around the workbench, heading up a staircase you hadn’t realised existed. You follow him to the base of the staircase, peering up. He's rummaging around, opening and closing drawers in his kitchen upstairs.

He soon patters back down, joining you again in the flower shop, a single piece of cake on a teal coloured plate in one hand, two forks stuffed into the front pocket of his apron. He sets them down on the table and ushers you to sit while he heads back up to his living quarters, the wooden steps creaking as he takes every step. He comes back down again, this time with two cups of coffee.

“I would have offered tea but I don’t have any...” he says, placing the mugs on the table next to the cake. “I drink more coffee than I probably should.” he admits, pushing the chair with his feet and sitting down.

He picks up a fork from the plate and hands it to you. You take it from him, carefully, swiftly cutting through the crumb of the cake with the edge of the fork. You pop a piece into your mouth. The cake is baked beautifully, the small mouthful of lemon sponge drizzled with tangy and sweet sugar glaze ignites your tastebuds.

“Good, huh?” he says, watching your expression change and eyes widen in wonder.

He leans back in the chair, one hand in the pocket of his trousers as he picks up the cup of coffee and takes a sip, pleased with himself. He found you to be cute, with that beret of yours and your captivating eyes.

You hadn’t ever experienced something like this before. Met someone so sweet, so endearing and welcoming. Your heart flutters, thinking about what he had said before. The meaning of the flower you had picked up. Love at first sight.

“Do you know the meanings of all the flowers?” You ask him, curious.

“Yes - flowers have a language too, you know.”

“Language?”

“The language of flowers.” He smiles, taking a bite of the cake, a little mysterious.

“So, do you work at the bookshop?” he continues, changing the subject.

“I do. Well. I own it.” You go on to explain how you had always wanted to own a bookstore, fascinated with stories and adventures and the lives that others led. He links his fingers like a bridge to hold up his chin as he leans on them, admiring you with sparkling eyes. He’s completely enamoured by you.

“Why did you choose Raconteur as the name of your shop?” he asks, thinking back to your tote bag.

“I’m an aspiring writer. I’ve been working on a novel for a while and I’ve always loved books and stories. My shop is full of raconteurs, so to speak.”

You can tell his next question is going to be about your novel so you quickly interject before he has the opportunity to ask. You had never felt comfortable talking about it to anyone, much less to think to share it. It’s a part of you, in it taking your insecurities and your thoughts and could have beens, page after page. Too much of it, you felt, revealed your psyche. You’re surprised at the fact that you had even revealed you were writing a novel to a complete stranger.

“Have you read much of Murakami?” You ask, feeling both the urge to change the conversation and to get an understanding of the books he liked. You found yourself wanting to know the books he read and the characters he liked and what resonated within him.

“No, not really.” he says. He bites his lip. He had. He had read plenty of Murakami’s novels. Wind Up Bird Chronicle had been sitting on his bedside table for years, although he had read all but the last chapter, too unwilling to complete the book and part with it. “What is it?” he feigns, “Is it a novel?”

“No, he’s an author.” you begin to explain. He listens to you intently, asking questions here and there, showing genuine interest in your thoughts and views. You find yourself smiling the whole time.

“What about you, what does Sough mean?”

The corner of his lips quirk upwards.

“It’s a verb. And a noun. Verb. to moan, rustle or sigh.”

You find yourself blushing at the thought of something deeper, passionate. With simple words, he had revealed his sensual side.

“Noun, the soothing, gentle murmur of wind or water.” He continues, his voice is poetic, deep, playful.

You felt as if he is just that, an oxymoron. Two contradicting properties, two contradicting states of being, two contradicting thoughts, embodied in a tall, young man, with proportions that made sense to no-one but him. He’s soft and sweet but passionate and sensual.

The rain patters to a stop outside. Your belly is full and you feel all kinds of warm and complete. You figure it’s about time you go.

“Thanks for the cake.”

“Any time.” he says, smiling brightly. You go to push the door open but he stops you, placing his hand on your arm.

“Wait here.” He hurries off upstairs and comes back down, two steps at a time, almost as if he’s worried that you’d leave before he’d return. He takes your hand in his and he places a small plastic container of cake into them. He says nothing, instead leaving the gesture to speak mountains.

You thank him and leave, promising you’ll return the container soon. He waves you off and shuts the door. He stands there for a moment, then he turns around, picking up the lilac you had grown fascinated with.

You’re a few steps down the street when you stop. You get the sudden and overwhelming urge to go back to him. You take a breath and pluck up your courage. You knock on the door of the flower shop which he had since locked. Confused, he opens the door. He hadn’t expected to see you again so soon. Had you already eaten the cake?

You fumble around in your tote bag and pull out a book.

“Read this and tell me what you think.” You say.

He looks down, examining the hard navy cover. You smile at him.

“Swing by my shop when you want to return it.” You instruct, stepping out of the shop backwards.

“Til next time?” You ask.

“Til next time.”

You giggle to yourself, covering your mouth with your hand. You make your way down the street. Everything is glistening from the rain. You look up at the sky. A rainbow has formed, arching itself across deep blue.

You sit behind the counter in your bookshop, your head leaning on your arm. You’re scribbling notes down into a book, brain storming ideas for a chapter of the novel you were working on.

It’s a slow day. You look out the door. A pot of flowers holds the door open. You find yourself admiring them. He had gifted them to you a few weeks ago, when you had visited his corner shop.

You had walked to the flower shop in the spring sunshine weeks before, a little nervous. You had really wanted to see him, but it is taking longer than you expected for him to finish reading the book you had given him. You had thought up an excuse, to purchase some flowers for a friend. If you were being honest to yourself, which you hadn’t been, you missed him.

He had been sitting on the table and chairs outside, reading a book. He was wearing a pale and thin yellow sweater and white trousers, his white sneakers tapping on the base of the table stand. Tunes from his record player floated from the open shop door, out onto the street, billowing and muffling sweet sounds in the cool breeze.

He stood up quickly, upon seeing you, scooting the chair backwards. He had admired you, eyes washing over your white cardigan that you had pulled on over your brown corduroy dress. He noted the big brown buttons running down the front of your dress and considered what it would be like, to slowly make his hands run down your dress, to unbutton each and every button, to unwrap you like a delicate gift. He cleared his throat. He had let his mind get away from him.

“Hi” you had said, walking nervously up to him. You had pulled the container out from your bag that had carried the lemon cake weeks before. “I’m here to buy flowers.”

He nodded. He had been drinking coffee at the table, a piece of toast discarded while he read the book you had given him. He had placed it face down, to save his pages.

“Come inside.”

You followed him into the shop, again met with a deep deliciousness fragrance. He extended an arm and let you browse the arrangements. You spotted lilies, soft sophistication embodied in five simple white, elegant petals.

“What are you looking for?” he had asked.

You paused. You hadn’t given it much thought.

“Make me something.” you had said, teasing, putting him to the test. He smirked, looking at you with determination.

“Take a seat.”

You had sat down at the high stool near his workbench, and leant your elbows onto the worn wood. You watched him as he worked, as he moved around his shop, slowly examining each and every flower and leaf and branch that he had. His chin stuck out as he concentrated, swiftly pulling out stems and stalks and small clusters of seemingly iridescent petals. Finally, he pulled together a small arrangement to the workbench.

You watched as he brought out his iron scissors, snipping off the leaves and gently arranging the stalks into a thin, turquoise vase. Yellows and purples, blue hues and dabbles of white were pulled together. The colours were reminiscent of dusk, the colour of the sky just after the sun had set over the horizon.

He had slowly snipped off a semi-transparent ribbon, tying it around the waist of the vase. He slid the arrangement over to you, curious as to whether you’d like it. You took it between your hands, lifting it up to the light. Silky smooth petals seemed almost incandescent. Your heart swelled, ultimately touched. You had never seen something as beautiful, quirky or unique as this.

He watched you, pride filling his chest. His eyes trailed from the vase in your hands to your fingers, noting how the cardigan sleeves hung from your wrists and gathered at your elbows. He watched as you tilted your head, examining every petal, every sternum. He continued to languish you with his eyes, thoughts flowing through his head, the same ones that had distracted him before. Your legs were crossed over and one of the buttons of you dress had come undone at the hem, revealing more skin than you had intended.

You were too engulfed in the flowers to notice that he had moved away from the bench and had crossed over to where you were seated, closing the distance. He had taken your hand in his, his warm touch warming your skin. And although you hadn't felt cold, your skin rippled and raised goosebumps at the touch. You had placed the jar back down on the table, the sound resounding. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you.

He towed you up from the stool and you stood, your skirt adjusting itself, falling around your legs. He gently led you back around the workbench and your body followed his, up to his bedroom, both pairs of feet creaking on the stairs. He had pulled you to him and you had fallen onto his bed together, wrapped up in his soft white sheets.

When were you going to see him again? You sigh. You’re back to watching the petals shift in the wind absent-mindedly when he walks through the door. You sit up abruptly and he looks around the store and spots you. He smiles and walks over.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” You’re both quiet, caught in each other’s eyes. His are the most beautiful colour of the earth. Seeing him again sends tingles up your spine. Memories of laying in bed with him, wrapped up in creased sheets, him kissing your forehead as he read you poetry, soft melodies creeping up the stairs from the record player in the flower shop.

“I’m here to return your book.” He says, handing it over to you. “I really enjoyed it. Thank you.”

His words fill you with glee, but then he continues “I can’t stay long today. I’m sorry. I have a big order that’s come through.”

You nod, accepting the book from him. He’s a little nervous today, bouncy even. For a moment you wonder if you shouldn’t have followed him up the stairs to his bedroom, the last time you had seen him. Before you can consider it any further he asks you a question.

“Do you have another book recommendation for me?”

You nod, placing the returned book down onto the counter. You hop off the stool and scurry off to the back of your shop. He follows you, carefully, steadily, his hands trailing the rows of books on the shelves. He loved reading, too. Absolutely adored it.

He was enamoured with the way you could be transported to places and times and people without so much as leaving your bed, how you could read about history and psychology and determine the traits of the human condition. He read often.

You scan your collection and spot it. It’s on a high shelf. Your employee must have put it up there. You turn to go and get the step ladder.

“Is it here?” he asks, pointing to the row of books.

“Yeah, it’s called Almost Transparent Blue.” You respond, realising he’s standing closely to you. You catch the scent of him, he smells like iced coffee and the earth after rain.

He leans across you, careful not to touch you, but it feels almost as if he has, his presence is too strong. He gingerly pulls the book out from the shelf with his forefinger and it slides out. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you stand there, bodies against each other, tucked up among the rows of musty pages and stories.

He clears his throat and places the book against his chest, stepping aside to let you pass. He resists the urge to push you up against the shelf, to take you in the middle of the foreign memoirs and gardening section. He knew if he started he would not be able to stop. He really had to go, but you had that affect on him. He fights his wants and his responsibilities and decides against his urges.

Your bodies brush again and you feel blush creeping along your cheeks, a strange flutter settling in the pit of your belly. You head back to the counter, trying hard not to let on that he’s stirred something within you from something as simple as that.

He goes to leave.

“Wait.”

He halts at the door, looking over his shoulder to you.

You open up your drawer and pull out your manuscript. You lean over the counter and extend it to him, hopeful that he takes it quickly and prevents you from thinking it’s a mistake to do so.

“It’s my draft novel. My manuscript. It’s done. For the most part.” You pray he takes it from you to stop your hand from shaking, nervousness and self-doubt filling you. He steps forward and accepts it from you, flipping through the pages, a questions in his eyes.

He doesn’t say a word, instead smiling softly.

“I’ll let you know what I think.” He says, waving farewell. He smiles, stepping out the door of your bookshop. His smile gets bigger as he spots the jasmine he had gifted you a few weeks ago, acting as a door stopper for the door to your book shop. He breathes out a sigh, his pent up yearning escaping languidly into the air.

You stand up, poking your head out of the door as you watch him walk down the street and turn the corner. You slowly head back to the book you had left on the counter and pick it up, sighing. You had wanted him to stay. You flip through it and a small, dried flower falls out and floats to the floor. You crouch down and pick it up carefully, between your fingers, holding it up to the light. You recognise it instantly. It’s peach blossom.

You had begun to build a small collection of dried and pressed flowers as a result of the petals he left for you, between the pages of borrowed books. Some of them still held their soft, delicate scent.

Your watch as your friend pokes them with her finger. You had done as he had, strung them up and pegged them on a piece of string in your store, so you could admire them as you worked.

“Tell me again what you two do?”

You look up from the cashier at your friend.

"I lend him books and we swap. Each time he returns my book there is a single flower inside. Maybe he uses it as a book mark?"

"What sort of books do you lend each other?" she asks, taking a sip of her juice.

"Poetry, science, philosophy, novels..."

"Does he have feelings for you?"

You pause and contemplate it. You had no idea. “I think so...” you say, a little unsure. “Maybe not... I don’t know.”

“Do you have feelings for him?”

You flush. She smiles knowingly.

“What’s his name?” she asks.

Your face gets redder. You had never asked. Like a character in a story, you had let yourself get wrapped up in the romance, the chance meetings and the subtle courting.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know his name?” she exclaims, slapping her hand down on the counter, causing some of your customers to turn their attention to you.

“Shh!”

She leans in, whispering. “You’re having this poetic back and forth with a handsome florist but you don’t even know his name?”

“I know. I know.”

She laughs at you.

“The funny thing is, I gave him my draft manuscripts to read the other day.”

“What?”

“I know.”

“You don’t even let me read those!” Your friend says, shocked.

You sigh, sinking to the wall behind you. For some reason you trusted him the most with it. You weren't quite sure what you had been thinking at the time. It was in a drawer, you had been working on it when he had entered the store and you just had the urge to share it with him. He had accepted it graciously, curiosity and fascination flickering across his face.

You hadn’t seen him for a while, not since you had given him your manuscript to read. A twinge of regret niggles at you. Maybe you shouldn’t have given it to him. The twinge grows, morphing into doubt, anxiety and irritation in your chest.

After your friend leaves, you decide to close the store early, plucking up your courage to pay a visit to his flower shop. When you get there, your heart sinks. It’s closed. His mustard bike isn’t there and the lights aren’t on. You consider knocking but decide against it, instead heading back home.

Weeks past and you had given up hope on seeing him again or getting your book and manuscript back. You close the store and begin to pack up. You stare at the flowers hanging on your wall. You begin to slowly unclip the dried flowers from their pegs, placing them on the counter.

You hear a knock on the door. Curious, you go to answer it.

It’s him.

He smiles at you softly from the other side of the door. You unlock it and open the door. He steps inside and spots your string of flowers and the ones that you had taken down. He cocks a brow, just a fraction, and turns to you.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“I’m returning your book.” He says, a matter of fact. He’s only standing there, but he’s taken your breath away. Your heart beats faster. It had been so long since you had seen his face, his unique and contradicting features of soft and strong. His hair, his glasses.

“I went to your shop, you weren’t there.” you say slowly.

“My friend, the one who owns the farm, he needed some help urgently. It’s in the middle of no where. Sorry. I had no time to let you know.” he looks at the flowers on the table that he had gifted you. “I realised we didn't even swap numbers.”

He looks at the dried petals. “Are you throwing these away?”

You don’t meet his eyes.

He bites his lip, worry seeping into his skin. He had been telling you the whole time how he had felt, but you had no clue.

“Here.” he hands you your manuscript. “I read it. It’s brilliant.”

He had spent some time on the farm with his friend, reading through the pages. Every word gripped him, every sentence stirred his emotions. He had sighed, leaning back into the bench, laughing out loud, throwing his head back, slight tears prickling in his eyes. Your story had made him feel things. His friend had come out to the patio where he was, cool lemonade in hand.

“What is it?” his friend had asked. “You finally finished it?”

“I finished it.” He said.

“And?”

“I’m in love.” he had responded.

You accept it from him, scrunching it slightly in your hands, your own self instigated shame running over your body. You’re not sure if you want to believe him. A red tulip flutters from the pages.

“Before you throw them away... let me tell you what they mean. Then you can decide whether or not you want to throw them out.” he says.

You breath catches in your throat as he steps closer to you, reducing the space between your bodies.

“Lilac.” His eyes glimmer in the afternoon light. “You know what this one means.”

“Love at first sight.” You say, breathless. A faint smile tugs at his lips, happy that you had remembered.

“Circaea, fascination. Alstroemeria, devotion, loyalty.”

He looks down at the pot of jasmine you had brought inside, sitting by the door. All of these flowers. All of these feelings. They had represented how he had felt about you the more he got to know you and spent time with you. The feelings that had festered and swelled in his heart and mind when you weren’t there, when it was only him thinking of you.

“Jasmine. I am happy.” His voice soft and low. “Purple pansy. You occupy my thoughts. Peach blossom. I am your captive.” His gaze is strong, certain of his feelings for you in his confession.

You blink, completely and utterly caught up in his words.

He bends down and picks up the tulip from the floor by your feet. He straightens up and holds it out to you.

“Red tulip. A declaration of love.”

Your heart hammers hard in your chest as the words permeate through you. He reaches down, taking your hand in his. Your skin is buzzing, warm. He tucks your hair behind your ear, it’s a simple and intimate action and you inhale sharply, your lips parting slightly.

He can’t hold back now. His gaze moves to your lips and he leans into you, gracing you with a soft, slow kiss. Your eyes flutter closed, your eyelashes tickling your skin as they do. You kiss him back, helplessly needing to satiate a desire that’s built up inside you. You sigh into his tender kiss and it transitions into something more, it’s deeper, passionate, yearning. Your head feels dizzy and your hands find their way to his chest, crinkling the papers you’re still holding onto.

It’s as if nothing but whole-hearted reciprocation of the same, burning, loving feeling mattered.

He pulls back, finally, a little out of breath, his eyes scintillating.

“My name is Kim Namjoon. I think I love you.”

#kim namjoon #BTS fiction #BTS fanfiction #BTS x reader #namjoon x reader

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