#but it's like. plucking a piece from a succulent plant.
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Also my ex step family that I lived with from ages 9-17 or so but haven't really spoken to since reached out. They brought food to my dad's place today (we were going through & packing up his closet) and we all hung out for an hour and a half and chatted. And it was surprisingly nice, but also made me ache so very deeply. Bc for my adolescence, this was a family of 6. Then it got cut down to 3 from the divorce. And then I got a taste of how life was, except it was only 5, and also everything is different. I'm such a different person than I was at 17 years old. These people were my family, but I've grown beyond them. A part of me feels like a vulnerable little kid again with them. More of me feels like an assistant manager between jobs with too many exes and an IT degree that's been In Progress for almost 9 years now.
And above it all, my dad is fucking dead. It's an ache that colors everything else in my life right now.
#speculation nation#negative/#sorry for the series of negative posts again im just gettin In it i guess#i think they feel like. idk. his death was a wakeup call or something#made them realize how much time has passed.#maybe it's sympathy. knowing how much it must hurt us to have lost our dad so young.#maybe they feel like since hes not around anymore we can all be a family like we used to be.#but it's like. plucking a piece from a succulent plant.#it knows where it once belonged. it can see it still shares the same origins. the same Family.#but it's grown. in time it's grown roots. stems. segments. it's a plant in its own right.#so it sees its original plant and it knows it once belonged. but it doesnt Fit anymore.#that's how this all feels. it's hard to trust it. hard to feel like it'll last.#but a part of me longs for it. but i also just long for the people we used to be.#back when i was happy. back when i didnt feel like i was living with a perpetual ache.#things werent perfect. but i was happy. it might have been the last time i was truly happy.
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i’ll hold you so you don’t fall again
in which y/n is just really creative and harry writes erotica under a pseudonym.
pairing: interiordesing!y/n and eroticawriter!harry
word count: 21k+
note: i’m so freaking sorry this took so long. thank you for being patient with me, and i hope its what you expected :) also the formatting is all wonky i have no idea why.
Y/n wasn’t one to brag.
She knew what it felt like to sit and nod while someone else talked about their accomplishment. The itchy pull of heart strings; the yearning of wanting success, too.
But, she also knew how awkward it was to go back and forth declining compliments.
Which is why she never bragged about her newfound success. Or did the whole ‘oh you’re too sweet’ ordeal. She said thank you, and moved on.
Because it definitely was one.
A sudden change of no recognition to suddenly everyone wants her.
She had her friend, Lucy, to thank. Lucy had just opened up a coffee shop. One of those cute artsy ones on a street in West Hollywood somewhere, with money she had saved up over the years. It just so happened that her best friend was a talented painter, designer, and dabbled in all kinds of crafts. Y/n was known for always maintaining a tiny business of whatever it was she could come up with, and when her friend asked for help to decorate and set up shop, she jumped at the opportunity to go big.
The store was a loft-y type space. A blank, grey walls and metal; an industrial room. The first time Y/n looked at it, her mind flooded with ideas. Mirrors, art, frames, flowers, and anything that could be put up. Different themes and approaches to light up the room. But, before doing anything, she had a nice long talk with Lucy, about what she wanted to see. Had her set up a pinterest board with items for the shop. Color schemes, movies, plants, etc. From that, y/n took hold of the project, asking for Lucy’s opinion here and there, but taking most choices to her own judgement.
The end result… well, it was the reason why Lucy was full all the damn time. Y/n had turned the lofty space into an Instagram hippie galore. Lucy’s mood board consisted of a weird mix of Madonna, pearls, and David Bowie. So, all over there were some of the most famous pop-culture posters. Streams of pearls. Mason jars lined with pearls. Velvet curtains with golden tassels; the stringy ones that tickled when you rub them all over your palm. There were light bulbs and fairy lights hanging in the wooden beams from the ceiling, that were turned on everyday 30 minutes after sunset, like the headlights on cars. Additional records were set to look through and buy in a corner, and opposite that a jukebox with records that both y/n, Lucy, and Lucy’s boyfriend, Mike, had picked. The labels were written in y/n’s writing, a mix between curly-cue and messy doctors cursive; clean enough to read, messy enough to enjoy.
No plants. Or succulents, at least, but y/n had bought 5 dozens of roses from downtown. She’d hung them up to dry, left some where they were, and others she put in empty glass cola bottles that were in the center of each of the 10 booths. On the single, middle tables, y/n had placed leather table cloths. No flowers.
And the menus? Oh gosh, the menus. They were y/n’s pride and joy.
She’d closed herself in an entire day, to create the finishing look. With a copy of drinks (labeled like ‘Madonna’ and then the actual coffee order that star would’ve wanted) and the small variety of sandwiches (& other finger foods) y/n drew portraits on blackboards, used different fonts, painting mediums, and at a certain point even incorporated glitter, to create these magnificent hand drawn chalk menus.
Then the outside of the shop. This is what got her word out.
A journalist of some sort had happened to stumble upon Coffee for Rockstars the day that y/n was painting the windows.
You know, like with a brush and paint can.
She’d blocked off her workspace with chairs and caution tape, jammed her newly bought airpods in, and pressed play to her music.
The mural- Lucy labeled it, but to y/n it really wasn’t all that much, consisted of a the planet Saturn, with David Bowie, Elton John, Prince, Stevie Nicks, Freddie Mercury, and The Beatles prancing along the rings (all picked by Lucy). The window was a 5-or-so feet taller than her, so she had to use one of the chairs to reach the top half of the planet.
While she painted Elton’s fluffy feather suit on, the journalist had approached her, his waist pushing through the tape y/n had put up.
“Excuse me?” he called out to her, hands positioned on one of those Canon Rebel whatever they were called everyone seemed to be carrying around these days.
And Wild Night by Van Morrison may have been playing a little too loud because y/n didn’t hear him the first time, and he had to call out again, leaning forward slightly to catch her attention.
“Excuse me?” The guy says a little louder. This time, she sees him, and turns while removing her headphones, getting paint on her forehead and hair.
“Oh!” she said, startled. “How can I help you?” Her cheeks flame a bit when he gives her a boyish smile, lips twirling up to the corner of his eyes. He’s cute, she thinks, floppy hair that’s sunbleached at the tips from the sun, and freckles in the bridge of his roman nose.
“Yes, actually. My names’ James. I was wondering if I could take your picture for an article I’m doing. I work with the LA times, in the local business section, and there's a piece on West Hollywood’s hottest places. This one’s trending.” He lifts his camera in a ‘here it is!’ gesture.
“Me?” she asked in disbelief. Her eyebrows raised high above their usually places, and her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Shouldn’t you be photographing inside? You know, like the people?”
“You worked on this place didn’t you? That’s what Lucy told me. You’re a big part of what makes this place hot ‘n trendy. Plus, this live painting action will look wonderful…” he trailed off, his glance drifting to the window and to the picture she was painting. “It’s really good. Deserves some recognition.”
“Uhm…” Y/n looks around. There’s people on the opposite street staring at her, some that linger as they walk by. She catches a window roll down as the car goes by.
She’s always been small. In size, in popularity. She’s never been in demand. If she said yes, there's a possibility that that would change. A small part of her wanted that… she could finally start her business, like she’s always wanted to...
“Okay, how do you want me?”
He laughed, and told her to just continue with what she was doing. So, she did. She added more paint to her glass palette, and unprofessionally used her bare thigh to rid the brush of the excess paint. Momentarily, the brush found its way to the bite of her teeth, so the girl could put her earphones back in and get back into the right headspace to work.
The journalist, chuckled as he watched her, amused by her tactics, how she leaned back to look at the bigger picture. He was done in a matter of minutes, taking pictures of everything she’d set up in her closed off area. The tarp she’s laid on the floor. The cans of paint; red, blue, yellow, green, white, and black. An uneaten sandwich and a glass bottle filled with pink liquid (lemonade and a bit of vodka, y/n’s choice of drink when she was painting, claiming it got her ‘creative juices flowing’).
He has to get her attention again the same way, because she’d managed to lose herself in what she was doing.
“You’re all done?” she asked him, once again plucking the earphone out with a yank.
“Yep, got more than enough.” James said, placing a black cap on the lens of his camera. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
Y/n smirked a bit, thinking back to her school days when smartass teachers would respond with ‘i don’t know, can you?’ and she nearly did as well.
She didn’t though. She just said, “Go right ahead.”
“Well, first thing’s first,” he reached into his front pocket, and pulled out his phone. Who keeps their phone in their front pocket, she thought. “Name, age, and what you did for Rockstar’s cafe?”
“My name is y/n, I’m 21, and I was interior and, as you can see, exterior, designer as well for Rockstar Cafe.” She’s shifting awkwardly side to side, tugging at the ends of her large, orange Garfield shirt nervously. Flashes of her jean cut-offs peeked where her shirt lifted.
“Tell me a little bit about the process of creating the entire ‘astro-70’s’ vibe you got going on here are the shop.” James doesn’t look up at her, because he’s furiously typing away at his phone, noting down what y/n says.
“Well, that was really Lucy’s doing. She provided me with pictures of things she wanted, kinda like… uhm.. that aura? I guess you could say that she wanted the place to have. I worked side by side with her, to make this happen. This was her vision, I just helped it....” she struggled for a moment, to put her thoughts into words, “come to life.”
He looked up at her then, a small smile on his lips. “What’s your favorite thing about it so far?”
“I’d say, the way the menu is set up. An artist’s name, and the drink they’d get. Lucy did her reasearch, and found out like, I guess you could say, their ‘regulars’. So, what’s on the menus are what the artist actually would like.” Subconsciously, she points to the inside of the shop, referring to the menus.
“Last question, have you ever done anything like this before?”
Y/n stammered for a moment, then said, “No. I haven't.” She taps the tips of her shoes together, all paint splattered and scuffed. “Nothing at this level of big. I’ve always kinda, worked on crafts. In highschool I had a small business, where’d I’d sell personalized things. I think that’s why Lucy trusted me so much. Because I have a history of reaching to the stars when it comes to paper and pencil.”
“That was great. Thank you so much, y/n. It was interesting to hear about you, and the cafe.” James places his phone back in his front pocket, and hooks his thumbs onto the straps of his camera as if they were suspenders. “Is there a website or business card you’d like me to reference in the article, after your name and all that?”
“I don’t have anything like that actually. Just that I worked with Lucy, I guess you could say.” She puckers her lips at the end, shaking her head slightly.
“Okay, well then. I’ll leave you to it. It’s coming along amazing.” James nods politely. “Have a great rest of your day, y/n.” Then walks away.
“Bye, James.” She twiddles her fingers at him her way of saying goodbye. It doesn’t take her long to get sucked back into her work. In fact, as soon as she puts the earphones back in, she’s gone off the face of the earth, and doesn't notice when a green-eyed stranger stops to stare at her, right by the tree that she’d wrapped the caution tape around. The man pinched his lip as he watched, eyebrows furrowed with the same concentration y/n had for her work.
Except that he was watching her. The way her wrist flicked, how she tilted her face to look at what she was doing. How she stood like a flamingo, with her ankle pressed against her calf. The way she blew the wisps of hair off her mouth.
He watched her intently, wondering who she was and how did she get there and what her name was.
And then,
Brushing those thoughts out of his mind, he walked into the shop and didn’t look back.
.
.
“Y/N!!” Lucy yelled from the counter.
Y/n, covered head to toe in sparkly purple fabric, rushed out with a bit of hummus on toast in her mouth still.
It was Halloween, and Lucy had demanded they both dress up as part of the uniform at Rockstar that day. Y/n, had decided she would go as Selena Quintanilla, and had crafted herself a halter top-style romper with purple cloth she had bought at the fashion district earlier that week. She’s woken up early too, and gone to her mom’s house so she could do her hair, and make up (given she’d lived at the same time Selena had).
Lucy, ever the creative one, teased her blonde hair, spray painted it with a cheap can of green hair dye from the dollar store, and bought a pinstripe tux. TA-da! Beetlejuice, beetlejuice, beetlejuice.
“Y/n!” Lucy was hissing now, impatient and demanding. It was a busy day at Rockstar. Social media influencers had come out for photo-ops and the like. Also, Lucy had a deal going of buy one get another iced coffee half off, and a free cassette with the $20+ purchase.
“I’m coming, Luce! I’m coming, Jesus Christ,” y/n finished off chewing, tugged on the halter top to make sure nothing would pop out of place and washed her hands in the sink to help Lucy at the register.
After she finished, she took place along side the three baristas, Kelsey, Tilly, and Kim. Kelsey was a broke college student, Tilly an Asian girl who doubled as a pole dancer on certain nights (she wore a mask to make sure her identity stayed secret), and Kim was a 30- year old who lives in his parents house. Bit of a creep if you asked y/n.
“Y/n, you wanna take order 48 or 50?” Asked Tilly while rinsing a measuring cup.
“I’ll take 50 and start on 52.” Y/n responded, tying the apron straps behind her neck. She didn’t tell Tilly that she picked order 50 because she hated making espressos, and order 48 consisted of three espressos. Order 50 was only four iced coffees.
After she finished decorating Lucy’s coffee shop a month ago, Lucy didn’t offere y/n a job, but she was always around to help, and Lucy paid her for it. After class, y/n would stop by the shop, and that would lead to her working as a barista. Which she didn’t mind, the money helped and it gave her something to go. Otherwise, she’d be at home with her nose stuck in a regency novel and a buzzing feeling of want in her crotch at the cue of poetically beautiful yet smutty words.
“Order number 50!” She called out. She set the plastic cup on the pick-up counter and plucked a stray from the jars to place alongside the drink. Seconds later, the drink was picked up by a tall and tanned man with green eyes; nails painted black; rings adorning each finger; soft, pink lips and a scruffy jaw. Curly strands of brown hair peeked out of a green beanie.
He smiled at y/n. The way you smile at the cashier in the market. Polite. A bit disconnected in the eyes. He said, “Good morning, Selena. May I have a cup holder please?”
In a British accent made heavier by the morning gruffness in his voice. Scratchy, deep, manly. And incredibly sexy.
Of course, y/n took a moment to take in and drink the image presented before her, but after she felt her cheeks heat up like the fire underneath a witches feet, she cleared her throat and responded with, “You recognized who I was! Kudos to you, sir!” with a grin on her red lips. The man chuckled, and took the carton cup holder y/n gave him.
“Have a great rest of your day,” was the last thing he said before he walked away. Y/n stared after him, watching the way his thighs filled in the fitting yellow pants he where, and how his biceps looked deliciously muscular; bulging in a white tee.
“Y/N!”
“Sorry, Lucy!” Y/n skipped back to her post in front of the screen,and began reading off orders for Tilly, and Kim to make, and picked one for herself. Two iced coffees, one heated croissant. She was in the middle of measuring the milk when Lucy called her name again.
“Lucy, I’m doing it, okay?” Y/n responded, frazzled.
Lucy sucked on her teeth. “Y/n, come over here.” When y/n looked up, she saw that not only was Lucy looking at her, but a tall skinny blond with a sharp cut bob and a long white silk dress.
Confused, y/n dumped the milk into the mixing cup and handed the order over to Kelsy for her to finish. “Yes?”
“This is Karime, and she wants you to help her decorate her store.” Lucy held a palm out towards the woman. “Karime, this is y/n.”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Karime said, and y/n had to restrain from cringing at her nasally, high-pitched voice. “I love what you’ve done with this place! My store could use some re-camping, and when I saw the article I just had to come and see if I could hire you.” Karime makes gestures with her manicured hands, and titles her head in ways that makes her hair shake like sheets in the wind.
“Oh! Um…”
“Why don’t you go ahead and talk with Karime, we’re all covered back here.” said Lucy, an extra-pleased tone in her voice; the voice she used with customers to keep them happy, y/n had recognized. Oh so now you don’t want me to work? y/n thought to herself, but gave the same smile the green-eyed stranger had given her, and walked out through the waist high swinging door to meet with Karime.
“So, I wanted to know if it was possible to hire you on a month to month basis. Ou could come in the first week of every month, decorate, redecorate, while I suggest and give you a picture of what I want, like you did for Lucy.” Karime had a bamboo handle purse, and they clacked together every time she moved her hands in ‘here’ or ‘there’ gestures.
They’re both standing at the start of the record shelves, and Y/n is awkwardly shifting her weight from foot to foot and fiddling with her hands. She’s sweating, too. This was huge. Big. Is this what networking was? Getting the word out? Expanding? If she said yes, it’s possible that it’d create a cycle. Someone else would come in, asking for help, to hire, to contract. It was a rush. She was giddy, excited. But most of all, nervous. One, because she’s a bit clumsy in the social aspect, and Two, because she had a standard to meet.
Despite all this, she said, “Of course, when do I start?”
Then, Karime had given y/n the address of her shop (a weird mix of aromatherapy, kale smoothies with books), and they decided on a day to meet up (the second day of every month starting November, two days from that day).
Karime left after that. She hadn’t bought anything. Lucy congratulated y/n, squealed over it even, and Lucy never squeals. Kim looked over at them when he heard Lucy, and tried to ask what all the fuss was about. Lucy demanded he go back to work, and y/n ignored him.
When closing time came, the girls did the bare minimum, and rushed out to pregame at Mike’s apartment. Like crazy teenagers, Lucy and y/n shared three bottles of a Stella Rosa bottle that had been on sale at the grocery store at the corner of Mike’s apartment complex. Inside, Mike was 2 beers in, and claimed he wouldn’t drink anymore since he was the DD.
“You guys go on and drink yourselves black.” he said, sitting on the couch with a water in his hand and Lucy in his lap. Mike, a slender punk rock kid who proved his mom wrong in the fact that his like for the color black is ‘not a phase’ is the sweetest guy y/n had ever met. He wasn’t afraid to show his love for Lucy, always doting on her, and if she asked, would rip out his heart and give it to her.
Y/n was jealous. She yearned for a relationship like theirs, and no matter how long she waited, how hard she tried, Prince Charming never showed. Instead, she was stuck with watching Mike and Lucy rub into her face what she wanted so badly.
Affection. Love. Companionship.
Cheers to that, y/n thought. Her bottle of Mango and whatever the heck the flavor was called, was nearly done and she could still walk in a straight line. The wine was juice in her hands. Child’s play. Water. It had no effect on her. Not until she was three bottles in. It took an entire bottle of Smirnoff vodka shots to get her going once. Only then could she completely let go.
“A lonely soul drowns in Stella Rosa, Mike.” Lucy, her hair sticking up like Einstein from the re-teasing she’d done in the bathroom. “There it stands, taking the shape of Selena. Poor, poor, Selena.” Lucy giggled. A teasing jab that made y/n pout, and y/n heart to clench because she knew Lucy was right. A lonely soul she was.
“That’s not very nice of you, Lucy.” Y/n pointed at her friend, bottle in her hand. “First you yell at me at work, now you make fun of my love life?” Shes joking, too, but there's a bit of truth to her words. Meaning, Intention.
“Drink up, lonely soul, and prepare for the battle that lies ahead: the making intercourse with an attendee of the club.”
“Blah,blah, and screw you.” grumbled y/n, finally, finishing the bottle with a final drink.
.
.
Not that y/n had anything against it, but fuck the club. She hated it. She only ever went because Lucy or Mike or whoever else begged her to go with them and promised something in return. (Lucy promised she wouldn’t ask her for help the following day). She hated the lights, how load it was, and how much she was being touched. Sweaty men and women alike, rubbing up on her in places where she didn’t want to be, it was too hot, and her toes always got stepped on.
“The usual for you, y/n?” Mike was yelling. His mouth was at her ear, but even then, only some of what he was saying made it into her ears. She simply nodded, and lifted up to fingers. Two gin and tonics. One part water, three parts gin.
Lucy and y/n had managed to snatch a tiny booth when they walked in, and this was the place y/n was planning to spend most of her night. Not out on the blue-lit dance floor, not standing at the bar. Sitting at the dark booth, glumly sipping at her two gin-n-tonics.
“You are not gonna sit here sippin’ glumly at your drinks, got that?” Luccy pulled at the lapels of her suit, popping her collar so the tips touched her jaw.
“Lucy, please.” Y/n’s bangs were deflated and her lipstick was smudged, at her friends comment, she sunk into her seat and pulled her head around.
“Let’s go.”
Lucy tugged her onto the dancefloor just as some song by Cardi B or Nicki Minaj (y/n couldn't tell anymore) blared through the speakers, and the bass beat thrummed in her chest. They stayed for a few minutes, and in those few minutes, y/n’s toes grew numb with how much they’d been stepped on, and her hair was beginning to stick at the back of her neck. Lucy’s black and white makeup was gleaming with her sweat, and her hair dropped with condensation.
It looked a bit funny really. Selene and Beetlejuice together on the dance floor. An odd pairing, but a parenting nonetheless. Lucy led her back to where Mike was when she got tired of dancing, and like an obedient puppy, y/n trailed behind her. When Lucy ordered y/n to chug her drink, she did it.
She couldn’t say not. Not to Lucy. Not to Karime. Not to James.
She couldn’t say no.
And because she couldn’t say no, y/n woke up the next morning and couldn't remember a thing. She had a Katy Perry Last Friday Night moment. Sadly, there was no really hot guy next to her on her bed, and thankfully, she hasn’t wearing headgear.
What woke her, was the pain behind her eyelids that started when the light hit her. With a groan, she hid in the crease of her elbow while she scraped her thoughts together. Y/n was still in her Selena get up. She itched, smelled, and had a headache that hurt like...well, it hurts so much that she didn’t even know what to compare it to. She felt on her nightstand, and there it was. Bless his heart.
Mike had left her a glass of something cold, and two pills. She didn’t know for sure because she didn’t have the energy to peek and see, but the class was probably pedialyte. The hangover cure. The pills were Tylenol. They had to be, because he knew ibuprofen doesn’t do shit for her.
“Fuck, fuck,fuck,” y/n mumbled. Her tongue felt like sandpaper against the dry roof of her mouth, and when she swallowed, there was a dangerous taste of gin to her spit. Pressing her fingertips to her aching temples, she curses Lucy for making her go out last night, and Mike for letting y/n chug alcohol.
Unfortunately, she makes the stupid mistake of rising quickly from her potition on the bed to ‘get it over with’ and not even a full second goes by when she feels her stomach contents worming up her throat. She had to clamp her lips together and rush to the bathroom with her blanket wrapped around her ankles so she doesn’t barf all over her floor.
She doesn’t make it in time, and she spilled her gut on the toilet seat, before she’s made it so that her head is positioned right over the toilet bowl. She heaves and heaves until her chest hurts from the muscle contractions and her throat burns from the amount of acidity her bile holds. Tears drop from the corner of her eyes to where her thumbs grasp the seat because it fucking hurts and she’s gotten throw up in her hair.
The pain in her chest seems to have gone deeper, and wrapped its sharp talons into her heart. Her tears become purposeful; there’s a reason behind them not. She wishes there was someone there to hold her hair. To rub her back and tell her it was all going to be okay. To bring her the glass of pedialyte of her bedside table and coax her to drink it because she’d forgotten it.
Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, y/n gets up and flushes the toilet, wiping down the toilet seat with paper from the roll. The blanket, still curled around her ankles, she picks up and hoists it over her shoulders. She gurgles water from the sink before heading out, avoiding making eye-contact with the horrendous image in her mirror.
Pedialyte goes down like the gin did last night, and she throws in the pills when she drinks, simultaneously pulling the strings so her blings flip downwards and cut off the light coming in from the outside. Quickly, she strips from the itchy Selena ensemble, and slips on a red t-shirt with the Kool-Aid man’s face on it over her head. Y/n has learned that its worse to go to bed and not eat, so she doesn't get back into bed, even though she really wants to and instead throws the blanket on top of her scattered pillows, and turns to make breakfast in her impossibly tiny kitchen.
She lives in a little lofty space in the downtown area. The cheapest of all her options, and the best kept compared to the rest. The windows were blackened around the edges, and her air conditioner didn’t work, but hey, at least she had a roof over her head that she didn’t have to share with her parents. And she liked the window wall, too, and how the windows propped open on hinges. The way her brick walls looked during golden hour. It was very pretty. Relaxing.
Slowly but surely, she’s built herself a little home that she feels comfortable in. In her tiny little space, her favorite thing was her radio. An absolute steal at the thrift store: a really old radio with big knobs and the red line that moved left and right when you tried to pick a station. She went to it now, and turned it on at a soft volume. The song that always feels like it's about a one winged dove by Fleetwood Mac came on, and she hums it softly while she turns on the stove. It click, click, clicks on when the gas catches flames, and she pours oil into a pan to crack an egg over it. The white edges sizzle, and bits of oil jump up and splash onto her skin. It happens so much it doesnt hurt her; she doesn't even flinch. When the egg begins to turn golden, she turns down the knob, and goes back to her fridge in search of an avocado. Call her a trend follower, but she’d be damned if egg and avocado didn’t hit the spot. Plus, she makes an ace toast.
Surprisingly, the smell of egg (her dad likes to say eggs smell like ass) doesn’t upset her stomach, no. Actually, her stomach grumbled when she smelled it, and the ache that had begun to spread across the lower region of her abdomen made her hurry to cut open the avocado, and pop in a slice of sourdough bread into the toaster. She fore-went mayo that time, instead just wanted to get something into her burning stomach because she was so hungry. Her eyes blearily while she does all this.
By the time she’d spread her avocado and egg of the long slices of bread, the radio was playing Girls Just Wanna Have Fun By Cindy Lauper and y/n is doing a little happy dance on her way to her wicker table by the window, next to the bookshelf resting against her wall. Before she sat down, she reached for a novel on the shelf, and set it alongside her plate on the table.
Biting into her toast, she opened the book.
Dani’s cheeks blushed a wine-pink color. She looked away.
“You confuse me so,” she mumbled just loud enough for him to hear.
“How?” He grazed her jaw with gentle fingers, enough to turn her so she’s looking at him.
“You say that what we have, this spectacle we put on, is simple only to convince the people you will be a good king, but them you look at me… like that.”
“Like what? Like I want to kiss you?” he whispered, smiling faintly. “Because I do.”
She seemed not to know what to say, and resolutely, she turned so she sat facing forward between his spread thighs, back to him.
He realized then, that her shyness had caught up with her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and set his chin on her shoulder.
“I’m no expert in etiquette, Your Highness, but I’m sure this is high;y improper.” She sait, stiffly and primly while he cuddled her.
“Proper? They call me Rafe the Rake. I’d say, my little peach, that we passed proper a long time ago.”
“Don’t call me that,” she mumbled.
“What do you wish I call you then?”
“Dani.”
He chuckled at her response. “It’s a hellions name. It suits you well, all right. You can call me Rafe, if you like.”
“I do not wish to call you Rafe.”
“No?”
“It’s a scoundrel’s name. I wish to call you Rafael. Like the angel.”
“An optimist, aren’t you?” Rafael began combing his fingers through her hair, sifting through the silking
strands then massaging down her neck and shoulders.
She sank back into his chest with a sigh. “That feels wonderful.”
“I should probably warn you,” he leans forward so that his lips are pressed against the shell of her ear. “I’m rather gifted with my hands.” She tensed again when he leaned down and nibbled on the skin of her neck, but Rafael left her melt in his arms when he continued his sensual massage on her shoulders. “Are you uneasy with this?” He paused to take her hands into his own, feeling as if he were young again with the first girl he had taken a liking towards.
“No,” she said quietly.
“Good.” With fingers still threaded through hers, he drew her hands back, and pinned her arms ever so gently behind her for a moment, gazing down her neckline at her creamy chest. Her breasts her small, but awfully perky and firm. He wondered if he could fit the entirety of one in his mouth. He bet that she’d like it if he did.
Y/n paused for a moment, and clenched her thighs together. A buzzing feeling was starting to form on her clit, and she felt the space where her thighs touch grow warm. The Kool-aid man’s eye popped with hoe erect her nipples were. She was aroused. And she knew that the feeling would only grow more intense the longer she read, which she planned on doing. So, she picked up her plate, placed it in the sink, and took her and her book into her dark room.
Her novel, Our Sign of the Times by Lemus Knox was tatted and bent this way and that from all the times she’s cracked the pages open for a steamy read. A painting of a bodacious woman and handsome prince posing in front of a castle adorned the front cover (one of the main reasons why she bought it). The was was strong, with raven hair and a strong jaw that portured strongly as he kissed the brunette woman in a lilly gown that he held in his arms. The castle was cottage like, with ivy covered walls and stone hedges; complete with a moat and bridge wrapping around the area. The author, Lemus Knox, painted the image himself, as he say so in the acknowledgements. No one knows who he is, how old he is, where he lives, or anything else about him really. A pseudonym, he says. A way to keep his life private life and still do what he loves to do: write.Y/n stumbled upon his book two years ago, in the best sellers section at Barnes and Nobles, and has been slowly falling in love with him and his characters ever since.
When she settled back into her blankets, y/n opened her book, and placed a single hand on her tummy, over the Kool-aid man’s mouth.
“It’s getting dark,” she said rather breathlessly, “don’t you think it’s time we head back?”
“I like being on the water at night. You can’t see. You can only hear the wares and you have to feel,” he teasingly brushed his fingers over the tops of her breasts, “your way back to shore. Feel your way through the dark.” He whispered into her ear,one of his hands splaying on her stomach and pushing back up, up, up to her breasts. “A man has to know exactly what he’s doing.”
She arched against him with a soft catch in her breath as he finally cupped her small breast in his large hands; her generous nipples turned hard underneath his circling thumbs.
“Rafael,” she moaned breathlessly, arms wrapped against his neck as she pushed her swollen mounds against his roaming hands. “We can’t. We’re not married yet.”
“Oh, my sweet love.” Rafael’s hands slid back down against her belly and began stroking her thighs. “I don’t plan on deflowering you yet. I simply wish to learn what it is you like.”
“But… I do not know what I like.” Her words were gasps of dreamy pleasure.
“Then I guess we’ll have to find out, won’t we?”
Knowingly, y/n’s hand began to follow the same path that Rafael’s had. Thumbs circling against swollen nipples, fingertips teasing the insides of her thighs.
Her head was cushioned against his chest, and she turned her fact to him, seeking his mouth in innocent yearning. He lowered his head, and parted her lips with long strokes of his tongue into her sweet mouth, savoring the way she tasted. She reached up, and caressed his cheek as they kissed in slow, soulful agony.
While she ran her fingers through his unbound hair, Rafael deftly inched her skirts upward over her exquisite legs. His heart pounded as she let his hands roam under the gathered layers of silk gown and muslin petticoat. He groaned into her lips when his fingers came to the edge of her white stockings, and found tenderly warm skin. His groin flooded with heat and his body turned rock hard in an instant. Unwilling to push her beyond what she was currently willing to give him, Rafael fought to keep his needs in check.
Having been with many of the calculating damsels of the court, he knew that Dani was unlike them. She was soft, fragile, small, so precious in his arms. And while she may think herself independent, Rafael wanted nothing more than to hold her close and protect her, as much as he wanted to give her glimpses of what was in store for the night of their wedding.
Under her dress, he took his time exploring, kneading, caressing her belly, her hips, all the while devouring her mouth. Behind closed eyelids, he smiled to himself when she began to writhe and twist in his hold, virginal madness getting the best of her.
“Rafael, Rafael,” her voice grew drunk with urgent need.
When he stroked her at her ore, he was more than pleased to find she was soaked with silky wetness, throbbing under his fingertips with pure female invitation.
“Dani,” he mumbled against her earlobe, as her took her skirts with his empty hands and raised them higher and higher. “Would you like to watch?”
“NO! I couldn’t.” Her chest heaved. “Don’t make me.”
“Watch me touch you.” he murmured as his fingertips began to circle. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, my darling. I only want to fulfill your desires. Watch me pleasure you. Look at how beautiful you are , your sweet body. My wild, virgin love.”
“Oh , Rafael!” she turned and kissed him ardently. A burning moisture inexplicably rose behind his eyelids, and quickly fled as their kiss ended.
He kissed the curve of her neck, moved by his shy uncertainty as she lowered her heat to watch as he touched her, panting slightly. She was so ready, he thought in pure agony as his hardness chafed against her back through their clothes. It would have been easy to take her then and there, on the warm glossy planks of the deck, but her repeatedly shoved that temptation aside, vowing to prove his respect for her by making their wedding night her first time.
Y/n, too, was panting as she continued to read, her vision growing blurry with pleasure and need.
His thumb deftly teased her jeweled center, while his middle finger gently stroked inside her tight, fluid heat ,and as he kissed her ear and the back of her neck.
Y/n threw the book aside, letting her own hands take the pace it needed to to bring her to her high. HEr slender fingers deftly pumped in and out of her slick hole, the hand that was holding her book now rubbing fast circles against her swollen button. Wet mewls left her swollen lips, and her chest arched to meet hands that weren't there. The feeling of clenching in her abdomen and a squirming need something increased.
She left herself clenching on nothing, pinching her pert nipples with damp fingers as she rubbed faster and harder circles onto her mound.
“Fuck, fuck fuck,” she gasped under her breath, a long groan escaping her as she felt it instenifsy; anticipation of water nearly spilling. It hit her like a splash of cold water, her head thrown back against her pillows with her mouth open; a scream and no sound. Her body felt electrifies, her veins fueled by fire.
And when it died out,
She fell back like a ragdoll, limp and tired onto her sheets. Y/n was all droopy eyelids and noodle limbs after her orgasm.
She fell back asleep with sticking fingers on top of her red Kool-Aid man t-shirt.
.
.
“... you know what I mean?”
“So… you don’t want a beach theme?” y/n asked. Karime, dressed in another silk dress, but this time in floral red pattern, was having a very hard time identifying the theme she wanted for her Aromatherapy cafe/library.
“No, but I just want like, beach-y vibes. Airy? Ooopen. Yes, open.”
“So plants,” Y/n jotted bulleted notes into her planner, in a blank section under ‘Karime’. “White and green color scheme. Open, clear room.”
The two are standing at Karime’s shop, three streets away from Rockstar; an alarmingly vast space with plain walls and counters. Y/n has a lot of blank canvas to work with, and much to improvise because Karime wasn’t being exact with her vision. She hadn’t even set up a moodboard like she said she was because ‘an LA girl has a wild life you know, hun?’
Y/n truly wished she didn’t know.
“Okay now, what’s your budget?” she asked, her tone businesslike but full of warmth and interest.
“Um, how much do you think you’ll need?” Karime wasn’t looking at her, no, she was picking at her cuticles, and pushing them back with her thumbs; her nails had grown and blank space separated the polish from her skin. Karime was across y/n, behind the quick-serve counter where smokey machines and masks where all lined up; one for each stool.
“Plants are expensive. If you want big and already grown plants, they’re expensive- ranging from $20 to, I don't know… maybe $80?” Y/n taps her pen on her chin. “Furniture, and other wall decor I can craft and thrift, so that right there is maybe $200? $400 tops.”
“Okay.” Karime said, shrugging her shoulders with a crescent moon smile on her pink lips, “I’ll write you a check for $3,000 to start. I don’t want anything from second-hand like Goodwill or anything like that. I’ll give you addresses to pre-selected antique stores and the likes. Now, you mentioned something about measurements?”
“Yes! Thanks for reminding me,” she’d forgotten all about that, and it truly is a key process in the decor department. “Do you happen to have a measuring tape?”
“Actually, yes. There’s one in the back, I’ll go get it.” Karime pushed herself off the granite table top, and turned on her heel to walk through a golden confetti curtain, leaving y/n seated at the counter.
For a moment. She fiddled with the tubes coming from the humidifying machine in front of her, an opaque purple bowl with two tubes sticking out from opposite sides that connect to facemasks that cover your mouth. They’re cool to the touch, but warm when her fingers linger. A humming sound emits from the machine when she accidentally presses the start button, and she pushes it again in a panicked state to make it stop. She decides it’s best if she stops messing around with expensive machinery, and instead turns to looking at the small amount of people that are in the shop.
There’s no one really up and about at 10 in the morning on a Sunday. The few that were, came with laptops to do work in the library section of the shop, with coffees on their tables, or some kind of breakfast, which had to be from somewhere else because Karime didn’t have a menu for food. Just drinks.
One of these really risers, a man who hunched over a sticker covered Mac, looked strangely familiar. Y/n was staring at his choice of clothing (a worn down Brittney Spears shirt with jeans and rolled at the ankles and pristine white vans) when he turned to look at her. It was then, looking onto his dazzling green eyes and watching his taffy pink lips curl into a smile and a hand coming up in a small wave, did y/n recognize that it was the stranger that recognized her Halloween costume a few days ago.
Cheeks heating with clear embarrassment, y/n raised her own hand and timidly twiddles her fingers. She mouthed hello and tried to keep from cringing when he raised a finger to rub under his nose to hide the way his lips twitch upwards. His nose scrunches and wiggles, and his eyes wrinkle at the corner, a cheeky gleam in his look.
“Y/n!” Karime, reappearing, held a ruler in her hand. A ruler. “This is the best we’ve got, babe.”
Her head snaps from the familiar stranger to Karime, who smiled as if she’d just solved all their problems when she’d really just created more because measuring with a ruler? Seriously. Y/n curses at herself for forgetting to bring her own measuring tape.
She has no other option than to nod, smile, and take the ruler, and start taking measurements.
Like the hand-over-hand motions of steering a car, y/n has to place the ruler, mark where it ends with her nail, and repeat the process again and again.
The walls, the patio, window space, countertops, tables, and the one she’s dreading to do: the dimensions of the room the stranger is sitting in. Karime’s place was split in two and a half. A small outdoor patio, the man space with tables and machines, and the library lounging space. The library lounge space, a doorway cut into a small cozy room to the left when you walk in.
She’d yet to go in there and measure the walls and bookshelves, putting in on to last in hopes that he’d leave because measuring with a ruler is really embarrassing and it’s possible that she’d be shuffling around him.
God.
Getting a grip, she pulled her shoulders back and walked into the room, counting how many steps it took to walk through the door frame. She felt like fingers trapped in a Chinese finger trap, constricted.
Walking into the room, the stranger didn’t look up, instead he looked even more immersed in his work than ever. Eyebrows furrowed and fingers tapping away on his keyboard. He was even leaning into his computer screen, like he couldn’t get whatever it was he needed to type onto the screen fast enough.
Sure enough, staring at him, lost in whatever it was he was typing, y/n stumbled on her own two feet, and an absurd noise escapes her lips when she tried to catch herself.
She doesn’t turn to see if he’s looked at her (he did, with a grin that showed off his bunny-like teeth) and instead hangs her head and makes her way to the opposite wall. Great way to be inconspicuous, she thought to herself.
The wall opposite the stranger, was tall, like the others were. And even though she was sure that it was most likely the same dimensions, she wasn’t going to take any chances. Pulling up a chair so she could stand on it once her arm couldn't reach anymore; huffing because Karime had those really heavy metal chairs that screeched if you didn’t pick them off the floor. Seven feet later, y/n had to step up on the chair, wobbling on her legs while she hiked up, pressing harder on the wooden ruler to make sure it’s place didn’t move.
Her nail pins into the wall, at the end of the ruler, before using her other hand to move up the start of the ruler where her nail left off. When the ruler reached her hip, y/n stumbled leaned forward and effectively knocked out her balance so she was left flailing, falling, fa-
Not falling.
No, not falling, because two hands grip her hips, and pull her back on the chair to make sure she doesn't fall flat on her face. Her eyes are pinched un closed anticipation, waiting for the smashing of knees against the cold, hard floors but it never comes.
“Gotcha!” says a deep british voice. A warm gust of minty wind flutters in y/n’s nose, and when she opens her eyes. Glittering green eyes, wispy strands of hair, and petal pink lips.
Right. In front. Of her face.
“Selena, you’ve really got to be more careful,” he says, chuckling as his speaks so his words are broken with sounds of laughter. He’s even lifting her up from her leaned position off of the chair, and settling her down on the floor, biceps tightening and a humming noise coming from his throat as he does so.
She’s flabbergasted. Doesn’t know what to say because she doesn’t think she’d ever been picked up before. Its ridiculous really, seconds away from eating shit on hard ass surface and all she can think about is how she was picked up. But jeez, who could blame her, the man was hot.
All sharp jawline, clavicles peeking out of his shirt, and the column of his throat such a nice pretty color. Quite handsome, really.
“Shit,” y/n finally manages to get out, her eyes wide, shoulders tense, and instinctively, her fingers are digging into his shoulders (though she’s not aware of it yet).
“You alright?” The man says, when he notices the way she’s gone rigid. He doesn’t say anything about the way her fingers are gripping at him.
“Uhm, yes. I am now. Thank you…” Y/n’s voice comes out in breathy spurts, and her forehead glistens like she’s just run to catch the bus. That’s when she noticed where her fingers were placed; the way the white cloth dipped in from the amount of pressure she was exerting onto his skin. Cheeks turning a darker pink, she cleared her throat and avoided looking at him when she removed her hands.
“Harry” He mumbled. “My name’s Harry. Yours? Not quite sure if it’s Selena or not…”
“HA!” A loud exclamation, a bit too loud that it was awkward. “No. Not Selena. Y/n.” She looked into his eyes them, raising her chin the last inch to move from Brittney Spears face to his eyes. Eyes the color of light streaming through a tree leaves in a forest on a spring forest. Y/n sucks in a breath.
“Well, wonderful to meet you, y/n.” He leans towards her, a ringed finger pointing jeeringly at the stick still in her hands. “I gotta say, measuring with a ruler?”
“Very efficient. As you can see,” She shakes the hand the ruler is in, and then uses the ruler to point at the seemingly innocent metal chair “You should try it sometime.”
“Only if you catch me.” Harry grabs his own wrists behind his back, his shoulders hunching forwards and head shaking side to side a bit as his speaks.
It takes a moment for her to drink in what he’s said, to fully react with a scoff and a smile. “Catch you? I’ll hold you up on my shoulder’s myself.”
“Then we’ll both end up sprawled on the floor, all roughed up and bruised.”
They both laugh at their jokes, and Harry even goes as far as to clap his jean clad knee. When it gets quiet, their laughs dying down, Harry speaks again.
“Saw you in the paper. Helped decorate Rockstar didn’t you?”
Y/n’s jaw drops. Her lips opening and closing like a fish eating crumbs at the water’s surface. “The paper? What paper?” This was news to her. She was aware that the article James would write would be like, online or something. But a physical paper. That’s a little bigger. And him having remembered. Having identified her.
“The local paper. WeHoVille.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, one side of his lips pulling up in a confused manner. “Was picking up a sleepy time tea and honey at the Wholefoods, and you painting was a feature next to the counter. Didn’t show your face, but I walked past that day and remembered.”
“The paper… wow. I didn’t know. But yes,”Y/n twirls the ruler on in circles with her fingers, putting all her weight on one hip so on of her feet could tap loosely on the floor. “I decorated Rockstar.” After a beat, “What’d you think about it?”
“The place is amazin’!” A strand of Harry’s hair flops down to the space between his eyebrows and eyelashes, tickling his skin. He had to brush his fingers through his hair to comb it back. “Love the feel of it. Gotta stop myself from going in everyday or might blow all my money on Stevie’s usual.”
“That’s my favorite too! Next time you’re there, give me a wave down and I’ll have you covered.” Y/n’s offers had Harry’s eyebrows raised in seconds. “Least I could do, given you saved me from a concussion and all that.” She tried to explain, words coming out in a flurry from her mouth.
He chuckles at her flustered stare, the same repressed smirk that he’d given her when he caught her staring. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.” Silence and then, “What do you plan on doing with the place?”
“Turn it into a greenhouse,” y/n said bluntly. The two were still standing next to the wall y/n was measuring, and Harry leaned one of his shoulders against it, moving his hands from behind his back to his front, wrapping one around the other one’s wrist.
“That’ll be nice. Even more uh, how do you say, therapeutic? I guess more relaxing than the place already is. Karime said plants?” He asked. It didn’t quite settle with y/n that he knew Karime on a first name basis, that he was interested in knowing she picked plants, and she wanted so badly to say: Karime doesn’t know what she wants, but instead pushes that feeling away and goes with,
“Well, she gave me a scope to work with. A color scheme. A gist. Certain decorations she wanted to see. So on and so on. Plants is just what I took from it. And it goes with her place because it has to deal with aromatherapy and all that. What do you think?”
“I think you’ve hit it right on. Can’t wait to see what it’ll look like.” He raps a knuckle on the wall. “Did you still need wall measurements? I’ll hold you so you don’t fall again.”
Timidly, she responds, “Okay.”
“Up you get, then.” Harry pointed to the chair, and y/n raises her leg to hike up, this time with Harry’s hands placed on her hips, steadying her.
A tiny dash on the wall where her nail slid off marks where she was at when she nearly fell off the metal chair, and this is where she places the ruler. She left off at 7 feet, the ruler at her hip. Resuming the same positions, she starts to wobble again, and Harry's hands tight, holding her straight.
She guesses he hears her gasp when she feels herself wobble because he says “I’ve gotcha.”
Y/n moved the ruler up one, two, and three more times, and then her arm can’t stretch anymore and pinches one eye closed to cry and guess how many more feet are left. She guessed four… ish. On a whim, she tries to push the ruler up once more, and her shirt rides up on the left side of her hips. Warm sequential breaths hit her skin, and a shiver drops down her spine when she realizes what’s happened.
Harry, ever the gentleman, doesn’t waste a second, and slides his pointer and middle finger over her skin, his warm fingers splaying over goosebumps to pinch her shirt and pull it down for her.
“All done,” she squeaks. “Coming back down.”
Harry released her, but offers her a hand and she takes it, holding on to his as she comes down, his palms warm and rings cool; a nice contrast.
“Thank you so much for h-”
“Y/n?”
Booth Harry and y/n tun to the doorway that leads to the main room, where Karime stands with a checkbook in her hands. Y/n turns back to look at Harry. The curls behind his ears, the blonde hairs on his top lip. He turns to look at her, and gives her a closed lip smile. She smiles back and twiddles her fingers, mouthing a bye bye.
Karime walks away when she sees that y/n is following her, and takes them both back to their position on the counter.
“Here’s the check. Two thousand dollars. Deposit it into your account, and use it for gas, furniture, anything that has to do with Aromareads you can pull from this.” She opens the book and tears out the slip of paper. “I will need receipts. And your name?”
Karime glances up at y/n, only to see that she’s busy looking back through the door frame at Harry. The manager is slightly irked at the fact that the person she’s hiring to reshape her business isn’t paying attention, but following her line of gaze, Karimer can’t blame her. Harry, a usual in her store, is a very very handsome man. Towering, with broad back and a neck Karime would love to bite into if she wasn’t gay. He sat at his laptop, thighs spread and eyes hard and stern, pondering with a pout. Karime is sure that what caught my/n’s attention is the way Harry’s thighs and crotch looked at that very moment, enticing, strong, sensual.
Clearing her throat, “Y/n. I need a full name to address the check.”
Y/n’s neck snaps towards Karime, her hair getting caught on her lips at her velocity. “Uh- yes, sorry it’ll be Y/n Y/l/n.”
Karime repeated her name, and asked for her to spell it, which she did while stuttering mildy.
“Here you go.” Clicking her pen against the marble countertop, Karime handed the check to y/n. “Listen, by no means do I wanna pressure you, but if you could get this down before the holidays are in full force, I would love that.”
“Oh, don’t worry. It won’t take me that long.”
.
.
And it definitely didn’t.
On Monday, y/n spent the entire day (and part of her night) driving to most of the places Karime had sent her through a text. She spent a few minutes googling the places and looking through the pictures that came up and cursing every time it would redirect her to yelp- because really who has yelp? The antique stores were all spread out in the Los Angeles area.
There was one in Long Beach. The pictures showed a really big warehouse with chair lying on top of each other and tables littered with little statues and the likes. Here she bought baskets. Tons of them. Gus (the owner) has dedicated an entire isle to them. When he saw y/n’s cart, the laughed then asked her “Why dolly, whadda ya need all them baskets for?” And when she told him it was for business, he offered her coupons and package deals.
“Tell ya what,” he scratched the scruff on his chin, the only hair he had because he was bald, “You buy all these baskets,” he pointed to her cart, “I’ll give you a twenty pa’cent discount on ya purchase, and if ya want, you can pick anathin’ ya want from over there because no one wants tuh buy them.” Then he pointed to a pile of books that lay haphazardly next to a stove and a turquoise refrigerator. She paid one hundred and fifty.
She walked out with wicker baskets, one being a picnic basket she snatched for herself, lined nicely with red patterned cloth and a lid for it to close, and that same picnic basket full of regency novels from the 90’s.
There was another in Laguna. A beachside thrift shop, where she paid for (very overpriced) frames of painted lighthouses and beach landscapes for that ‘beach’ factor Karime wanted. By this time, she drove back towards Hollywood to drop the items back at Aromareads because her car was getting full. She didn’t go inside, just unloaded the tings in the back and Karime took them inside. If she had, she would’ve seen Harry.
Y/n then took to the shops in the downtown area. One being, a swapmeet type place where you walked through and looked at all the furniture. They set up different sections for different themes. Victorian, regal, animal skin themed, and a hall full of mirrors. Y/n bought a large 8x8 mirror for five hundred dollars. It would be delivered the following day.
One of the sections was retro-themed, and she snapped a picture of a hip-height lava lamp and sent it to Lucy. Lucy then proceded to beg y/n through to text to please buy that I fucking need it. Will pay u back. So she bought it; $100 that she knew would be no big deal for Lucy given all the business she had.
Her final stop, were the flowers and plants district. There, she placed a large order for 30 succulents, and an assortment of nearly 100 leafy plants to fill the baskets with. She blew $1,000 there.
By the end of the day, she’d wasted nearly all of Karime’s check; a measly two hundred remaining after she refilled her car with gas (give or take some). Y/n met with Karime at around 6, in the back parking lot again, and left everything she’d bought.
“Oh! And the mirror should be delivered tomorrow before closing time.”
Karime was wearing a caramel turtle neck and black slacks tucked into latex ankle boots, her hair pinned back and tied into a spiky ponytail. Her ears were adorned with pearl earrings, and her fingers were jammed into golden rings. Y/n felt embarrassed in her measly purple jumper and paint splattered mom jeans. Her accessories consisted of a fanny pack full of nails and a hammer at her waist.
“Good, good. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow-” Karime was already turning back and returning into the shop when Y/n said:
“Actually I was hoping I could start now.” Her words lifted into a question at the end, half suggesting half stating.
Karime’s face morphed into one of confusion and surprise, but in the end she agreed, and told y/n to do as she pleased.
Upon first entering, y/n is disoriented.
She walks into a frenzy of… nothing. It’s like an industrial kitchen, but completely empty. Occupied only by the things she had brought in. She remembers that she walked into the back and not the front, and it made sense because Karime doesn’t offer anything that would require use of the kitchen. Everything she has is done at the bar by the barista outside.
Karime leaves y/n in the back, where she asses her items. The baskets. The frames. And well, that’s really all there is. It would be more with all the plants coming in. She realizes that she doesn’t really have much to work with and there really isn’t much to do than hang picture frames, and there’s only five of them.
Nonetheless, she goes outside with the first frame in hand. A soft blue painting of a lighthouse on an island with light from a hole in a cloudy sky shining on the building. When she picked this one up, she knew exactly where it would go. By the wall next to the sliding door that lead to the patio. She sauntered over to the spot then, dodging a woman on her boyfriend on her way there. It was packed, and rightfully (it was a tuesday).
She reached the spot, and lifted the picture on the wall, lifting and tilting so it would fit naturally. Eventually, she found the sweet spot, and reached for the hammer she had stuck into her belt loop and the box of nails she’d placed into the fanny pack on her waist.
Without hesitation, she put the first nail on the wall, and started banging. Three taps in, and she hung the wire on the nail, balancing it so it looked the way she envisioned it. After she was done, y/n stepped back to admire her handiwork, and tilted her head to the side the way one does when their looking at a picture that’s upside down.
Perfect.
She walked around the shop then, with the purpose of noticing empty spots on the walls, anything that could be filled up with artistry. The simple tables? No they had to stay that way. Placing something on the tables would clutter them and tarnish the ‘relax’ mode people came in for. The window that faced the street? Yes. Y/n planned on lining them with hanging droopy plants on the edges, not obscuring but not leaving a clear view either. She’d have to buy shelves to place baskets on the walls. Hooks to hang them. This she would do with what was left from the check.
Yet… something was missing. The alternative-ness she knew should be there. Something ‘hippie’ and ‘aesthetic’, off the minimalist side of things.
Looking into a corner where the walls met, a light bulb went off. She knew exactly what was missing. Letters. Y/n had seen an image on Pinterest not even less than a month ago. A picture of a string of letters. Or rather, a message. It said something along the lines of ‘You are my light’ or something edgy like that. Each word had been hand cut and strung onto a piece of- she didn’t know, string? Tweed? A wire?- and hung in a corner of a room where walls met. It knocked off every box on the checklist. Minimalist. Crafty. Aesthetic. And cheap, considering how low the money was.
She knew she’d have to brainstorm phrases and pass them by Karime, but she’d worry about that later.
.
.
It was Friday. One day after the plants had been delivered, and y/n was set to work full force. Sure, she’d have to work amongst customers, but no matter. It would get done.
She started in the back. With the plants.
Y/n had bought a plastic-type lining at the Home Depot to place soil in the baskets. She lined then all first, securing the material with tape around the edges. After, came the transfer and placement. She decided this would be a better method, and if there were extras she could have Karime sell them. This way, she wouldn’t overcrowd the place and stop when she saw an adequate fill of green.
The first, a circular basket with no handle the color of a waffle cone. Because it was one that would go on a shelf, she placed one of the droopiest plants in it, a green stream of vines and shrubby leaves.
Last night, y/n had given Karime the benefit of the doubt, and allowed her to place shelves where she���d liked them So, before she opened at 7, Karime had decorated her store with wooden slabs for y/n to decorate. Taking the first plant, she walked out.
As expected, Aromareads was bustling with energy. Women with mojitos in their hands, burnt out college kids hooked up to masks, older men and women laughing like tinkling bells.
She’s walking towards the first row of shelves she sees on the wall across from her, besides the sliding doors, basket held gingerly with both hands, when she hears:
“Y/n!”
Looking to her left, she sees a sleepy, just-rolled-out-of-bed looking Harry. He’s wearing a black hoodie with the words ‘Treat people with kindness’ in a gradient rainbow color, and… and grey sweatpants. Grey. Sweatpants.
Grey sweatpants.
Y/n tries not to visibly swallow him whole as he walks towards her with an innocent smile on his face because god if she isn’t all hot and bothered right now. Her eyes seem to be magnetically attracted to his crotch, trying but failing to grasp and image of what may be lying underneath.
“H-hey, Harry,” she smiles at him meekly, her voice cracking when she speaks. She cleared her throat and said again, “hey, Harry. S’nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you too.” He bows his head towards her, and endearing mannerism that has y/n’s heart pooling down to her ribcage. “I see you’ve brought out the green guns today.” A teasing grin on his extra red and shiny lips. Perhaps it was chapstick. It was rather windy outside.
“You see correctly.” She giggles at his joke, at the same time, rolling her eyes at how cheesy he was being. “Today’s the day it all comes together.”
“I’m excited to see how it all turns out. Don’t go falling on any chairs today alright?” He wags his finger at her, mocking a mother shunning her child.
“I’ll try not to. But if I do-” she said, coquettishly.
“I’ll catch you.”
“You better.” Laughing at him, she repeats his actions and lifts her finger up to point at him.
With a final laugh and a shake of his head, Harry walks away and into the working room.
Y/n watches him walk off, and walks off her own way as well, resting the basket against her hip as she went. When she reached the wall with shelves arranged in a checkered pattern, she placed the basket on top of the wooden plank, and tufted leaves so they look naturally messily placed. Unintentionally intentional; they way one teases their hair so it looks nice.
She went back to her work station: the now full kitchen, and repeated the process. Picked a basket, filled it with a plant, and took it outside. She left the hooks for last, wanting to leave of being in the way of people until she had too. Almost effortlessly, y/n filled Karime’s space with greenery. Cacti on shelves, large leaves and vines on walls, frames of beach paintings on nails. Once, she pricked her finger because her it had accidentally slipped inside the glass globe in which the succulent was in.
When the time finally came to walk into the room Harry was in, the outside was looking rather… forest-y. She liked the way it looked; a calm type of chaos. One that showed relaxation and no care for anything. Which was the point of the entire place. Come in. Relax. Breathe in from diffusers to get that extra push to decompress.
Harry sat in his usual spot, directly in spot of the doorway, in one of the middle tables. Hunched over his computer with fingers flying over his keyboard. He had earphones in this time, white buds tucked right into his ears, stray strands of hair looping and covering them. His lips were placed in a puckered pout, the scrunched pink skin twitching from left to right.
Humming to herself, y/n forces herself to walk past him, forces herself to not turn back and glance at Harry even if she can feel his gaze burning into her back. She makes it seem like the hook and plant in her hand are the most interesting things in the world. Turning it over in her fingers, and even going as far as to lift the basket (this on with a handle and curved bowl bottom) to her nose and smell it.
“Need a hand with that?” Harry says from behind her. She feels his presence from behind her, standing close enough that she can feel when he reaches to her front and takes the basket from her hands. Y/n’s heart starts beating as fast as a hummingbird's wings. Closing her eyes to get a hold of herself, all she sees is green. Green, the color of his eyes.
“Yes, please.” Her voice is small, shy.
Harry, feeling bold, nudged the tip of his nose on the hair behind her ear. Enough to make her notice, but not enough to make her completely sure that it was there. “Where do you want it?” He says, breath hot on the shell of her ears. Her eyes widen, and her body goes on full alert. She’s suddenly aware of the closeness of his hips on hers, the brushing of the fabric on her the back of her hand.
“Up…” Y/n steps forward, towards the wall. She places her finger on the smooth surface, and traces it over to where she wants it, doing loopty-loops to her desired spot. “...here.”
He places the nail on the wall, hits it with the hammer that y/n gives him and hooks the basket as well. He turns to her when he’s done.
“Got any more?” He asks, placing a hand on his hip.
“Yeah, in the back. Wanna come help me?” Y/n points with a thumb to the doorway, half of her body turning as well.
“Lead the way.”
So they leave together to the backroom, y/n holding open the golden curtain for Harry to walk through. He looks around endearingly, his neck stretching and eyes darting from place to place as he takes in his surroundings. Y/n is stuck at the expression on her face, her heart strings pulling when her ears listen to the soft giggle that escapes his lips.
So they leave together to the backroom, y/n holding open the golden curtain for Harry to walk through. He looks around endearingly, his neck stretching and eyes darting from place to place as he takes in his surroundings. Y/n is stuck at the expression on her face, her heart strings pulling when her ears listen to the soft giggle that escapes his lips.
“S’very nice back here.”
“Wanna grab a few baskets? Place ‘em in the lounge?”
“Sure thing.” Harry wraps his hand around the handle of three baskets at the same time, and with the other, he grabs the still-packaged hooks and wait for y/n by the doorway. She hurried to grab two succulents, and met Harry at the doorway. They had an awkward moment of deciding who’s going first. A huffle of backwards and forwards until eventually, Harry held his palm out to allow her to go through while biting his lip. Y/n ducked her head and felt the tips of her ears go warm.
“So, I tried Elton John yesterday.” He said, trailing behind y/n into the lounge like a little puppy. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging.
“Oh? How was it?” She replied, juggling the two glass casings in her hand, and then pricking herself again. She flinches, but doesn’t make any noises.
“Think I might have a new favorite,” he said, bashfully ducking his own head and peeking at her through his hair. Her heart fluttered, and if it could, she was sure it would bust out with the dreamy sighs she suppressed.
“It’s that serious?” She asked.
“It’s that serious.” They reach the lounge, and y/n sets the succulents she carries in her hands down on a table. “Have you had it yet?” Her stretches her hands out to Harry, signaling for him to give her his items.
“No, not yet. Should probably give it a try if its changed your mind. Can you pass me a hook?” Harry gives her all four packages he holds in his one hand. When she wraps her hand around them, her finger brushes against the chubby part of his hand.
“Here you go- I only drank it ‘coz like, I’m on this diet thing and needed a drink with oat milk in it. Elton’s was the first one I saw. Woke me right up, too.”
“Diet you say?” y/n took the hammer and walked over to her desired stop, a few feet away from the one Harry had put in.
“Some altered version of keto. Had a really bad bug, had me feeling icky and ‘just decided it was the best.” He takes place next to her, watching as she positioned the nail and hit it a few times with the hammer. He held out a basket on his finger when she was done. She was a whirlwind, he thought. Busy little bee, never stopping. Harry nearly feels bad because she’s so full of energy, bouncing back from the table to the wall and arranging plants before he could even blink. “S’not fair. Not letting me do any work.” A pout appears on his lips, eyes teasing.
“You just stand there and look pretty. I’ve-” she points to herself, finger at her chin. “Got this.”
Harry grumbles something that she doesn’t catch with his chin tucked into his neck.
“What was that?’ she hums.
“‘Said, can’t exactly be pretty ‘coz you took that job too.”
Y/n’s hands still. Immediately, she feels her chest grow red roses blooming on her cheeks. She’s not exactly… embarrassed, per say. No. The familiar feeling of ants running wildly in her lower stomach began to burn, her ribcage tickling as butterflies try to creep out with beating wings. Pretty. He had called her pretty.
“Uhm, thank you?”
“You’re very welcome, darling.” His tone of voice is smug. And when she looks over at him with eyebrows raised, he’s biting his lip and his looking at her through his eyelashes like he had before, but there was no childish play in it this time.
“Say,” she picks up a succulent. “What’s it with you?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shrugs.
“Lovin’ all up on me.” She puts the succulent back down.
“S’nothing wrong with lovin’ all up on a pretty girl.”
There it is again. Pretty girl. Y/n is on fire her entire face pink, color concentrated on her cheeks and nose as if she had taken a walk in the brisk wind.
“Stop it,” she said.
Harry’s face turns concerned, brows kissing and lines appearing on his forehead. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” All work is forgotten, and instead they stand facing each other.
“No! No, no,” Y/n’s eyes widen and her hands waving back and forth to eradicate the thought of her being disturbed by him. “S’just,” she sighs. “Not used to it, is all.”
Upon hearing this, Harry’s face breaks into a smile. “Well then,” he starts. “Better get used to it.”
“Oh, you.” She playfully slaps his shoulder and picks up the succulent again, this time actually going to put it on a shelf adjacent to the window; a little alcove Karime has placed in a weird spot.
“When do you get a break?”
“I think I get to take it whenever I want, why?”
“Wanna head down to Rockstar? Craving a Madonna right about now.”
“Never pegged you as a Madonna guy,” (the Madonna was a sweet caramel iced coffee with whipped cream and chocolate chips; not actually what Madonna would drink, and the beverage itself being one of the few inaccurate ones). “Let me finish with this, and I’ll let Karime know.”
So she did, much faster with Harry’s help. He handed her nails, hooks, and the plants she asked for. He asked if he could leave his stuff in the back, and he followed her back there once again, ticking his bag into an empty cupboard next to y/n’s things. On her way out, she said a quick goodbye to Karime who she was sure didn’t even hear what she said.
Harry and her walked the short block side by side, with him playfully knocking his shoulder into hers and smiling like a mushy schoolboy when she pushed him back. They made small talk about drinks and the weather, shoulders hunched up and chins tucked in because it was a little cold. Y/n’s frayed highschool sweater wasn’t doing much to keep her warm, and she had half the wind to pull her hood up the way Harry had his.
Looking over at his, his nose was going a bit raw. Pink and the skin around it a little pale. By the time he noticed she was looking at him, they’d reached Rockstar, and he was opening the door for her. Murmuring a small thank you she walked through, and stepped to the side to wait for him to step inn as well, given he’d held the door open for the few people that had been walking behind him as well. From inside, she could see him nodding and smiling at everyone who stepped in.
“You wanna grab a table and I’ll get the drinks?” she says to him when he appears next to her with hands in his hoodie pocket; she’s craning her neck to meet his eyes.
“Sure. I’ll be in the records?” He takes one hand out to point over to where the records are.
“Okay.” Y/n nods and head to the counter, where Lucy is busy taking someone’s order. She only see y/n when she walks behind the person and makes a silly face at her. Lucy laughs, but continues taking the order, and y/n pushes through the doors to put on an apron and make her and Harry’s drink.
“Well if it isn’t y/n!” Says Kim.
“Y/n! Girly its been forever,” Kelsey bumps her hip when y/n get to work alongside her at the steaming machine.
“Yes, yes, I know. Missed my favorite baristas.” she giggles, bumping her hip a little harder and making Kelsey gasp in faint shock. “Where’s Tilly?”
“Called in sick. Poor think could barely speak.” replied Kelsey. Y/n hummed a response, and made her drink first, a hot chocolate, and set it to the side to allow it to cool down meanwhile she made Harry’s. When Kelsey noticed her reaching for another measuring cup after just making her own she says,
“Two drinks?”
“Got a friend waiting for me in the records.” Y/n explained, pumping an extra pump of caramel into the cup. She puts in less ice too, and extra chocolate chips and whipped cream.
“The records…” Kelsey craned her neck out of where customers pick of their drinks to peek tp the records section. “Wait, wait, the one in the hood?”
“Yep,” said y/n, unbothered as she capped Harry’s drink.
“Y/n!” Kelsey hissed, “He’s hot!”
“Yes, Kelsey, I am aware.” Y/n rolls her eyes and picked up both drinks, turning on her heels to walk out but nearly bumps into Kim, who stood not even an inch away from her. She backs up instantly.
“So are you and he a thing?” He asked, leaning in closer to y/n’s face,his breath smelling on the ramen he always ate during his lunch break.
Y/n, uncomfortable by his closeness, tried walking around him but he stepped to the side. “It’s none of your business Kim.”
“You never accept my dates, but you’ll accept his?” Kim’s tone is angry, and when he takes a step towards her, Kelsey steps in front of her.
“Kim, leave her alone.” Kelsey says, turning back to y/n and nodding her head in the direction y/n was heading. When she pushes past the swinging doors, she catches a bits of what Kelsey says to him in a harsh whisper, “just wait until Lucy hears about this.”
“Haarryy,” Y/n says in a sing-song voice, dodging people as she makes her way to the records. Harry’s standing with a record in his hand, legs spread apart and leaning back a bit with his other hand tucked into his opposite armpit. “Here’s your John.”
Harry takes the plastic cup from her, giggling as he looks at her.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, genuinely confused.
“Still wearing your apron,” Harry wraps his lips around the straw, tongue poking out to lap at it and take it into his mouth as y/n tries really hard not to stare.
Looking down at herself, y/n shrugs, and leaves it on, taking a seat on the nearest loveseat and wrapping her now empty hand around the warm cup.
“What did you get?” He asked her.
“Willy wonka.” She brings the cup to her lips, tilting it up slowly and her mouth waters when she catches the scent of the foaming chocolate. Harry takes a seat next to her, his thigh touching her jean-clad one. He sits with them spread, leaning back in an eased position, and y/n eyes jump down to the bunched grey fabric at his crotch. And… well, there’s a larger than normal bulge through the fabric, drawstrings bending over the imprint, and y/n chokes on her drink. Some of it sputters out onto her apron.
“Still hot?” She nods. “ Gotta be careful, love. Who picked the names?”
Y/n looks over at him, head tilting to the side with eyes squinting. “Picked what?”
The cloudy skylight streamed in softly, casting a soft grey glow on Harry’s side profile. “The names for the drinks. Who picked them?” He holds his drink in one hand, straw near his face so all he had to do was maneuver his wrist to the plastic tube was in his mouth.
“Lucy did. Well, for most of them. I picked Andre 3000, Madonna, Willy Wonka and made the drinks myself. They’re not accurate though.” She sipped from her drink. “The rest of them are.”
“How much of this decor did you do? Like, concepts and stuff.” Harry takes out the tucked hand to wave around, and then tucks it back in.
“Concepts? Hmm…” she trails off for a moment. “All of them. I don’t want to say that I made this place myself, because I wouldn’t have done it without Lucy’s guidelines, but I went out, bought the furniture. Everything you see me doing at Karime's, I did here… ‘cept Karime’s is just plants and this,” she waves around her in a gesture and leaves it at that.
“Do you decorate apartments?” He asked.
“W-what?” Y/n, in the middle of a sip, and very surprised at his question, stuttered at his
“‘Coz mine’s looking kinda bland right now, was thinking maybe you could help me put some life into it.”
“Harry, I-”
“Kinda like the Rockstar vibes, but like, a little less on the trendy side? I dunn-” Harry isn’t looking at her, his eyes wandering and landing on everything but her.
“Harry.” she said a little more sternly, putting a stop to his little rant. He looked at her then, his expression unreadable. “I’m not sure you want me to help you decorate your home.”
“Why not? You’d be helping me is all, and I love the way you’ve made Aromatherapy and Rockstar look.” He licks his lips, moving his head to the side and bringing the straw into his mouth with his tongue (that y/n stare at for longer than necessary).
“But it’s your home.”
“I am aware. Help me make it more me.” He shifts his body towards her then, his knee bending so he chest is to her. “Please?” He makes the face Puss in Boots made in that one movie, y/n couldn’t remember then because Harry looked much cuter than that dumb cat did.
Y/n tosses this idea around in her head. Helping Harry decorate his home. She was scared, not only because Harry was cute, but because home was a personal and private space to be calm and safe. What if she screwed it all up and then Harry was uncomfortable in his own home? What is she did such a shit job that, that- well such a bad job that a horrible result came out of it again. This thing with Harry, a budding friendship? She barely knew the guy, just that he had an affinity for showering her with compliments and he made her turn more red than that really bad sunburn she got in the 10th grade after she refused to put on sunblock on a trip to a pool resort. What her point was, is that decorating someone’s home- a place where the heart is pure- is a really big job.
“Of course, this would be after you’re done with Karime’s place. Don’t wanna stress you out or anything like that.” A nike shoe, white and crisp looking like it had come straight out of the box, pressed into his thigh when he wrapped a hand around his ankle and pulled his bent leg in tighter. “Whadda ya say?”
After hemming and hawing a few times, y/n finally says, “Okay. But you’re gonna have to be one million times more specific okay?” She elbows him, his position causing her elbow to poke at his pec instead of his bicep, and y/n elbows into hard muscle.
“Heyyy, can’t go hurting the girls now,” He rubs over where he poked her, and pouts childishly, even going as far as sticking his tongue out at her. “Do you need to head back? I don’t wanna get you into any trouble, y/n.”
The use of her name makes her heart skip a beat. “Yes, we should probably get going.” She moves to get up, and accidentally places her hand on Harry’s thigh. Before she would say sorry for touching him, he says,
“Alway using me to hold yourself, huh? Sneaky thing, I see what you’re doin.”
“You offered! Said it yourself, I’ll hold you so you don’t fall again,” she deepened her voice, and faked a british lilt as best she could.
“I do not sound like that,” He whined.
He got up right after her, grabbing her hand to ‘pull’ himself back up, but he was really just holding it. His hand was cooler than hers (because he’d used the hand that had been holding his iced coffee) and enormous around hers. If he tried, he could close his finger tips and they’d be overlapping. When he was fully stood up, he reached around her neck, and lifted the black strap over her head, transfering the cloth over to the hand that held his cup, and then reaching again, this time around her waist to undo the knot. His front, not even a full step away from hers, and y/n got a whiff of detergent and something else she could only describe as ‘clean man’. If she were a shark, this would’ve been the moment her eyes turned black and rolled to the back of her head.
“There you go, no longer look like a little barista.” He hung the apron over he shoulder, and walked alongside her to the exit. Y/n split from him for a short second to return the apron, but then resumed her place next to him and they walked out together. She was hyper alert the entire way, taking notice of when their hands brushed, or when he pressed his bicep against hers. They walked a little stumbly, walking against each other almost. Had it been Lucy, she would’ve already yelled at y/n, and y/n would’ve walked near the sidewalk to avoid bumping into her again. But Harry?
Harry takes it like a champ. Giggling and pressing back against her, and he even placed her on the inside of the sidewalk when she walked to the side closest to the passing cars.
“So, tell me.” He starts, tossing his empty cup at a recycling bin as they waited for the light. “What kind of premeditated preparations should I take to be- as you said- extra specific?”
Y/n still nurtures her cup in her hands, the coffee lid resting on her bottom lip. “Moodboards. Magazine scraps. Room inspiration on pinterest. Make a list of things you like. Anything really. Anything that you like and would like to see in your apartment. Also, you need a budget.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout a budget. I’ll work on everything else. You want it done by a certain day?” He asked, gallantly placing a hand on the small of her back as they crossed the street.
“Preferably within the next week or two. I’m pretty much done with Karime.” She straightens up when she feels Harry’s hand on her, a warm feeling spreading from where he pressed, unlike the nastiness Kim made her feel.
They’re three shops down when he said, “Gotta give me your number so I can send you everything then. You can keep me updated and I’ll keep you updated.” They pass by a tree whose branch is just low enough to graze Harry’s head, and it hooks onto the hood on his head, effectively pulling it back as he walks through. His hair looks incredibly soft. Wispy strands the color of the drink in her hands, billowing up and around his face, a ringlet falling in front of his right eye.
He licks his lips, using his fingers to push his hair back and raise the hoodie over his hair again. HE looks over at her as he does, waiting for her response.
“Oh, oh, yes. Sure thing. Got your phone on you?” Harry jams his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone, the latest model, sleek and looking incredibly small in his hands. He placed it into her outstretched palm, unlocked but not on the contact app. Y/n has to swipe through shamefully, scared he’s gonna think that she’s snooping. She puts her number under ‘y/n :)’.
“Thanks, love.” He took the phone from her, his fingers sliding against the back of her hand. He hisses when he does so, saying, “Y/n your hands are so cold,” and then proceeds to take her hand and squeeze it between his own two.
She giggles sweetly, “Aye! Trynna hold my hand now?” she teased.
“No, trying to hold your hand would be this,” He grabs her hand with one, and lets it wall between them. They walk into AromaReads like that, with him holding her hand and the both of them laughing like they’d heard the funniest thing in the world.
Karime, standing at the counter and welcoming everyone as they come in, catches y/n’s eye and she smiles at herself knowingly. Y/n shakes her head while still laughing with Harry, and they both head to the back. Harry to get his stuff, and y/n to continue her job. Just when he’s walking between the isle and cabinets, his phone dings and he takes it out, his jaw dropping and palm slapping his forehead.
“SHIT! I completely forgot. I have a lunch meeting with my friend today. Fuck,” Y/n, this being the first time she hears swear words coming out of his mouth, rases her eybrow at him and chuckles. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to keep helping you, but-”
She raises her hand, silencing him. “You do what you have to do. This is my job anyway. Just don’t forget to text me.” Basket handles fill her hands, wicker patterns pressing into her pals, and she tucks one of the last two frames under her hand too.
“I won’t. In fact, I’ll do that right now.” He types into the phone that’s still in his hand, and a few seconds later Y/n’s back pocket buzzes and chimes. She doesn’t pull it out to check. “Now you can text me if I forget.” He says finally, swinging his satchel over his shoulder.
“Bye, sweetheart!” He called out, turning back over to smile at her. Y/n’s lips pulled up at the corners, gazing at him with a certain look in her eye as he walked out.
“Sweetheart, huh?” Karime stepped into her direct line of vision, snapping y/n out of the daydream in her head where she’s the housewife and Harry her husband leaving to work, calling out bye, sweetheart! as he walked out the door.
Karime’s looking at her with a smirk and a single pointy eyebrow raise.
God, what had she gotten herself into?
.
.
Y/n had saved Harry under “H.”
And received a text from him that same night.
She’d been in her bathtub with cucumbers on her eyes when she heard her phone chime. Chin pointed upwards and wrists perched on the edges of her porcelain basin, she lay unbothered and unmotivated to even move. Arms aching and the soles of her feet tired from walking from place to place and lifting she did at Karime’s earlier that day. Tealight candles were the only source of light in the tiny bathroom, a soft yellow glow cascading on the skin of her neck. The valley of her breast peaked out everytime she took a breath, her mind drifting off into thoughts of green eyes and warm hands, all she’d been able to think about that day.
She planned on staying there 30 more minutes, but her phone dinged again. After she thought it was the two minute thing the phone does after receiving a message, but when it dinged again, she huffed from her nose and removed the soggy cucumber sliced off of her eyes. Should’ve turned off my phone, she thought to herself, grabbing the towel she left on the toilet seat across from the tub, and wrapping it around her torso. The phone screen a blaring white light in contrast to the dimness of the candles.
Y/n, eyes cloudy with sleep and limbs saggy with fatigue, is very much surprised to see that next to the app icon on the display screen, is ‘H.’ Hey eyes pop out of her head at the realization, and her heart shakes up the fatigue to beat up a storm for the boy she’d been thinking about all day since he’d left her.
Standing in her bathroom, on bare tiles with water still dripping on her, it hit her full force. She liked Harry. Liked the way his cheek squished against his shoulder when he shrugged. They way he looked at her through his eyelashes, and they way he made sure that she was walking on the inside of the street. Liked how he smiled at her and said her name. She was obsessed with him.
So i think i know what i wanna go for
Was thinking maybe italy in the 70’s
What do you think :D ??
And attached were varying pictures of vast rooms with big windows during golden hour and white flowy curtains with art pieces on the wall. It was minimal Even more minimal that what Karime asked for. This is what he wanted help with? Not to mention, the pictures he sent were of rooms far bigger than she’d ever seen for an LA apartment. Hell, those rooms might as well have been in Italy, one of the windows had a view of a pretty pink sunset and orange tree branches littering the way.
However, she couldn’t argue that they were very pretty rooms. Sweet and plain, easy for the eye to absorb and just the place you’d be able to melt on the floor with a book.
Or the kind in which you have slow, hazy afternoon sex, but who was she to say what harry would use his rooms for right?
Disclaimer: if this is the look you’re going for
Like
This exact look? You’re gonna have 2 have a really big apartment
Not even a full minute goes by until the grey delivered letters turns into ‘Read at 10:15pm’ and the grey typing bubble appears at the bottom of her screen. Her palms begin to sweat and her breath hitches. She doesn’t realize she’s been holding in her breath until she releases it after his message comes through.
are you doing anything this weekend?
Y/n is confused, brows furrowed as she reads his message. Why does he want to know?
No. why? she responded.
so you can come and take measurements of my apartments. that way i know how to tweak what i want
and I have a measuring tape don’t worry
Y/n rolled her eyes and giggled at her phone screen, turning and resting her bum on the edge of her sink.
Saturday?
Seconds later,
see you Saturday
sweet dreams. H.x
The idiot. Of course he’d sign off a text message. Scoffing, y/n let the towel drop to the floor, and reached into the tub to unclog the drain. As soon as she felt the pop of water flowing down the pipes, she took out her arm and walked out.
.
.
On Wednesday, y/n laid in bed until 12. When she got up, it was only to brush her teeth, pee, and eat ramen with rice and egg like the asian lady in the liquor store had taught her to make. When she finished, she went back to bed. Maybe she masturbated to get herself to fall asleep again.
Maybe.
.
.
On Thursday, she went took Our Sign Of The Times and took it out to read in her car on signal hill. She finished it.
She cried.
When she went home, she started another one. Rogue Lover. This one with a really pretty purple flower on the front, and the first page when you open it is a raven haired man with shoulder length hair who’s propped up next to a busty redhead. Her nipple is in his mouth, and her head is thrown back in pleasure. Y/n fell a little more in love with
Lemus Knox upon finding the dedication was a note rather than a name.
It said:
Whoever reads this, I’ll be waiting for you where the stars and clouds meet. My heart is yours. Lemus.
.
.
Friday.
She helped Lucy at Rockstar. A bald man with a blue beard came in asking for her. He has a boutique in Long Beach. Doesn’t want to come off overbearing. Will he help her?
She said yes.They were set to meet next week.
Also, Harry texted her asking if they were still on for tomorrow and come ready to eat because I made Italian food for a few friends I had over and there’s leftovers.
.
.
Saturday.
Y/n woke up with an appetite for Italian food. She didn’t have to be at Harry’s house until 12-ish. They hadn’t really clarified. And with it being 8 am and all that, y/n decided to take some time to shower and prep herself all nice and delicate. She spent 15 minutes lathering herself in her tub, letting her skin absorb berry scented bubbles that made her mouth water, and if she didn’t know any better she’d scoop up the bubbles and eat them.When her skin shriveled, she stood and drained the water, letting the stream from the overhead wash her off, and stepped out onto her heart shaped mat, the kind with little stubs that felt really nice against the bottom of her feet.
A little while back, she’d bought a lemon face scrub from a really expensive skincare place that had a sale, and meanwhile she put on her clothes, she put some on her cheekbones and forehead to sit for 15 minutes. It required extra care when slipping her floral dress over her head. Once she managed to poke her head through, and the material rested all bunched up on her neck, the rest was a breeze. With a careful yank, the light material cascaded down her body, dropping just below her bum. Checking herself in her mirror, she smiled at the way she looked when she swayed her hips side to side. Cheeky flashes of her bum glint at her teasingly. Humming contently, she took off to wash off her face in the restroom. She was eager to find out how Harry liked the way she looked; her dress a low neckline, and she wasn’t wearing a bra because it was one of those dress in which the fabric bunched at the breasts to create a makeshift cup. The patter was a nice pink that looked nice against her skin, dainty little bows at the sleeves and in between her breasts accentuating her features.
Y/n opted for nothing other than a dark shade of lipstick, and let her hair flow down her back. As she was putting on her shoes, a pair of those recycled shoes that sent some of the proceeds to charity, she noticed that much of what she was doing felt like what she would have done if she were getting ready for a date.
And… and Harry had food waiting for her at his place (apartment? Loft? She didn’t know specifically). Was this a date? She definitely wouldn't mind if it was.
She finished, and grabbed nothing other than her keys and shoulder bag, hesitating at her door whether she should grab the measuring tape, but deciding against it after remembering that Harry, quite teasingly, had said he had one at his house.
In her car, she scrolled up her and Harry’s text to find the one which contained his address, tapped on it when she found it, and set in on the small mount on the headboard of her cart. Huffing, she set off to Harry’s house.
It didn’t take her long to get there, about ten minutes, and she parked in front of a much nicer version of her own apartment complex, but in Beverly hills. A beige building that have the similar structure of a hotel, with turquoise patios and green roofing. Palm trees making a walkway to the entrance, which guarded by a security guard who asked who she was there to see.
“I’m here to see Harry…” she falters, realizing she doesn’t know his name.
The security, an old man with a limp and scrutinizing eyes, looked her up and down and said, “Ya one of dem girls das always botherin’ him ain’tcha? I suggest you turn back and go home. Mr. Styles won’t see you.”
Y/n, with her jaw dropped, stood stunned in the middle of the pathway, not sure what to respond. Surely, he was confused. And whichever “girls that came around bothering Mr. Styles” she wasn’t one of them.
“Go on and git,” he said, crossing his arms and standing possessively in front of a keypad.
She hurried to reach into her bag for her phone, walking back to her car while she punched Harry’s “call” because she didn’t want to stand while an agitated security man watched her.
He picks up the phone, and doesn’t even give her a chance to talk before he says, “is Felix giving you a hard time?” His voice gravelly and knowing.
“The security guard? He said that you won’t see me.” She whines into the receiver.
“Ah yes, the strict old man. Gimme a second.” He hangs up on her, leaving y/n clutching the strap of her bag so hard her knuckles turn white.
“Ms. Y/n?!” Felix calls from behind her. She turns around, surprised to see that his face was completely transformed with a smile. His front tooth is gold and he’s missing a molar. “You can go on ahead, dolly. Mr. Styles just called and said you was a nice ‘un.” He said, punching a thumb into the keypad behind him. “Sorry, bout that Miss. Enjoy the rest ‘ur dey!” He touches the tips of his fore and middle finger to his gleaming forehead and salutes her as she passes him, giggling and blushing.
“Thank you, Felix. You too.”
She walks through, and is greeted with a fine lobby. It really does look like a hotel lobby. Carpeted floors, a receptionist, and a door leading to a pool just outside the elevator. Before she can even wonder where to go, she hears her name being called by a familiar voice,
“Y/n, over here!” Harry calls out, standing in front of open doors to the elevator to her right. He’s wearing a burgundy turtleneck and black slacks that are cuffed at the ankles. Yellow tortoise shell glasses and his hair is parted down the middle making him look like MiloThatch. A lavender towelette is in the grasp of his right hand, and he’s waving it at her like soldier girlfriends saying goodbye on the platforms.
Stunned at his etherealness, y/n felt the roof of her mouth go dry. Staring at the way he filled out his clothing, she walked to him hypnotized, transfixed by his appearance. His chiseled features, boyish grin. She gravitated towards him. Enchanted.
“H-hi, Harry.” she said dreamily. Harry’s eyes raked her up and down when she came to a stop in front of him.
“Why, hello. You look exceptionally lovely right now, darling.” He rasped, looking down at her sternly, all traces of a sweet smile gone and replaced by something a little more serious. A little more sinister. His light green eyes turning a darker shade, y/n’s lips parting and knees weakening.
She musters the words to say, “so do you,” and Harry’s lips turn up at the corners.
“Shall we head up. Pasta and salad is waiting for you.” He turns away from her and presses the circular button that goes red when he pushes it.
“How was-”
“So, you-”
They both say at the same time, laughing and stopping to let the other speak and Harry says, “You go first.”
“I see you’ve a few fans that bother you, and Mr. Felix has taken to guarding them off,” y/n commented. Her eyebrow quirked at him.
Harry laughs, a single loud ha! “Felix just takes his job very seriously. That’s all.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that you have women-” the elevator rings and the doors open, “lined up on your doorstep.” Harry steps in first, and uses his hand to stop the elevator doors from closing in on y/n.
She steps through, and they both stand side by side in the metal encasing. Glancing up, she sees the ceiling is covered in mirror panels.
“Well,” Harry shifts his body so his front is facing her, and takes a step, shoulders taking turns on tilting forward with every slow, torturous step he takes. “Does it,” Y/n takes a step back, breath hitching in her chest, “ bother,” her back collides with the cool wall, the floors on the meter above the doors keep going, 5, 6, “ you?”
He’s a needle away from her nose, his mouth ghosting over her own and his chest rising up and down slowly while hers is an erratic mess. She’s breathing out of her mouth, her eyes shifting between his own two that are fixed and straight on hers. 7, 8, Harry’s hand comes to rest on the right side of her face, caging her between the elevator wall and his bicep, his palm cupped her jaw and running a thumb tenderly over her cheekbone.
“I-I,” she stutters.
“Cat got your tongue, petal?” His breath smells like mint and coffee. The tips of the curls that hang in front of his eyes tickle y/n’s forehead and down the side of her temple and eventually her cheek when he leans in to put his lips at her ear. “Look so pretty right now, y'know?” HIs british drawl is heavy because his tone of voice is low.
8, 9, “Harry,” she gasped, involuntarily tilting her head to the side when he noses at the back of her ear. “What are you doing?”
The elevator comes to a stop at 10, and Harry retracts, leaving her a red, heated mess and slightly panting. He takes the few steps to stand in front of the elevator doors, and clasps his hands behind his back. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smiled at her sweetly, his demeanor innocent as if we weren't just going to ravish her in an elevator like Robet Patterson for that one Dior commercial.
The doors open to a long hallway that turns sharply at the end to the right, a door where it would’ve turned on the left side. The right wall is a window that looks out onto the middle of the building, where y/n could see the pool that had been behind door. The flooring is a green colored tile, the same as the roofing, and the walls are a flattering soft yellow bordering on white.
Harry’s shoes, expensive looking-black heeled boots that have a rainbow pattern on the, making clacking noises against the floor with every step he takes. Y/n can’t help but feel awkward while walking alongside him, but Harry, humming along to the tune of Maneater, by Hall and Oates, doesn’t seem to share her opinions. At the end of the hall, he makes a sharp turn to left, and she bumps into him. Mumbling a sorry she steps back to allow him to open the door.
It’s not locked, and with a quick turn of the brass knob, the door opens and the smell of tomato and basil hits them both in the face.
Y/n’s stomach grumbles, and she places her hand over her bell and looks over at Harry with wide eyes, embarrassed.
“I take it you’re hungry?” He steps through, holding the door open for her.
“...yes…” she mumbled, stepping through.
“Just in time then because I…” Whatever Harry says is drowned out. Y/n is amazed. Harry doesn’t have an apartment. He has a goddamn penthouse suite. His living room wall is a window, his kitchen open and blending in with the rest of the space. There are no walls, just turns where the building walls connect. Tall and wide walls painted with angles of shadows and lights that stream in. No furniture other than a long, wooden dinner table and three white chairs, and his bed. A mattress and a white comforter messily strewn over pillows. Before the walls turn to the streetside view, Y/n catches glimpses of cedar wood bookshelves arranged in the middle of the room; just like in a library.
“Y/n?” Harry appears in her line of peripheral vision, a knowing look on his face.
“Sorry, sorry. What was it?”
“Said, do you want spaghetti and meatballs or fettuccine?”
“Mmm,” She scrunches her face like she’s thinking real hard, “fettuccine.” Then she adds, “please.”
“You got it.” He said, walking away while playing with the collar of his turtleneck. Y/n follows after him, to the kitchen isle and utilities placed in a little alcove underneath the stairs that lead upstairs. To what, y/n didn’t know.
Then she sees the pots and pans that are still steaming, the cutting boards with chopped lettuce and other vegetables and realizes that-
“Hey! You said you had takeout,”
“I did.” He picks up the knife next to the tomato, and continues chopping the lettuce. “But I left it out, and it went bad. I promised you Italian so I made it myself instead. Much better than Olive Garden, anyways.” He shrugs, looking up at her and pointing with the knife to a chair across from him. “Sit.”
“NO!” She said, exasperated. “Let me chop something, too.”
“Darling, this is finished. I’ve got it. Sit, the fettuccine is almost finished. Just,” he twists his neck to look behind him, at the clock above the stove, a cat with a swinging tail. “Five more minutes.”
Y/n slides the bag she carried off her shoulder and hooks it in the back of the chair he had told her to sit on, which she still wasn’t.
“Harry, that’s not fair.” she stomped her foot, a flat slapping noise of her sole against his wooden floors.
“Oh sit, or I won’t give you any food.” He tuts his tongue at her, shaking his knife and turning to turn down one of the knobs on the stove.
Pouting like a child, y/n sits down with a plop and a screech of the chair sliding against the floor.
She sat and watched Harry as he took plates out of his cupboards and placed food on them. The only noises being the quiet bubbling of pasta sauce, the tapping of his heels, clinks of plates against each other, and y/n’s grumbling stomach. Her face was still puckered in a pout because Harry hadn’t let her help him, but it slowly eased off as she focused more and more on the way he looked in his fitting black pants. The way the fabric was tighter on his ass, how his thighs flexed with each stride. Suddenly, y/n got the urge to bite into them, and she felt herself blush at her own thoughts, especially when Harry turned to her with a sweet smile of his lips.
He placed a plate in front of her, complete with salad and garlic knots.
“Would you like some wine? Got this really nice one the other day and I haven’t opened it yet. Figured since we’re having Italian, it fits.” Harry was holding a dark wine bottle in his hand, that he had just pulled out of his silver fridge.
“Harry, I would love some, but-” Y/n tried to explain that she felt bad because she came here for take out and had cooked her a meal.
“NO buts. Have some.” And instantly, there was a cup of red wine next to her plate.
Even though he had a table for eating, he placed his own plate next to her, and sat down to eat. Y/n looked at him, deflated and with a pained look on her face, while he forked spaghetti into his mouth and raised his glass for a drink.
He froze when he saw she was looking at him. Looking her up and down, he said, “Moppet, eat your food. We have work to do.”
Y/n rubbed her palm down her face, her lips pulled down. With a groan, she picked up her fork, sulking, and twirled it in her pasta.
She didn’t know what she was expecting, but definitely not the mini piece of heaven that was in her mouth. Harry had managed to create the perfect blend of cheese and cream that glazed her tongue like silk. It was so good, she moaned, her fingers pressing against her mouth and head tilted back.
“S’good,? Harry questioned, wiping his mouth with a napkin to hide his laugh.
“Very,” she said, shoving more of the pasta into her mouth.
“Good.”
They eat quietly, Harry snickering at her whenever inhumane noises of pleasure left her mouth.Y/n practically cleaned her plate with the garlic knots. She only remembered about the glass of wine when Harry set his down empty, lips stained, and eyes droopy if she looked at him hard enough. After she’d cleaned her plate, she reached for the thin stem of the g;ass and drank it like it was grape juice, only slightly wincing after it had gone down, the tart acidity washing down the sweeter tones of cream.
“Slow down, Moppet. Don’t want you to get a tummy ache.” Harry said, patting her hand tenderly and pushing himself off the seat to place her plate in the sink. At this, y/n jumped from her chair and took the plates from Harry.
“You cooked, not I wash the dishes.” She stuck her tongue out at him, the tip red from the wine.
“But-” Harry protested.
“No buts. Go,” she bumped her hip against his, and walked the last few steps to the sink, picking up the sponge and turning on the water. She washed the dishes, and like always, got the front of her dress wet, water splattering onto her chest. Sucking on her teeth, y/n used the towel hanging on the handle of the oven to pat off the water. Harry watched this from where he leaned against the isle across from the stove; a new glass of wine half empty.
Returning to the table, she grabbed her now full- no thanks to Harry- glass of wine and sipped from it. It settled nicely in her stomach, warming down the path it took to settle.
Clasping her hands, she said, “Okay, Harry. Let’s talk decor.”
Harry untucked his hand from underneath his armpit, and smacked his lips together, “Follow me.”
He started walking out to the living room area, and into the bookshelves y/n had seen. Up close, they were actually taller than her, just about Harry’s height. He walked past them, and stopped again at a corner where one building face meets the other. Here, he had pictures upon pictures laid out on the floor. He even had scraps of fabric.
Y/n stared, and nodded approvingly. “You did your research. Good job.” Looking closer, she saw what the images were. Albums (David Bowie, Stevie Nicks, Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles, The Beatles, Prince). Pop culture pieces (Andy Narwhal, Pulp Fiction, Sixteen Candles). Fabric patterns, colors, and a lot of velvet. About half of the pictures were shots of other room like the pictures he’d shown her.
To her left, Harry tapped onto his phone, and seconds later, that song he’d been humming in the hallway, Maneater, played with clarity on speakers hidden from the eye. When he was satisfied with his queue choices, he knee and sat next to his big circle of inspiration, legs splayed out in front of him looking infinitely long. Y/n noticed he had taken off his boots, and his feet, knobby and lanky, had toes painted blue and pink. He had black markings on his big toe, but she couldn’t see what it was.
“Look, sit sit, I was thinking…” Harry began, patting the area next to him and grabbing a few of the papers he had spewed on the floor. Y/n, inexplicably endeared, sat with her legs crossed to the side next to him, feeling her butt press onto the cold floor, and listened to him go on and on about his vision.
Hours passed with them just talking about images, why Fleetwood Mac would go better than Prince (because Fleetwood Mac is more of an afternoon in the meadows, and Prince is a night going down the highway in Malibu) and fabric choices for the windows (i’m sorry Harry, y/n had argued, but unless you can find a near translucent velvet its not gonna work. If you want the summer in italy during the 70’s look, you need transparent curtains).
They sat long enough that the way the light filtered in at an angle according to the sun, changed completely (it was at a harsh slant with the morning light, now its at a soft bend with golden light). When the light made Harry’s face look a golden pink, he fell back onto the wooden floors with a groan and said,
“How do you do this, y/n?” He blew hair out of his lips to move the few strands that had fallen in front of his eyes.
“Dunno, its just second natur- heeyy,”
A midst the mess, she guesses they missed it. Underneath a picture of a fruit bowl and flowers, was a picture of a naked woman, with birds eye view from the bot of her head, so you could see the tips of her breasts with they way she arched her back, and the head of hair in between her thighs. Her mouth was open in a silent scream of pleasure, eyes closed and a hand fisting her own hair like she was doing to the man in between her thighs.
Her cheeks burn upon her discovery, and she feels a familiar buzz in the place where the woman in the picture had a tongue pressed against her.
When he heard her little gasp, Harry shot straight up and when he saw the image in her hands he said, “Ah, I see you’ve finally found it. Was wonderin’ when it would come out.” Reaching across her, his chest smushed againt her shoulder, he plucks it from her hands and look at it, smirking.
“You didn’t tell me we’d be doing x-rated work.”
She says it teasingly.
But maybe it was the way she was looking at him then. She couldn’t help it. The roots of his hair looked blonde in the light, and his eyes were clear, almost see through as light passed them. His lips looked particularly tasty, having been tinted red from the wine, glinting from his own spit, and swollen from how he’d plucked at them while he was thinking about her suggestions. The juncture of his throat was partly hidden, but she could still see every time he swallowed, hos his adam’s apple bobbed up and down. And… and it wasn’t her fault that black pants looked good on him either. The material stretching taught over his muscles, flexing with every, single movement he made, no matter how small.
So, maybe she had been looking at his provocatively, and her comment had… fueled Harry. Tuned him in on what had been on her mind.
He lifts himself with one arm from his indian-style position on the floor, up to his knees, and crawls to her. Eyes looking with hers, y/n’s chest starts to heave, her breaths growing bated; shorter; faster.
“Do you want to do x-rated work?” He said, his voice dangerously low. His rings clink against the wooden planks, and brush against her thighs when he comes close, hands bracketing her hips, his nose nudging hers.
She’s gupping, like a little guppy fish, her lips opening and close, but nothing comes out of them.
Harry’s nose moves to her cheek, pushing back her hair. “It’s okay, pet. I can ask you again. Do you want,” his lips are at her ear for the second time that day, except that she thinks maybe they’ll actually gets somewhere this time. All she has to do is say,
“Yes.” Her voice is small, an airy squeak when Harry presses a kiss to the back of her ear. Her hands, sitting dumbly on her lap, move tentatively to his chest, searching from something to hold onto. She clenches the soft fabric in her hands just as Harry starts to lean back, his palm falling into her naval, and pushing her back, back, back, until she has to stretch her legs out to lay comfortable on her back, staring up at him with bleary eyes, glossed over.
“Yes? Course you do, pet.” He moves his knees to straddle her hips, leaning down close so he’s almost talking into her mouth, and one of his hands smooths down the shape of her waist. Y/n feels herself grow wet when Harry dips his thumb into her belly button, and she’s whining because she hasn’t done anything with anybody in so long and she wants him to do something.
But, if he’s not gonna do anything, that she might as well. She stretched her neck the last of the way, flattening her lips against Harry’s. The relief is instant, she quells her desire of being closer to him, and Harry responds almost immediately, swiping his tongue on her bottom lip and licking into her when she lets him. Harry groans, because she still tastes like wine and a sweetness he can only credit to her. His kiss becomes urgent, smashing his against her soft, malleable mouth.
Y/n whimpers, hips jutting upwards when Harry takes her lower lip between his teeth, and bites down on it,hard enough to where the pain was pleasure. Although her mind is swimming, she knows that the bulge she feels through the flimsy cloth of her dress is Harry’s cock. Elated and driven mad by her need, she arches up into him, needing any friction she could.
Harry pulls away from her, their lips separating with a wet noise, and tuts his tongue at her. “Ah, ah, ah. You’re not getting my cock tonight, y/n. Not yet.”
She mewls, her eyebrows dipping and red, puffy lips pouting, “Harry, don’t be a tease. S’not fair.” She doesn’t care is she sounds pathetic, the space between her thighs aches, and she’d like him to very much sate it “Do something, please.”
He coos at her, pressing wet kisses along her neck, his hand sneaking past her waist, to the start of her dress, and slipping underneath it. “Whining like a little puppy, aren’t you?” His hand glides of her thigh, the shill of his rings sending a violent shiver up her spine. His nail scratches a path near the place where she’s most warm. Most needy, and she moans when he feels how close he is to touching her, the splotch on her panties expanding every time he spoke. “You’re alright puppy, I’ll take care of you.”
Y/n’s breath hitches when his finger hooks onto the strap of her underwear, snapping the material twice with a chuckle at the cries he elicited from her.
“Harry, harry, harry,” she’s half mad with need, her eyes squeezed shut with anticipation, and when Harry sees the desperation in her slack mouth, his own features go soft, and he takes out his hand from underneath her dress to cup her cheek.
“Puppy,” he said, and when she didn’t open her eyes, he said again, “Puppy, look at me.” his thumb rubs over her cheek, ignoring the imploring whines that leave her lips, and instead leaning down and kissing her to shut her up. “It’s okay, its okay. Do you want me to keep going?”
“Yes!” She shouted, eyes going wide, amazed that he’d even ask that. “Do something.” She ruts up again, the head of Harry’s cock nudging against her hood. Harry groans, noticing how fucking hard he is. He’s leaked through his pants, a darker splotch where his head it.
“Fuck, baby,” he said, more to himself than to her.
His hand makes the same trail it had before, flipping up her dress this time to see her clothed center. Her panties make him want to cum on the spot. Baby pink cotton with a bow on the center of the band. Biting his lip, he uses a knee to spread her thighs, and then he sees just how much she needs him.
“Oh puppy. We’ve made a mess of your panties haven’t we?” He looks at her with amusement, “Guess they have to go, don’t they?”
Y/n hums desperately, her hips writhing up to meet his fingers. Pressing a last kiss to her lips, Harry scoots back so his knees are by her feet, and he and slip off the material all the way off. Suddenly aware of how bare she is, he clasps her thighs sht, obscuring Harry’s view of her pussy.
“C’mon now, honey. Don’t be shy,” with a strong hand, he pries her knees apart and lays himself down in front of her, his breath hot on her swollen clit. From that angle, he can see how much she glistens, and how her juices spill out of her every time she clenched her hole around nothing. “Look at you, just begging to be stuffed.”
With a single finger, he slides up and down her slit, collecting her wetness, and then slipping into her.
Y/n bleats, his intrusion stirring her heat up more; she wanted more. Wanted to be filled than more with just his finger, but was scared to say. Instead she said, “another,”
Harry slid his middle finger inside her, scissoring his fingers and leaning down to lick a stripe on her clit. Y/n arched her back, and moaned loudly, her eyes squeezing shut and hands touching at the area around her, looking for something to hold on to and settling to clenching at her own dress.
He hears the sound of her hands colliding with the floor, and looks up to see her knuckles going white with hoe hands she was fondling her dress.
“Y’can pull my hair, puppy.” he said against her slit, the vibrations of his words sending prickled of pleasure to the building orgasm she feels in the pit of her stomach. The second her muddled brain comprehends what Harry said, her fingers jam themselves into her his hair, just as he suckles on her. Y/n’s eyes roll to the back of her head, and her gasps come out in staccatos.
Harry’s fingers are still pumping in an out of her, twisting every time he pushed them back into her. He’s looking for the spongy spot inside of her, when he hears her say something incoherently.
“What was that?” he asked her,his fingers stilling inside her.
“Said, what about you?”
Her voice is faint and weak, her voice and comment sending pin-pricks of satisfaction to his throbbing member. His heart clenches at her considerations, so touched by the fact that she’s so lost in her own heat but she’s still worried about him.
“This isn’t about me. It’s about you. Y’gonna cum for me, puppy?” He feels the pad of his middle finger slide against something that has a different texture that the rest of her, and when her breathing hitches and she lets out a long moan, he knows hes found what he’s looking for. Y/n’s pussy clenches around, her fingers tighten in his hair, so hard it makes Harry yelp. “Clenching m’fingers, puppy, I know you’re there.”
Y/n feels the familiar slow burn of her orgasm twisting in the pit of her stomach, her entire body hyper aware of Harry and what he was doing to her. How he pressed a hand on her navel to keep her from lifting her hips, the harsh sucking of her clit, and then finally the flick of his pointer finger curling inside her. The build-up unravels, and her mouth opens up in a silent scream like the women in the picture, her body going taught, and then falling limp when the wave calms.
“That’s it, love. All better now isn’t it?” Harry slowly takes his fingers out of her, reveling in the way she’s still squeezing around him. She’s sensitive and jerking from her orgasm when He lick his fingers clean, kissing his path up her body. Her thighs, her exposed navel, her clothed valley of her breasts, her collarbones, and up her throat, behind her ear where he’s taken a liking to kissing.
“Jesus, Harry. Where’d you learn to talk like that?” She titters sleepily.
“S’my job, puppy.” He nibbles at her earlobe and down her jawline.
Alarmed, y/n’s eyes pop open, and she sits up, pushing Harry’s chest and holding him at arms length. “What do you mean, it’s your job?” She’s scared she’s just been used or something along those lines.
“I mean it’s my job. Learned a few skills from writing erotica, pet.” He responses calmly, diving back in to continue his assault on the skin of her jaw. His voice warped against her, he adds, “write under a pseudonym. Lemus Knox.”
Lemus Knox.
Harry was Lemus Knox. Harry was Lemus fucking Knox.
“You’re…” she’s still. Almost like that fight or flight instinct.
Harry stills when he realizes she has. He knows, simply by the tone of her voice that she knows who he is. Who Lemus Knox is.He withdraws to look at her, grinning fro ear to ear.
“You know who I am?” he said slowly.
“Harry, I’d even go as far as saying I’m in love with Lemus,” she blurts, reddening as soon as the words leave her mouth, but Harry just smiles fondly at her.
“That’s okay, puppy. Lemus and I aren’t the same person. You have a right to love him,” he nuzzles into her neck, kissing down her shoulder, “Just as long as you save some love for me.”
And lying there, completely stunned ant with Harry’s hard cock pressing into her hip, y/n bursts out laughing. She laughs because she’s happy. Because she likes Harry. Because she loves Lemus Knox.
She laughs because for the first time in a long time, someone is laughing along with her, kissing her, holding her.
She laughs because she can’t wait to see where Harry will lead her.
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lost - knj
pairing: namjoon x reader
genre/warnings: travel!au, roommate!au, bookstore owner!namjoon, strangers to lovers, ft platonic reader x taehyung, fluff, lots of angst regarding uncertain futures, namjoon has a cat named marie
word count: 16,451
summary: taehyung’s warning was simple: stop and you’ll never want to start again or the one where you’re left alone in a loft apartment above a bookstore owned by a man with the sweetest dimples you’ve ever seen.
a/n: my first fic in three months omg...i hope u enjoy it as much as i did writing it :-(
Tiny succulent leaves spiraled outward from a central lobe rooted somewhere in the limited space provided by it’s miniature clay home. The pot rattled with the dips of open road, contained mostly to the corner of the dash and the dusty van window yet a victim of the unforgiving lack of traction still attached to the tires that had carried you for miles up until this point.
One thousand, two hundred and thirty-one miles. And counting.
You tucked your knee into your chest, lounging so the seatbelt started to cut into your neck as your head lulled to the side, eyeing Taehyung’s profile.
“You’ve kept that one alive,” You commented absently.
A noise of surprise broke the hard line of Taehyung’s clenched jaw. He glanced at you, genuine innocence shining through his confusion. It mirrored in his blunt, “Huh?”
You nodded toward the bouncing plant, “If you think about it, killing aloe vera would be kind of ironic…”
“Oh,” Taehyung wrinkled his nose, adjusting his wrist where it laid languidly on the top of the steering wheel, “I think succulents are more my speed. Or at least, the speed of traveling. My daisies didn’t appreciate the darkness of the bedroom. The sunflowers protested the living room on day one.”
“At least if a succulent spills it doesn’t immediately shrivel up and disintegrate…”
By bedroom, Taehyung meant the front section of the shades of beige van he’d acquired in high school, the area with a barely functional bed nailed to the floor of the “trunk”, with windows covered by tattered pieces of flannel you’d hand sewn to resemble curtains. By living room, he meant the back half, where a tiny, rainbow rug sat in the center of splintered wood and a few fold out lawn chairs, matching flannel curtains from the bedroom drawn open to allow sunlight to push through the thin layer of grime gathered in each corner of the windows.
His daisies had spilled fresh potting soil into your clean pillow case, one you’d shaken free of debris by holding it out the open window of the van while Taehyung shrieked with laughter. His sunflowers wouldn’t even balance on the tiny lip between the window and the inside, ceramic pot tumbling through Taehyung’s clumsy fingers and shattering onto the rug. A glittering piece of the white pot still sat lodged between a space in the wooden floorboards.
You grunted in acknowledgement, unfurling your legs to heave yourself forward, snatching the tiny plant from its place on the dash. You turned it gently in your palm, “This would have been nice to have a few weeks ago.”
The tiny seaside town you’d rumbled into by accident of the lack of fuel in the van’s tank lead to three nights of camping in crab infested sands, gorgeous sunset photographs you’d clipped to the twine string zigzagging through the living room, and a horrible ripple of blisters sun stained into Taehyung’s shoulder blades.
He gestured to the scarf you’d prematurely yanked from your luggage shoved into a compartment on the bottom of the vehicle, knee directing the steering wheel as he balled the fleece and tossed it at you. “Good thing it’s almost winter. Put my aloe down.”
You unfolded the pleats of the scarf once you settled the pot back against the windshield, curling it around your arms to settle back into the seat. Your eyes drifted to the scenery beyond the plant, coming first in the fashion of a neon highway sign advertising the next town. You glanced at the tiny red tick on the fuel tank meter.
“Are we stopping tonight?”
Taehyung’s gaze met the places yours rested on. He sighed, palm pressing into the steering wheel first until his fingers gradually curled around the leather. “At least to get gas and dinner, yes. Look and see if there’s any hotels around, please? And then maybe how far we are from our next stop? I don’t want to hang around too long and miss the harvest festival…”
The tiny tag clipped on the digital map of your phone showed a tiny motel with a singular Yelp review from someone named Min Yoongi within walking distance of the gas station Taehyung had turned into. Your legs crossed where you sat on the edge of the blow up mattress in the bedroom, eyes squinted as you twirled around the general vicinity of the tiny town with the tip of your index finger.
“Status update, copilot,” The van rocked as Taehyung took a running jump into the open back, momentum causing him to crouch in the center of the living room. Your mouth parted to respond in time with a tinkling crash to your left.
“There’s a motel across the street,” You uttered in an unimpressed monotone, locating the source of the crash as three similar aloe plants to the one on the dash tumbling off your tiny bookshelf to the rug below. Three sad aloe plants a mess between the sprinkle of potting soil in between grains of rainbow.
A sheepish look crossed the geometric edges of Taehyung’s smile. “I’ll clean it up,” His cupped palm swept over some of the more elevated piles of soil as if to prove his point, “Will you go see if they have anything available?”
“Got it, boss,” You stood, crouched still due to the proximity of the top of the van to your head, and began to edge your way outside.
Your hesitation came near the very bookshelf, the sign of the crime, sole of your shoe squashing into the center of the limited pile Taehyung had created by scraping his hands across the rippled weaving of the rug. You stayed crouched at the waist, fingers thumbing through the titles, titles a cumulative collection from your own personal belongings and the various shops you’d stowed away in the growing months of your journey. Their dusted and rough covers slowly transitioned into the item you were looking for, a slick yellow folder bursting at the pockets with the mixture of paper clipped, stapled, typed, and handwritten papers curled within. You squeezed it’s outer edge, thumb feeling into the tiny rip that was begging to form on the spine of the folder.
“I can’t clean if you don’t move,” Taehyung’s hand wrapped around your ankle, startling you to do a hop step into reality.
The imprint of the ripped folded scratched at the crease in your thumb where you rubbed your palms together, quick strides weaving you down a deserted sidewalk to cross a deserted street where a three story, house shaped structure sat. Your palm flexed into the ends of your scarf still dangling from around your neck, tucking it tighter to you to avoid the stream of words that began to ink across the forefront of your subconscious from the simple touch to the folder.
The interior of a structure whose exterior gave off the impression of outdated was instead rather modern, like stepping out of a deserted movie from the eighties to step into a fifties diner in the twenty-first century. Sleek tile in patterned squares wrapped around a black, raising desk, one that had a tiny stack of business cards and a credit card reader clipped to either side. A man was hunched over a laptop placed on what appeared to be a second level to the desk, it’s lid plastered in various hand drawn stickers peaking over the countertop as fingers continued to audibly hack away at a keyboard.
His black curls bounced when the screen door clattering shut behind you, wide eyes either perpetually surprised or simply shocked at the presence of a person in the otherwise desolate area. You assumed it was a little bit of both once his shoulders relaxed into the black polo hugging his toned upper body but the circular innocence to his eyes remained.
“Hi!” He chirped as you squinted at the gold plated name tag strapped on one side of his shirt. Jeongguk. “...how can I help you?”
“Do you have any rooms available?”
The surprise traveled into the rise of Jeongguk’s eyebrows into his shaggy fringe. It was short lived this time, though, movements instead turning frantic as he lifted the sticker covered laptop to the top layer of the desk, resuming his furious hacking with his tongue poked between his cheeks so that a dimple appeared to the side of his lips.
“I do,” He said after a moment, glancing up at you as his fingers continued to work, “Plenty, actually. Just trying to, uhm…”
“There!” Jeongguk cheered finally, voice an octave louder than before and there was a twinkle in his crinkling eyes as he directed his full attention to you, “How many nights and how many beds?”
“One and two,” You rested your forearm to the counter, thumbing one of the business cards out of its plastic tray. A fond smile curled onto your lips when you noticed the tiny logo was the same doodled design gracing a sticker pasted to the center of his laptop lid. GCF Motel and Design. “Please…”
“Of course, absolutely. Coming right up…” His index finger tapped hard at the touch pad a few times before a different color illuminated the stars in his eyes. He blinked, nodding once to himself before he cupped the credit card reader and dragged it toward you. “It’ll just be fifty for the night. Card reader is here—it works, I promise—or I can take cash. And make change for you, if...you know.”
“I have a card,” You said gently, plucking the plastic from the tiny holder stuck to your phone case. The chip reader clicked to life after a few passing seconds of your card sitting idle in the slot, taking longer in its processing that left you in a silence with the bouncing man across from you.
“Have you been busy lately? There’s that harvest festival a few miles from here this weekend, so I wasn’t sure…”
“No. No, uhm,” Jeongguk glanced at you under the shadow of his bangs, “You’re actually my first guest in two weeks.”
“Oh.” Two tiny electronic beeps signaled you to take your card but you were still delayed in doing so. You smiled warmly at the man across from you instead, “Well, then I’m happy we stopped here.”
“We means you’d like two room keys, right?” The tiniest of red dusted the apples of his cheeks, gaze cutting away to the level of the desk you couldn’t see.
“Please. Tae should be here any minute—”
The screen door clattered harshly when your tall best friend tripped through the threshold, loud in his, “I got the living room clean!” while Jeongguk’s perplexity amplified ten fold.
“Uhm, here’s your room keys. It’s on the third floor. Stairs and elevator are behind the desk,” Jeongguk passed over two green cards, holding them separately to each of you. You accepted yours with a gentle smile, Taehyung with a sleepier confusion that almost mirrored Jeongguk’s. His movements grew jerky again as he rustled behind the counter, presenting two sheets of paper in your direction now. “...and here’s a sheet of stickers. They’re mine. I hand draw them and sell them...I have my own website, it’s listed on the logo sticker in the center.”
You fondly assessed the page as you drew it closer to your nose, eyeing the etched star shape and the shaded in hues of a tiger flower. “Thank you, Jeongguk,” You said gently, holding the stickers to your chest.
“Of course!” He chirped while Taehyung continued to squint between the room key and the sticker page. “I hope you enjoy your stay...don’t hesitate to come find me if you need anything. My room is the only one on this floor if I’m not here at the desk.”
You were gentle in turning the door knob to a close while Taehyung flopped dramatically onto the nearest bed corner, still clutching his sticker sheet that he stretched above his face.
“Motto out the window tonight?”
Taehyung hummed, twisting the sheet to the right and then to the left, “For one night only—” He blinked to the side of the paper at you, “—did you look at these?
The motto hadn’t applied for three nights of your travels, the sleepy town with the sticker making motel owner included, the motto Taehyung’s sentiment that if your head ever touched a real pillow again, you’d want to cease your travels. A just keep going, arbitrary reason for continuing to blow through your college savings to travel the country. The first night had been in a storm when it was simply too dangerous to board up in the back of the van. The second night had been after Taehyung had contracted a cold from sneaking into a resort pool in a downtown tourist center. The third seemed to have no other motive than genuine exhaustion. You blamed the third potted plant spill of the month.
Mention of the motto made your mind drift to your travels as a general cloud of thought, one that generally evaporated into the back of your conscious so that you were able to focus on the paper map Taehyung had shoved into your grip from the last rest stop or the delayed play by play instructions on your phone due to the limited signal or simply forgotten due to your laughter at whatever ridiculous song Taehyung had decided to blast over your carefully wired auxiliary cord.
Just like you ignored your dwindling funds in the debit card you’d just mindlessly shoved into the barely functioning card reader, ones that funded the purpose of the sparkly eyed boy perched on a plastic stool in the lobby. Your purpose remained nothing but the ghost feeling of the rip in your yellow folder still digging into the crease of your thumb.
“You should order some from him. It’d make his week,” You said gently.
Taehyung laughed, “I don’t think he delivers to a traveling address, kid.”
You tried to manage the panic in your voice.
“Tae.”
He didn’t answer, just a grunt from outside the van where he was currently pumping air into the front driver’s side tire. Panic could only manage itself for that one call. You tried again, louder and with a slap of your hand against the nearest open door.
“Taehyung.”
The van rocked again and he answered verbally this time, agitated. A peek of one half of his face became visible, “What?”
“Where’s my folder?”
Taehyung blanched, full features coming into view, “What?”
Your hand did a dramatic sweep across the bookcase, collecting your tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice in your wake to let it drop unceremoniously to the floor. “Where is my folder?” Another book, a title you didn’t recognize but a cover you connected with the flea market Taehyung had insisted on visiting near the beach, dropped to the floor from your grip. “It’s not in its spot any longer.”
“I had to take everything off the shelf to get all the soil up,” One foot made it inside the van as your stack of discarded books continued to grow. “I swear I put it right back but it may have fallen—”
“Fallen out? Of the van?” Two more books plopping audibly to the pile. You thought about Jeongguk and his stickers and what would happen if someone threw out all his sketches. His sense of purpose suddenly gone due to someone’s recklessness.
“—behind something,” Taehyung finished, nudging you aside to retch the shelf away from where it was bolted to the wall. It only came a fraction of the way, barely enough for Taehyung to lodge his fingertips down it and effectively rule out any possibility of your folder being there. Instead, every book still clinging to the shelf flopped sadly to the floor.
The miles you’d traveled up until that point seemed to rush by in your peripheral, every open stretch of rolling road, the glittering nightscape of lively cities, the blackness of the sea current swallowing up ruts in the shore, the decades old gas stations that drained your cash from your wallets into the tank to the freshly renovated rest stops that had patterns pressed into the concrete intentionally and not just because a local raccoon decided to test his luck with some half dry concrete. It propelled you back into the moment, thousands of miles ago, where you’d stood in the same spot in Taehyung’s parents driveway with a cardboard box at your feet filled with things still labeled from when you’d moved out of your college apartment.
“Why did you keep this?” Taehyung had teased with a wrinkled nose, handing over your tattered textbook from your world literature class freshman year, the second volume in a group of three you’d paid a month's rent for. Highlighter bled into the outer edge, marking the thin off white pages appeared a mirage of rainbow that contrasted a shade more neon than the rug you’d stretched out below your feet.
“I paid for it,” You defended, settling the paper back between one side of the shelf and a heavy, dolphin shaped paperweight that you’d stuck felt on the bottom of to keep in place on the road. “Besides, it has full, translated classics in here.”
Taehyung pretended to understand the fascination of literature that came with your education with a raise of one eyebrow and a single, gentle nod that shifted his gaze back to the remaining contents in the box. He ruffled for a second before retrieving one of the items draped on the bottom.
“Okay—” He stretched your manuscript folder up in two hands so as to not let the contents on the inside spill out the sides. “—explain why you keep this.”
You snatched it from him, holding the yellow protectively to your chest. It looked a bit comical, the whole situation, you hovering over the disorganized stack of papers that you’d written off, figuratively, of course, chin resting on top of the folder as you stared hard at the worn spine of the text book you’d just placed to the shelf.
“If anything…” You moved slowly with the folder in hand, stretching it toward the felt dolphin and textbook. One hand clutched it while the other brushed aside things to make room for it, tight palm effectively dragging the weeping edges of the folder apart so a tiny rip formed in the yellow near the top of the makeshift spine. Gradual movements turned frantic as you shoved it onto the shelf, pushing the dolphin to hold it in place as your thumb remained on the newfound rip.
“...I paid a lot of money for the printer and pen ink it took to write all of that. It’s like keeping a twenty dollar bar of gold that can never be converted into usable currency.”
The dolphin was the only thing remaining on the shelf, staring at you while you stared at Taehyung, blank, not moving. Somewhere, up on the dash, the unharmed succulent rattled with the gust of wind that curled against the outside of the van.
“We’ll find it, it couldn’t have gone too far. There isn’t much space to search anyway—”
“Why did you touch it in the first place?” Your sharp cut in didn’t register in your mind as unreasonable, not at first. Instead, your mind drifted to all the times in which he’d be apprehensive of your unwillingness to throw away the folder, to, as he put it, simply transfer all the handwritten files into digital versions to zip away with the ones that were already locked in a cloud somewhere, all the times you’d caught him staring, perplexed as you pulled out the folder and flipped it open to make sure none of the pages had shifted order. “You know how much it means to me.”
“This would be different if I was intentionally trying to sabotage something of yours. I moved it to clean. It has to be somewhere in this general vicinity,” Taehyung held his hands palm up to you. Penance. Until he ruined it with a sighed, “Besides...don’t you think it’s time we throw it out anyway. I don’t think a constant reminder of rejection is—”
“Go on with your trip,” You said suddenly.
He paled in front of you, knuckles and all where they grew tighter on the edge of the unhinged bookcase. “Our trip…” He corrected, drawing out the silence at the end as punctuation.
“Your trip,” You shoved yourself off the floor, stepping past him to hurdle to the cracked concrete outside. “Help me get my luggage.”
Taehyung spluttered, lips foaming like a puffer fish out of water, eyes narrowing like you’d just grown a third hand from the tip of your nose. “Dove, we’ll find your folder. We can keep it up front so it never gets lost again. I wasn’t trying to insult your situation, I just care about you and—”
“Tae,” You said his name gently, the calmest you’d managed to spit it out in the entire ordeal, calm like the ghost of a smile that dimpled into your cheeks, “It’s not about the folder.”
“Go on. Go to the harvest festival. Hit the next few cities. I’ll be fine here.”
His eyes bulged now, “You expect me to leave you here? There’s nothing here and I’m no stranger to how our funds have been dwindling.”
“There’s a motel. And a cafe somewhere according to the map. I’ll find a job. Maybe I can rake someone’s leaves when the seasons start to change,” You smiled, “I’ll figure something out.”
“And when I come back? Will you want to go with me?” A bit more forceful, Taehyung set his eyebrows and added, “I will be coming back for you.”
You shrugged, opting for simple, “I don’t know.”
The tension sagged from Taehyung’s person, all the confusion and frustration and bubbling anger, returning him to the default of your best friend complete with a tiny half smile. A loaded inquiry in the way he tilted his cheek into his curled fist.
“Why, dove?”
“The motto,” You stretched out a hand toward him, “I quite liked the bed in the motel.”
“...so I think I’m going to stay around a little longer,” You finished your, shortened albeit, story to the pouty lipped cafe worker, offering a tentative smile.
The man who’d introduced himself as Yoongi and the owner of the tiny building, removed a hand from where it had been perched on his hip, gently plucking the wad of bills you offered to him. The register opened with what would have been a small puff of dust if the space around it weren’t so meticulously clean, the sleek black counter top and the checkered floor free of any imperfections. Yoongi had swept away the little particles of gravel you’d tracked in after he’d handed over your carefully crafted club sandwich.
“So, are you planning on staying at Jeongguk’s place?”
You blinked, a useless piece of collected information about the town in your short twenty-four hours there slipping out. “Are you the Min Yoongi who left a review on his motel?”
A charming smile crossed over the man’s gums, shoulders bouncing silently as he began to pool your change in his cupped palm for you. You took his nonverbal answer, leaning closer on your elbows, “Is Min Holly some of your relation? They left a review, too…”
Yoongi’s nose wrinkled when he laughed a second time, plopping your change down in a small tin next to the register when you motioned him to keep it. “...something like that.”
“It’s a fine place to stay, by the way. Just a dumb joke we have going,” He fished behind the counter for a rag, rubbing it over the places in the counter that had been touched. Dark eyes assessed you playfully from under white fringe, “There’s a review hidden in ours that says we make grilled cheese sandwiches without cheese.”
“Are you...in need of any help making those bread sandwiches?” You panicked when one of his eyebrows disappeared into bangs and a snort racked his shoulders, “Sorry, that was really forward. I just...my travel funds have been running low regardless of me stopping here. I really need a way to make money during my stay.”
“I don’t think Seokjin would appreciate having to split his already limited tips,” Yoongi continued to wipe at the counter, shuffling down the row of bar stools you sat at and back up.
“...you said you have a background with literature, right?” You nodded. “You could check with Namjoon and see if he has any odd jobs for you. He owns the bookstore on the next block over…”
“If anything, he could have you paint the outside,” He meticulously began to fold the rag, shaking his head, “The place looks like it just time traveled from the eighteenth century.”
Yoongi wasn’t wrong. All the buildings in the town seemed to be situated in a similar fashion, curled into strips of three or four businesses about three or four blocks long yet, it appeared that the majority of the buildings were abandoned or at the very least, not functioning businesses any longer. You pinpointed the specific building you were in search of on instinct that the one centered in the middle of a strip of buildings that appeared completely out of place had to be the one Yoongi teased about the exterior. Chipped cream and dark brown lined the paneled walls and thick frames around doors and windows, two stories of windows coated in a visible layer of dust and webs on the corners. As you strolled closer, you could make out the beige pink hue of plastic letters pasted onto the inside of the left display window, Monie’s, with a looping cursive font displaying a phone number and a website. Propped up in the thin stream of dust and crumpled window stickers was a sign, black coated in specks of brown with neon orange advertising help wanted.
You wrapped your fingers around the door, pulling it open to step inside.
The first thing you registered was the temperature difference, winter chill just starting to nip into the air outside but the bookstore was coated in something that somehow bordered the favorable side of cozy and unbearable. Minimal lighting added to that ambiance, bulbs caged in thick metal where they were screwed in planned intervals above the bookshelves. Plants littered the empty spaces in between already crowded furniture, bonsai trees to be exact, curling in their awkward shapes out of hand painted pots. Any decorations that maybe could have been placed on walls occupied by floating bookshelves instead littered the displays in each of the front windows, a massive plastic snowman, fake holiday grass plopped on top of fake winter snow, a myriad of specialty figurines ranging in sizes and shapes and colors all centered around a wooden table that appeared as though it had been made directly from a fresh stump. Perhaps, judging by everything else, it had.
The books were another thing, appearing more like library shelves than those you would see in chain bookstores or in the aisles at various department stores. Titles varied in size, in their positions in how they laid against each other. In fact, there seemed to be no reason to the way they were organized, obscure children’s books tucked in between used biographies of a fourteenth century royal and three new copies of the first book in the latest dystopian young adult series.
You turned down the last aisle, one that seemed to harbor anything from an entire encyclopedia set to preschool board books, to find a steep staircase at the end of the shelf. The dark wood matched that of the outside of the building, leading upward into a shadow until you could no longer see where it went. Careful footsteps carried you across creaking wood covered in various colors of woven rugs, testing a hand onto the rail of the staircase. One foot on the first stair and it creaked worse that the floor, the second a wail just as bad.
Nothing, however, could have prepared you for the tiger striped cat that bounded down the stairs past you.
You yelped, clinging to the staircase as your knees gave out in your brief moment of panic and had you sinking to a crouch. A deep swallow into you cradling the posts between the stair railing and you managed to get your heart rate to calm by pressing the blunt end of your palm against your chest.
A voice acted like the pull start of a generic lawn mower, kicking the roar of blood in your ears back to life.
“Where are you going?”
It was spoken kindly, a genuine inquiry in which the tone matched the man who stood within the row of books. Namjoon, your conscious presumed. He was tall, a long navy coat fluttering against his khaki jogger covered ankles. A deep maroon t-shirt showed off the glitter of a pendant necklace dangling between the defined planes of his chest where the terror of a cat was now cradled. Thick rimmed glasses rested on the very tip of his nose, deep set brown eyes magnifying when he nudged the frames up with the tips of his index and middle fingers. A gentle smile indented permanently into his mouth, showing off dimples that became deeper set the more his laughter grew at your prolonged silence.
“Oh, sorry I...I was just—”
“Unfortunately, my business is not enough to harbor a second floor,” His nose wrinkled with his smile as he dropped his gaze enough to place the cat onto the floor before effectively shoving bracelet covered wrists into his pockets, “Can I help you with something else?”
“I’m looking for a job,” You blurted, still standing firmly on the second stair while the cat, calmer this time, scurried past you once more. It creaked again with the two movements, the cat and the nervous shift of yours, and you allowed yourself to wince this time.
The man tilted his head, dark brown locks sticking behind the glass and frames. “And why would you come here in search of that?”
“Yoongi sent me,” You blinked, “Uh, Min Yoongi. The guy that owns that cafe up the street? I’m going to be staying in town for a little while and I’m in need of something...I have a literature background, if that makes my case any more compelling. At the very least I could reorganize your shelves or something—”
“My shelves stay as they are,” He cut in absently, waving a hand. Go on.
“—besides,” Your finger pointed dumbly toward the window display behind him, “You have a help wanted sign in your window.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the trajectory of your finger, shaking his head, “No...I don’t think I do.”
You clambered off the staircase, pointed in brushing past the tall man to stalk determinedly for the opposite window display. The sign stuck to the window in some sort of build of debris that you didn’t particularly care to question but instead made it hard for you to pull up when you were straddling a tiny train set and a mountain of fake snow in an attempt not to harm any of his decorations. It came in a cloud of dust, coating your fingers and glittering in the baths of afternoon sun that cut through the window.
You found that he’d trailed after you, close enough that when you stumbled out of your awkward stretch position you could press the sign just spaces from his chest.
“See.”
He took it from you, that trace of a smile still prominent as he squinted at the object in his grasp. His sleeve curled over his fingers, gradual in clearing away the grime build up over the printed words.
“Oh,” He simply, “I suppose I do.”
More than the confined heat of the sun through the windows warmed your body from his gentle carmel stare, something that curled your toes into your shoes as your hand had the opposite reaction in jutting out towards him. Quietly, you offered your name.
“Namjoon,” He settled his free hand in yours, giving it a firm shake without pulling away. Instead he tilted his head, “What’s your story?”
You tilted your head in the opposite direction, “Is this my interview?”
His smile grew warmer when his teeth appeared under his lips, “And if it is?”
“I’ve been traveling with my best friend for the past few months. We started after our university graduation and didn’t look back,” A halfhearted laugh followed the slip of your hand out of his, “Truthfully—” kind of, “—I was starting to run out of money. Your town seemed to be about my speed,” You set your shoulders, “...so I told Taehyung to leave me here. Now I’m in your store asking for a job.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The motel, Jeongguk’s right?” You brushed your foot into the floor, “He told me I didn’t have to pay for anything until I left, or at least built up enough to afford his rates, but—”
“That won’t do,” Namjoon dismissed. Curtly, he turned, stalking off between the shelves with the sign tucked to his chest.
You were sure you looked like a personified exclamation mark wrapped around a question mark but you allowed yourself to stumble after him anyway, trailing him between the awkward route of shelves you’d yet to explore in your short venture through the store. Finally, you arrived at a small desk, one with a clear glass top with flyers and charts and business cards lodged underneath it. A register, the most modern item of the entire store, took up most of the desk space, placed directly next to an illuminated desktop computer that displayed a background of a light blue koala character etched out in a vaguely familiar art style. You noticed the cat from earlier had wandered back into view, now perched on a red leather stool that was placed behind the counter and let out a particularly discontented mrow! when Namjoon shooed it aside to take a seat.
Ring clad fingers began to clack away at an outdated keyboard for the modern monitor, features scrunched at the center. Namjoon’s glasses slipped down the length of his nose, this time purposely, as he leaned closer to the screen, mouth parted as eyes darted over the contents. His entire expression shifted when he leaned away, soft smile returning as he gestured for you to join him on the opposite side of the counter.
“Have you ever worked with any type of cataloging software?”
You blinked at the foreign objects on the screen, a whirlwind of passwords and edit options, and ISBN numbers that you didn’t understand other than how to finesse the cheapest textbooks when you were still in university. His whirlwind explanation that hadn’t allowed you any time to answer the initial question ended with a single syllable laugh.
“I’ll help you,” Namjoon promised, spinning on the stool to face you. His gangly legs crossed, elbow meeting the thickest part of his thigh as he cheek settled into his palm. “And dusting? How are you with a rag?”
A smile broke out of your tense uncertainty, “That I can definitely do.”
He hummed, drumming his fingers against his cheek, “I think I can find plenty for you to help me with here, if you’d like. I can’t promise much pay.”
“But no staying with Guk. You can stay here as part of your payment.”
You subconsciously glanced outward around the store, to the crowded shelving and potted plants and lopsided books, as if maybe a bed would manifest somewhere that you hadn’t seen it before. To that, Namjoon laughed, louder and so that his face scrunched up around his eyes.
“I live in the apartment above the store. That’s where the staircase leads. I have an extra bedroom…”
“But that’s only if you’d like,” He rushed suddenly, voice growing an octave as his hands flailed, “I know we just met so if you’re not comfortable living with me, you can absolutely continue to stay at the motel. I just thought it might be easier on you financially and travel wise if you were already here, you know. The bedrooms are on opposite ends of the apartment. There’s two bathrooms, too—”
“Thank you, Namjoon,” You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, waiting until he relaxed under your touch, “That sounds like a wonderful idea. I accept your offer, if you don’t mind having me, of course.”
He started to shake his head only to be interrupted by a strangled meow from below your feet. You watched as the cat curled in between your legs, butting into your shin while an audible purr rumbled into its next meow.
“You’ll have to bargain with her for use of the bedroom, actually. It’s unofficially hers at the moment,” The tiny cat continued to nuzzle into your jeans, tail curling happily each time she threw her body weight into you, “It seems like you’ve passed the Marie test.”
You crouched, allowing her to inspect the curl of your fingers before she happily began to settle her chin into the crevices of your palm, rubbing back and forth until you began to flex your fingers in her fur.
“Miss Marie, can we be roommates for a little while?”
She mewled in response, bypassing your hand to jump into the open space on your thighs. You adjusted her in your arms instead, stretching back to a standing position to smile at Namjoon.
“First task complete.”
Namjoon cocked an eyebrow, “Which was…?”
“Befriend the cat that ratted me out,” You grinned, bouncing her a bit in your arms, “What’s next, boss?”
“Why don’t you two start by cleaning out those window displays while I go to retrieve your things from Jeongguk,” He slipped his glasses off between the pinch of his fingers, allowing them to twirl back and forth for a moment, “Who knows what other hidden treasures are in there.”
You found your things stacked in a neat pyramid on a bed. Your bed. You clutched the ‘treasures’ you’d uncovered in the window displays a bit tighter to your chest.
It was a modest room, full size mattress squeezed into a vast majority of the room, leaving just enough room for a dresser and closet doors that folded open to one side. Your things looked massive in the center of the bed, particularly with how they’d been stacked in awkward, Jenga like angles. You frowned until you found a slip of paper dangling off the very top piece of your luggage. You cradled Namjoon’s things, a curly haired teddy bear and a miniature pair of leather shoes, into one arm to pluck the note.
It was another sheet of stickers, different from the first, with a handwritten note in swirling purple marker scrawled to the blank side.
Come back and visit me! Or maybe I’ll come into the store more now...Here’s some of my newest designs as thanks :)
“Jeongguk insisted I bring you those.” You crinkled the edge of the paper in hand, startled by the soft voice. It was Namjoon, now without his long coat, arms folded across his chest where he leaned against the doorframe. He nodded toward the other contents in your grasp, “What are those?”
“Oh!” You passed aside the paper to grip the bear and shoes in separate hands, stretching the items toward him. “Just some things I found hidden in the displays…”
He pushed himself up off the door, pulling the bear into his grasp first. Long fingers tucked into the wirey fur of the toy, scratching gently as a fond smile slowly worked upwards into his cheeks. Crinkles formed underneath his eyes as he pressed the bear underneath his arm, cradling the two tiny shoes next, raising them up above eye level for inspection.
“You’re right, I forgot about these,” Namjoon passed the shoes into one palm, closing his fingers to hold them at the center of his chest. “Thank you for doing that, by the way. It looks wonderful.”
You returned his grateful smile, unsure of how to accept a thanks for a task assigned to you as an employee. It was the first time since the morning that you’d allowed yourself to think of the yellow folder, one that symbolized the exact opposite of the gracious, polite expressions Namjoon had yet to fail to provide.
It’d been less than twelve hours, but you had no reason to assume he would offer anything otherwise. A less than conventional situation with a less than conventional job offer with a less than conventional boss with less than conventional job benefits.
His mouth fished once, twice, gawking at the shoes in his hand before his gaze settled back on you. Lips pressed together, head tilting.
“...would you like some tea?”
The disarray, library aura the maze of shelves in the store provided came as a result of the equally disorienting ordering process from Namjoon, so you learned. He avoided section titles, author groupings, or series shelving. Instead, there was some mental list of steps all based around bogus marketing techniques that accounted for the haphazard strew of books to the point where you weren’t quite sure he had meaning to it anymore and was simply doing it to stay to some imaginary regiment he’d convinced himself of.
Best selling young adult dystopian novels were on the far shelf, the one closest to the desk, and hidden behind the busy leaves of a bonsai in the back left corner. There were three copies of the first and second books but only two of the third book. Children’s books were placed backwards on the shelves, spines facing inwards, the shapes giving them away. Biographies were always placed on the third shelf from the bottom, eye level.
No romance made the cut to “easy on the eye” locations.
“I’d be replacing them every day,” Namjoon explained as he gave you the third tour of the store with a third set of instructions for shelving. You weren’t sure how to politely tell him that he wasn’t in the position to assume he had that much patronage daily.
In the end, he’d left you isolated to cataloging month old shipments, boxes piled high with novels at the top of outdated best seller lists scattered in between obscure titles of obscure genres with obscure authors that you often found yourself squinting at in wonder with their unfinished tab open on the blinking monitor in front of you. Cataloging meant updating the system first so that when your second customer of the eight hour day came in, you could properly run their crossword puzzle booklet or copy of the town newspaper through the bar code scanner without having to employ the help of the tiny red calculator hidden within the contents of the desk.
Eventually, you convinced Namjoon to let you update the website too, starting with the boxes you still had left to do and moving onto those things already existing on the shelves when a customer appeared for something new on the shelf simply because they had seen it online. Namjoon had eyed the customer like they were leaving with a third arm rather than a newly acquired how-to manual on toothpick crafts and promptly requested you do whatever that was.
Your reorganization of the window displays had done a number in themselves, cleaning away the cobwebs to make the neatly arranged scenery, now free of any cheap decorative foliage or precipitation, visible from the sidewalk. Three different individuals had appeared with comments about such, one in question of if the newly cleaned window decals had always been there, one asking if that was the current working phone number, and the third asking if the store was under new management due to the “new changes”.
Aside from updating the website and reorganizing his conglomeration of acquired decorations, you couldn’t get Namjoon to budge on anything else.
Especially not ordering some more romance novels. The best sellers in your short time as an employee. The genre tab you were constantly updating on the website.
You tried to mention it casually over a cup of tea one evening, your feet propped up on a wooden coffee table similar to the one you’d placed fresh flowers on in the shop.
“Okay, former literature student,” Namjoon swung his feet off where they had been resting across from yours. The patchwork red recliner he sat in creaked as he leaned forward, white mug cupped in two hands with the rim resting on his smiling bottom lip, “...and I can’t believe I didn’t ask you this already. What are some of your favorite authors? Go.”
You hesitated. Of all the classics, the literature tailored for a specific class genre, the novels you’d exhausted class discussion after thesis on, you’d still honestly answer that easy to read, cliche romance were your favorite, especially when written by a select few authors you’d claimed to some sort of unspoken circle you trusted.
There were things to learn in even the cheesiest of cliches, in generally the most ideal situations that were few and far between the reality you’d seen, love could and would prevail. Love was the start, the middle, and the end to the spines of worn romance novels, ones often criticized for having the same plot hidden under ten different covers plastered in warm pastels and photographs of flowers draping over bicycles and down the sides of beach side houses.
But just because it’s ideal and not realistic doesn’t mean it shouldn’t exist in what you strive for. At least, that’s what you stood by, particularly when your pencil or your fingers moved to creatively express that very mantra in the plot of your own romance story lines. They were romance at the surface, or at least hidden underneath the flaps of your tattered and lost yellow folder.
The tear itched at the bend of your thumb and you rubbed it as you squinted at Namjoon, pretending to be in thought. “That’s a hard question.”
“Is it?”
He’d garnered enough information about you in the last weeks to understand you were well versed, at least enough to recognize, to understand, and to adapt. Lying could work but would be virtually useless in the face of your almost stranger roommate. The laymen’s, internet speak resting in the deepest recess of your conscious cooed to you quietly.
It’s not that deep just tell him you enjoy the occasional Nicholas Sparks novel.
Instead, the cursed part of your conscious blurted, “Have you ever read Twilight?”
Namjoon didn’t laugh at you but with you. “I have, actually…” His lips puckered to take in enough tea to coat is tongue, another gentle laugh shaking his shoulders, “Is this your way of saying Stephanie Meyers is your favorite author?”
“No! No, I mean...not necessarily,” You shrugged, “I enjoy the occasional cliche. Even in the easiest cliches there can be a lesson to be learned. Just with some padding. Like bumpers on a bowling lane, you know. You still make it to the pins just with some extra help.”
“Right,” He lounged again, taking the natural rock of the recliner with him before releasing his foot so it swayed his relaxed stature, “That makes sense.”
“The artistic value isn’t lost simply because it’s popular or it’s based on something popular, you know,” You glanced behind his head, to one of the various artwork pieces he had nailed throughout the apartment. This one was a canvas coated in navy birds, ones that grew sloppier in shape the smaller they grew towards one corner. “It wouldn’t be popular otherwise…”
“I don’t disagree,” Namjoon narrowed his eyes but they crinkled on the edges, “I also wouldn’t fire you if you told me the Twilight franchise was the peak of literary and cinematic history. I just would...respectfully disagree.”
“Would you fire me if I told you I write romance?”
“Is it about vampires that sparkle?”
“No.”
“Then no,” He grinned this time, “If you can’t answer your favorite author question then who inspires you when you write? Most art is modeled after that of which we’ve already consumed so I can’t imagine you’re any different.”
No thought of the yellow folder burned through the itch on your thumb as you rattled off your extensive list of ever evolving authors, ones you adored in middle school then reread in college to find new light (or some glaring darkness you missed in the naivety of your uneducated youth. See: the glitz and glamour of The Great Gatsby) within, those young adult novels of dystopian future in which you’d always wanted to teach your own university course on all the way down to the grossest cliches that had you and Namjoon wrinkling your noses.
“They’re still wonderful,” You bargained, “In every sense of the word. Wonderfully awesome, wonderfully terrible. Refreshing to read, refreshing to pick out eyebrow raising and quite frankly glaring issues that high school teachers choose not to point out in their lessons.”
“Have you ever thought about ordering more for the store?”
“There are plenty of popular titles in the store,” Namjoon resisted immediately. His mug of tea was empty now, nothing to divert his attention from staring directly at you. For a moment, you feared you’d imposed on something like when you’d offered to reorganize the shelves.
Gently, you tried to express your point and correct him, “Yes, but not that’s currently popular in the last five years, or even the last decade. It would be a good selling point, at least to garner a bit more profit—”
“No.” He wasn’t harsh. Just firm. “I’m content with our current inventory.”
“However, if you would like for me to order you something to read, I would be happy to do so. You know where the catalogs are.”
That’s not the point. You sighed in the defeat of your changed window displays and online catalog update.
“That’s okay, Namjoon. Thank you anyway, though.”
“So, what do you think?”
There were two expectant pair of eyes blinking at you, one the curator of the dish placed just beneath your nose, the other wholly hoping for your features to be unable to hide the disgust of whatever cheese, tomato, and bread contraption currently resting on the part of your bottom lip, ready for a taste.
“I haven’t even taken a bite yet, Jin,” You laughed, testing the warmth of the sub bread against. You turned the sandwich in one hand, wincing when some of the cheese spilled out and singed at the skin of your palm. “It’s hot.”
“It’s delicious,” He argued, dragging the bar stool closer to you.
“It’s already on the menu,” Yoongi mumbled.
“It’s not,” Seokjin slapped his palm on the counter, ears growing red as he fumed at his boss, “This stromboli has nacho cheese instead of mozzarella. Instantly better.”
“If it’s good, you can make it for everyone who orders it,” You eyed Yoongi as you gave it another temperature test and he smiled shyly, “The nacho cheese gets too hot...I don’t want to have to handle it.”
Tentatively, you jutted your teeth out to take a nibble off the corner of the steaming sandwich, managing to acquire a mouthful of bread, pepperoni, and of course, the seeping nacho cheese. Yoongi was right, it was scalding, but it burnt your taste buds enough to mask any horrid taste that may exist and you managed to swallow it down with a minimal wince.
“Amazing right?”
“They can’t even speak—”
“They can’t speak because it’s so amazing,” Seokjin nudged your side while you tried to digest the burning coals currently sliding down your throat, “Right?”
“It’s not too bad,” You croaked finally, making prolonged eye contact with a viscarly annoyed Yoongi as you dragged your ice water closer and downed two, three, five gulps. “Would probably be better if it weren’t the temperature of the sun.”
“That’s not a yes—”
“Maybe, but it’s also not a no,” Seokjin happily clapped in the seat next to you, making a full rotation on the bar stool in victory before he swiped the plate from under your nose and went to take a bite for himself.
His high pitched screams muffled by the way too large bite of yeast and runny cheesy came in time with the ding of the cafe door that had Yoongi straightening and you snorting.
Namjoon ignored the way Seokjin’s palm began to rapidly slap against the counter top as he waddled directly for you, a large cardboard box cradled to his chest as he happily chirped your name in time with the slap of his sandals against the tile. He deposited the box to the empty bar stool on your opposite side, only then allowing his gaze to deviate to a violently coughing Seokjin.
“Is he okay?” He asked simply, that same comforting calmness etched deep in his tone.
“Loaded question,” Yoongi grumbled.
“He’ll be fine,” You dismissed, waving your hand over your shoulder. Seokjin coughed in outrage. You placed both hands on either side of the taped lid, tilting your head, “What do you have here?—” After a second, you perked up, “—Is it this week's shipment?”
Namjoon’s hands covered yours, soft with the vanilla pine lotion you knew he kept on the bottom shelf behind the counter in the store. Gentle thumbs nudged your appendages aside, instead tucking his nail underneath the tape and flicking across it.
“You reviewed my final order list, right?”
You nodded, “Yeah, you were going to order some extra crossword books and replace those couple copies of encyclopedia that Marie...had an accident on…”
“Right, but—” He balled the tape when it reached the far end of the box, still holding your eye contact as he began to fold open the flaps on the box, “—I added a few more things before I sent it in.”
“Oh yeah?” You couldn’t help but grin too, “And what did you order?”
“Well, first of all…” Namjoon shuffled around, trying his best to shield the contents inside from you until he retrieved what he was looking for. An exclamation point coated his features when his fingers wrapped around the desired book, drawing it out with a giddy grin.
“Is that Gatsby?” You gaped, reaching for the paperback book in his hand. You took in the horribly refurbished cover, sighing blissfully as you looked at Namjoon. At the same time, you each breathed, “Hate Gatsby.”
“I bought ten copies I think,” Namjoon took it back from you, flicking it back into the box like a frisbee, “If anything, we can put them to Marie’s litter box. Lead her there.”
“I like this already. Show me more.”
“The next one I bought for you, if you want it,” He shuffled a bit longer this time, eyebrows meeting his hairline when he finally latched onto the item yet seemed to struggle a bit more with lifting this one. The veins in his arms strained, bottom lip tucking under his teeth as he threw his shoulder into it, letting the heavy hardback hit the top of the counter with an audible thud that silenced Seokjin’s moaning behind you.
“Twilight?” You laughed, stroking your fingers over the raised text, “I can’t believe you brought yourself to write this on an order.”
“I can’t believe I did either,” Namjoon beamed, glowing in the rays of your praise, “I thought you’d like it and I wasn’t sure if you had a copy of it so…”
“My copy is in the van,” You flattened your palm to ignore the itch on the bend of your thumb, forcing the rush of emotion down past the sudden lodge in your throat, “This is a nicer copy than mine, anyway.”
“Isn’t that the book about vampires?” Yoongi deadpanned. You slid it toward him, letting him turn the heavy text over to read the soft pink cursive that curled a summary across the back cover. He eyed Namjoon, “You...ordered this?”
“I got a few copies for the shop too,” He ignored Yoongi, addressing you as he instead shoved a stapled packet of paper toward you, bits of other paper and an envelope fluttering to the top of the box in the process. “And I...consulted some of the newer best seller lists and ordered the things that sounded interesting from those. I’ll let you shelve them, if you want.”
“You haven’t read this, have you Joon?” Yoongi continued to gape at the cover, flipping it back over to stare open mouthed at the table of contents.
“I could help you next order too,” You flipped through the list, running your index finger over the highlighted titles, “...if you like.”
“Uhh…” You heard an excessive amount of extra fluttering, peering over the top of the packet in your hand to see him ruffling at the papers and envelopes that had slipped out of his grasp when he passed you the list. You watched as he pried open the singular envelope with crooked index finger on the flap, wincing as he did so. “Yeah...yeah maybe.”
“What?” You asked gently, trying to laugh, “Is that the bill for all this fresh content?”
“Yeah—” Yoongi had stopped where he’d been rubbing at bits of nacho cheese Seokjin had spilled over the counter, watching Namjoon carefully. A smile met his lips, one that never even touched the crinkle around his eyes or the sparkling softness in his irises, “—something like that.”
“Can I tell you something?”
You paused where you’d been mid chopping vegetables, a task you’d handed off to Namjoon only for him to show sizable difficulty with. You tasked him with dishes instead, handing off each new soiled piece for him to dunk in the basin piled high in bubbles. He hesitated with his wrists hidden underneath the suddy mess, fingers holding onto the wire edges of one of the charred racks from within the oven.
After a second, you started again, allowing the slice of metal through the onion slices under your moist fingers to fill the cramped kitchen once more. “Of course,” You glanced at him once you’d finished the row you were on, absently sweeping the pieces back and forth across the cutting board underneath a cupped palm, “What’s up?”
“I’m not very good at ordering books for the store,” He held up a palm when you tried to suppress your reaction, “I know you know this, but I’m just...acknowledging that it’s always been like this. I don’t like to think of myself as pretentious, but I suppose my ordering and stocking habits are a bit on that side.”
“In the beginning, I had a reason for it, or at least, what I convinced myself was a viable reason. I’d purchased the shop after living in the apartment above a quickly failing bakery for far too long. I wanted it to be something that thrived in this secluded little town.”
“Like a bookstore,” You nodded without any sort of teasing or malice. You were a book person, after all. You craved the homey feel of a locally owned bookstore in any crevice of the Earth, probably contributing to some twisted fate in the universe to how you ended up in one particular place in one particular line of employment after being lost on the road for so long.
“Right, but not just any bookstore. I wanted to give the place something unique,” White bubbles gathered and slipped down the length of his knuckles when Namjoon drew his hands out of the water, letting them grip on either side of the sink as he leaned into it, “A scavenger hunt of sorts sounds appealing, right? Once you find the book in the store, there’s some sort of satisfaction to it. Especially if you don’t really know what you’re looking for and you end up stumbling upon an extensive history of stuffed animal fur.”
You wrinkled your nose, “We have that?”
“Somewhere,” Namjoon nodded gravely, cracking a smile at your indignation, “I would have no idea where it is.”
“And to an extent, that business plan works. Keep just enough popular titles to appease to the general public. Keep more obscurity to draw the crowd craving originality. Garner revenue from individuals on any spectrum of literature pretentiousness,” He shrugged, letting his shoulders roll up to his ears as his chin dropped, “It worked for maybe five months. Then the newness wore off.”
“I’ve never really been able to recover even with our normal patronage. Now that there’s appeal for business in neighboring towns, all of us have started to suffer. People would rather stay in a Hilton next to a Panera and shop at the three story Barnes and Noble than tour our locally owned amenities that provide damn near the same thing.”
“Jeongguk and Yoongi have been able to adapt, though,” Namjoon’s shoulders relaxed again, letting his hands dip down into the water to grab at the wire rack. He passed the rough edge of the sponge over the edges now exposed out of the water, soft enough that the fibers barely pulled any of the grime from the utensil. “I can’t seem to find my way out of a rut.”
“Have you tried?”
Namjoon laughed, “I ordered Twilight, didn’t I?”
“But did you order New Moon too? Or the other two books in the series? What about the DVD adaptations?” You started to dice the onion now, speaking to the tiny pieces you nudged aside with the tip of the knife, “Did you put them in alphabetical order? Or did you at least consider creating a young adult section? Or a vampire romance section? I can offer more recommendations—”
“I can’t afford to pay the bills,” Namjoon said gently. “Not...not anymore. Way before I hired you, even.”
You grew silent, letting yourself sink into the lip of the counter top.
“I had to start using my monthly order funds to pay rent on the store. And my personal rent. And the light bill. And…” He sighed, dunking the wire rack a few times in silence to rinse it of the bubbles.
“That’s what those envelopes were today. Notice of eviction.”
Your mouth fished, pursing at the seam of your lips and puffing your cheeks out as you pondered the terrifying thought. Never mind that this was your temporary home and temporary place of employment but this was Namjoon’s livelihood, his greatest accomplishment, his love.
Behind convoluted marketing strategies and a quietly picky selection in what he read in his personal time, there was a man who absolutely adored the power of literature in its simplest form, tangible, physical books. You’d witnessed the way his eyes lit up when the tiny bell at the front of the store tinkled with the arrival of someone new, his long legs and eager persistence quick to beat you out from behind the counter to assist the customer, whether that be to point out a general area as to where something may be located, to recommend something of his own, or to simply offer a casual conversation over a cup of coffee he offered in a floral paper cup from the tiny room underneath the staircase.
“So, what do we do?”
He was puzzled only for a moment, the furrow in his eyebrow traveling upward with the smile that appeared as he dragged his hands out of the water. Massive palms dabbed to his thighs as he backed away from you, bumping into the edge of the counter on his way but he found his target, the massive stack of sliced open mail. Some ruffling with semi damp hands that splattered visible water droplets over the counter later, his pinched fingers appeared triumphant holding a mint colored envelope with a red printed logo stamped on the return address corner.
“There’s uhm…” Namjoon’s fingers pried inside, drawing a folded piece of paper out. Through the back, you could see the same red logo, bold and in the center of the page this time. “One of the companies I order from sent this not too long ago. I don’t know if it’s a sign but it kind of seemed like a sign.”
You abandoned your chopping to accept the paper, now doused in vague water spots, from his grasp. He voiced the contents your squinted eyes began to scan.
“Basically, if we can get sales above a certain threshold by the end of the month, I can apply for a grant worth—” He was in front of you now, reaching his index finger over to hover above a bolded monetary amount, “—that. That would give enough time for you to help me implement some of your ideas…”
“And if none of it works,” Namjoon shrugged, folding the paper back into it’s neat little pamphlet, letting it dangle to his side, “then I guess this wasn’t really meant to be.”
A small part of you envied him in that moment. Perhaps there was more than what presented itself outwardly, but Namjoon was frustratingly calm about simply giving up something he worked so hard to achieve simply because of a couple of setbacks. The yellow folder that triggered you to step off the trunk of Taehyung’s rickety travel van certainly could not relate.
Instead, you blurted, “You want my help?”
His normal composure fractured a bit, longer pauses, hums even, stationed between stumbled words, “If you’d like to, yes, I’d love to have your help. Outside perspective is the only way I’m going to change my ways. I don’t think I could do it, not productively, by myself.”
“And of course, if you’re still around by then,” Cautious brown irises met your own, swimming in something unreadable, a guard almost, “I know you’ve said you aren’t sure when Taehyung will be back. If he does come back—”
“He’ll be back,” The skin behind your neck grew hot with how quickly you assured that, a statement mostly spoken to sate the tiny nagging part of yourself that was left lost with your entire situation as a whole. Namjoon blinked, unwavering, chin twitching just enough to nod.
“But I’d be happy to help for as long as I’m here,” You allowed yourself to smile even if the line wobbled a bit. You resumed your chopping in silence, only long enough to finish off the vegetable underneath your palm before you were sweeping your work space clean, dusting your fingers off in the process.
“Where should be start, boss?”
You were tasked with reorganization while Namjoon took to his computer, conjuring up flyers dedicated to those few events you’d agreed upon after exhausting a list of potential, quick ways to garner attention and profit. Aside from making the store more navigable for the average person (as well as setting aside some funds specifically to order the missing books in series), bringing people into the store seemed like an obvious answer to gaining short (or long) term interest in the store.
An easy way to bring people into the store was to host events.
Armed with three massive stacks of flyers in the basket on the front of Namjoon’s spare bike, you took off on an advertising run. You stopped at Yoongi’s, watching Namjoon wallpaper flyers to the glass windows outside the cafe while Yoongi looked disgruntled between the spaces in the fluttering paper yet made no attempt to remove any of them and quietly took a stack you handed him to hand out to customers as they came in. Jeongguk barely let you get the question out of your mouth, appearing with a sheet of thick, round, metallic stickers of his own design that he used to plaster the various event flyers over the front of his desk and a promise to photocopy the flyers and post them to every gaming community he knew online.
The first event advertised was in connection with the local elementary school, parents pouring through the doors one Wednesday after school while their beaming teacher brought up the rear. You settled them in with fresh baked cookies and hot chocolate while Marie made her rounds, resisting gooey chocolate off of chubby fingers and happily deciding upon a small girl in the corner who was completely enamored with a dinosaur themed pop up book she’d discovered with Namjoon’s help.
You’d watched quietly where he knelt next to her on the shorter shelves, one’s you’d specially arranged for the event and as a way to pinpoint the location of the children's books previously scattered aimlessly about. He’d murmured gently too her, offering books on the shelves she couldn’t quite reach until she made grabby hands at a slightly disgruntled stegosaurus when Namjoon had flipped open the first thick page.
Hoseok, their teacher, drew you out of your fond trance. His arms were filled with educational books, ones a level between the ages he taught and that of high school, glossy pages filled with just enough text and just enough pictures to appeal to all ages. Wavy red hair parted down the middle, fluttering against shining apple cheeks as he beamed giddily at you, rainbow cartoon smiley faces in a repeated pattern on his shirt almost blinding you all the same.
“I did some shopping while you two watched over them,” Hoseok admitted bashfully, a slight pink tinting his ears as he glanced at the book on top of his stack, a midnight blue cover with an abundance of jungle animals spilling across the surface. “I hope they weren’t too bad.”
“Not at all,” You softened, pulling your gaze away from Namjoon when the little girl proudly parked herself in his lap and began to chatter absently about the next dinosaur that popped into view, a triceratops by first glance. “I could give you a discount since they’re for the school?”
“Oh no, I couldn’t—” Hoseok’s eyes widened, tossing his fringe as an absent habit, “—I’d like to support anyway. I feel as if I don’t do that enough lately.”
“It would be no problem.”
He brushed past you to place his towering stack on top of the counter, already digging deep in the pocket of his bright purple jeans. A wad of cash was pushed across to you before you could even begin to swipe barcodes through the system.
“Consider it a donation.”
The dinosaur popup book sold during the event along with a dozen other children’s books that Namjoon assured you were relics, books he’d forgotten were on the shelves at all let alone ones that would sell instantly upon being relocated to an easy to find vicinity (whether that be grouped or closer to the ground where two foot tall humans could scan at eye level).
Other things started to leave too, filling the space in between scheduled events. You saw a fair amount of hand sized romance novels leave the door, ones you plopped randomly onto a singular turnstyle you assembled from multiples hunks of plastic in a dusty cardboard box in the room underneath the staircase, flowery covers with fraying spines shoved into purses and jacket pockets. Magazines started to go, new and old issues alike after you ordered them in stacks on Namjoon’s wooden table as it sat in the front window display. Series started to go as a whole, limited in quantity but at least as a whole rather than in the first and third book with the second book to be ordered from an online delivery or serviced from a nearby chain.
You sold out of crossword puzzle books when the second event came, murder mysteries and a fair few of the popular horror authors leaving the store too when the local florist used the space to teach a beginner’s bouqet workshop. The blonde headed man, Park Jimin in all his charming giggles and devastating smile, brought in his self written gardening manual, giving Namjoon a sizable check to be able to sell them while he did his workshop.
You had every reason to believe it wasn’t the atmosphere of the bookshop that had elderly women kissing red lipstick stains into his blushing cheeks and selling out his small stack of green pamphlets but Namjoon wasn’t one to turn away the check.
“What do you know about daisies?”
Jimin’s expression immediately grew amused, glancing at you from under shaggy fringe as he hunched to untie the cat covered apron pressed to his stature. He freed the knot at his spine, straightening once more as he shrugged it over his head and began to meticulously fold it.
“A lot,” His eyebrow cocked, letting the apron fall to his now empty table, “What are you wanting to know?”
“Let’s say you were trying to grow a plant in a moving van—” You crossed your arms, “—could you do it?”
His nose wrinkled at the bridge, “With a lot of finesse, probably. But if we’re talking about a plant that’s good with traveling...succulents might be a good bet.”
The dip between your thumb and palm itched and you rubbed it at your hip, smiling, “That’s what I figured.”
Locations around the store were progressively growing blurrier each time you glanced up from the harsh lighting off the computer monitor in the shop. There was a soft glow from the moon where it reflected on the floor panels at the front of the room but it didn’t quite reach through the rows of thick shelves (you’d rearranged books, not furniture. Namjoon wouldn’t budget on layout) but otherwise, you worked in the dark, fingers working on muscle memory around the keyboard as you continued to plug in information to the online application.
The events worked, giving the store a two month boost in sales that granted you, at the very least, a chance to save the store. It was just that, a boost, nothing that could sustain long term even with newfound organization and aggressive attempts at community engagement. Even with all that, you lacked the funds to properly distribute across all things that needed tending to, particularly the ordering that would require you to keep up with the amount of product that went out the door after the first event.
It was a curve, one with a sharper downfall than the first.
Creaking on the staircase alerted you to Namjoon’s presence, phone flashlight outlined Marie where she sat cradled in the curve of his elbow. He placed her on the floor when he reached the bottom, allowing him to properly balance the basket curled on his opposite forearm.
“...alright?” He murmured. The wicker container was slid to the counter top next to you as he slid onto the free stool.
You hummed, flicking your index finger up and down the scroll to send the typed text whirring by. “Just about done,” You placed your chin on your shoulder, gaze cutting away from his gentle smile to nod at the basket, “What do you have there?”
“Oh!” Namjoon thumbed at the lid, digging inside to present you with two plastic wrapped sandwiches. He placed those aside, returning with a metal thermos next, followed by two paper plates and forks you recognized from the utensil drawer in the apartment. “I packed us a little paperwork picnic.”
You dragged one of the sandwiches closer, careful in picking apart the wrap to discover sliced tomato, floppy lettuce, and careful strips of bacon stuck between two fresh buns. Lemonade was dunked into two plastic cups by the careful hands of Namjoon, his smile growing when you shot him an inquisitive glance.
“I said packed for a reason,” He teased, nudging you when you pinched at one of the ranch drenched piece of greenery, “Jin insisted I take them when I was picking up lunch earlier.”
“Was the picnic part your idea?” You accepted a glass from him, drawing it to your bottom lip without taking a sip.
His gaze remained unwavering as his hand dipped back inside the basket, tripping it across the glass counter top a bit but managing to retrieve the checkered strip of fabric at the bottom of the basket in the end. It fluttered from its folded position when he lifted it higher, showing that it wasn’t a full checkered blanket but instead a strip of fabric, sheared at the edges and appearing to be a leftover from something sewn. It was just big enough for each of your glasses to sit with a comfortable distance from each other, something Namjoon completely by gently drawing your cup out of your grasp and settling it next to his.
“Maybe,” He watched as you continued to squint at the end of the sandwich, “...that means the food is safe to eat. Promise.”
You let yourself take a sizable bite, chewing thoughtfully through the crunchy bacon. You swallowed, serious into the next nibble you tested, “You have more trust in Seokjin than I do.”
It was quiet as the two of you began to dig into your meals, the first of any sizable food you’d had the entire day as a result of being cooped up in a mountain of tax papers, profit spreadsheets, generic online bell curve generators, and the daunting application that hung on the thread of an accidental click to send its incompleteness spiraling into the cloud of uncertainty for the store.
Your typing resumed in silence too, scrolling rather as you simply scanned over the answers you’d provided for the longer answers, open ended questions reminiscent of essay portions of school applications. The words by themselves registered but the combination of such into sentences didn’t comprehend in your mind, subconscious elsewhere as the pixels flashed through your blurred peripheral by means of your own flicking fingertip.
“So what’s your story?”
The screen stalled at your command, shoulders sagging. Softly, you wiggled the mouse to click out of the screen at hand, bringing up the smiling koala cartoon whose name you’d learned was Koya. “Is this another interview?”
Namjoon’s fingers warmed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until your stool spun on its own accord. He continued to hold onto your wrist, thumb traveling upward to brush across your knuckles.
“No,” His voice grew warm, quiet for the ambiance created in the quaint shop near the midnight hour, “I only know a fraction of your story, the rising action, maybe? I’m not too sure. I don’t have enough information to even begin to plug it into the imaginary literary equation.”
“You graduated with a literature degree and you have questionable yet defendable taste in books read in your free time,” Namjoon squeezed your skin, “What else am I missing?”
“I write sometimes,” The words came so quick that your conscious had to pause to gather your next thought, trailing your gaze over Namjoon’s head. You squinted, blurring the darkness of the children’s shelves a bit more as you corrected, “I’m a writer.”
“I had a book deal right out of graduation, something I’d worked ages on. Revised three different times to appease to different agents, none of which ended up signing me. Self publishing was an option I just saw the other side. Heard too many pitches that made me a bit too hopeful.”
“And then finally I found someone who wanted to take me on. Who assured me that I could make big waves within their agency. Said they’d never quite seen anything like my writing style, something that didn’t quite fit in my declared genres,” You laughed bitterly, letting your hand drop from Namjoon’s to rub across your lap, “Said they’d never quite heard anyone as headstrong about my particular beliefs either. Said it was a good thing, made me memorable.”
“I got all the way to their corporate office in the city to sign off on the rights. I even went to the effort to type up my notes and my drafts and whatever else I could find—” You offered a smile, “—I prefer handwriting—” sighing, you spread your fingers apart, pressing at the bend in your thumb, “—Had it all stapled and put together in a nice folder.”
“Then they told me they couldn’t sign me. I don’t remember the exact reason. I think I stopped listening to them after my potential agent was called out of the room for a phone meeting with another prospective client.”
A shaky inhale kept the mist of tears that involuntarily gathered in your waterline at bay, gaze darting to your wringing fingers, “Have you ever played that jelly bean game? The one where half the blue ones taste like raspberry and the other taste like disinfectant wipes or something? It kind of felt like that. Going in expecting one thing and leaving with the exact opposite.”
“I didn’t know I could feel that lost,” You admitted out loud, further elaborating, “I had no plan other than that. It seemed like all my other friends were graduating with a perfect bridge into their new lives,” You let yourself smile, “...even Taehyung. He was always planning on traveling after graduation.”
“He never really understood what I was going through. I didn’t expect him to. Like I said, he had his own plans, one that hadn’t included me until a week or two before they were to begin. I don’t blame him for not understanding how to handle me. And in a way...I feel guilty for placing that kind of responsibility on him. He didn’t need to feel obligated to care for me but he did and he always had and for that I’m sorry.”
“I guess I thought doing something impulsive would give me a purpose again. At the very least, maybe it’d renew my purpose. Maybe I’d want to start a whole new book. Maybe I’d want to try self publishing if I forgot about the horrors I endured through the other process,” A tear appeared now, slipping down the bridge of your nose as your lips wrinkled into a shriveled petal and you shook your head, letting your palms lift and fall back into your lap with an audible slap, “Nothing.”
You startled when something scuffed on the floor, gaze focusing on what you could see in front of you once more. Namjoon had shuffled closer, bringing his stool with him until his knees bumped into yours, close enough for the warmth of his palm to cup your cheek this time soft in using the curve of his thumb to collect the stream of tears as they began to fall more freely.
“Can I tell you something?” You murmured, waiting until his silent gaze met yours.
“This gave me a purpose again. You gave me a purpose,” You grinned, some of the excess tears spreading over your tongue, “At first it was just wanting to figure out why this strange man with a cat wanted to arrange his bookstore like that.”
“Old dog new tricks,” Namjoon insisted, voice gentle for the first time since his initial question.
You let both your hands cup his wrist, holding his hand against your face, “You reminded me of my initial purpose. What I grew so far from...that there’s so much warmth in literature and books and the written word.”
“There’s always worth in spreading that type of love to the community,” Your lips curled in the edge, not quite reaching your teeth, “It’d be a shame if you didn’t get to continue to do so.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” The intimacy expanded outward, encasing your statures in a safety bubble when his forehead touched yours, holding you there by means of his hand on your cheek and your fingers around his forearm. He waited until he no longer felt new splashes of tears underneath his diligent thumb before he spoke again.
“Have you ever thought about trying again?”
Namjoon was so close, the warmth bleeding off his dark irises giving your uncertain heart a squeeze. It didn’t cut into your confusion, “Try what?”
“To get another book deal,” He straightened just enough to pick at your opposite cheek with his free hand, placing stray hairs aside in a meticulously soft way, “Just how far have I inspired you, honey?”
You swatted at him, squawking until he held up a hand in surrender.
“I haven’t, not with...that book anyway. Truthfully, I trashed everything but my handwritten notes that day. I think I even impulsively deleted the files or if they’re still out there I wouldn’t know where to find them.”
“I suppose my next question as to if I can read anything by you is moot now.”
“I’m sure there’s some embarrassing poems out there on my undergraduate literary magazine website…”
Namjoon cocked an eyebrow, “That’s a scavenger hunt I’m willing to have.”
“And it’s one I’m willing to help you with—” You giggled, managing to catch his hands when they went to do grabby hands around your body at the computer mouse, “—after we submit this paperwork.”
“Ah, right,” Warm hands landed on your hips, spinning you to face the monitor while a heavy chin settled on your shoulder, “The whole save my passion thing. I suppose the poems can wait.”
You wrote a poem in undergraduate about a divorce as told by the family cat, the detached perspective of an animal who has no conscious understanding of anything in the human world, yet is still watching his life crash before his eyes. He’s not getting food as often. Everyone is always yelling. Suddenly, dad isn’t there anymore. His tiny human, the child of the family, comes and goes in a confusing schedule. But he still has to be a cat.
The script on that section of the university page barely functioned any longer, drawing your poem into mismatched fonts with spacing that surely wasn’t what you’d originally intended. The flit of your gaze over the up and down scroll of the page fit the same detached sense that the cat in the story had.
Life still went on around you as the crippling rejection email for the store grant hovered in the next tab over from your poem. Namjoon’s absent restocking of the shelves at the front of the store proved that.
You clicked out of your poem, letting the etched red logo at the top of the email cover your vision once more as you sighed. A bitter tap of your index finger later and the image was hidden, just leaving the wall of text that was just several different ways to say you didn’t receive the grant. You’d opened all their resource links, those hovering in the next browser over while Koya watched on behind them.
None of those would work, either. You didn’t buy from their partner supplier. Your store square footage wasn’t enough. You didn’t specialize in one specific genre. You didn’t offer library-like services alongside the business aspect.
One tab had the generic question plugged into a search engine, easy ways to make money. You felt like you were applying for school again, scrounging for scholarship opportunities on survey websites that did nothing but implore armies of viruses into your hard drive. Some of those resources still sat in unorganized folders in your email, ones you mindlessly scrolled past with your cheek scrunched into your curled fist, fingernails pressing crescents into your palm the harder you squeezed.
University emails changed from graduation subject lines to assignment subject lines to personal sprinkled within, exchanges with members of group projects or monthly subscriber updates from clubs you participated in.
Junk emails continued to pour in on the daily even if your email was virtually untouched since you’d sat out on the road which meant the folder continued to dump an unprecedented amount of data into your deleted file never to be cleaned out where you used to diligently empty it. You did that with a clear conscience, a small victory in your hazy consciousness as your finger misjudged and you found your drafts opening.
There was a singular email, the body text left blank and the subject line half typed. Manuscript...A tiny paper clip indicated that something was attached.
For a second, you feared you’d overloaded Namjoon’s system with the file size until the PDF materialized across the screen, blank at first until the last of the near eighty pages downloaded and you found yourself face to face with the typed contents of your lost yellow folder.
Your laughter drew Namjoon from his task, his silhouette shadowing over what was already dark in the store, another late night venture between the two of you when the news of rejection had the both of you searching for something to do that wasn’t nothing. He was smiling at first until he caught a sheen on your cheeks, laughter slowly materializing into sobs before he could properly reach you.
He uttered your name, hip catching on the edge of the counter as he lunged for you yet reeled back at the glaring title on the screen. The initial hug his instinct wished to provide stalled, hands instead landing on your shoulders as he squeezed.
“What’s this?”
“I think this thing is haunting me,” You groaned miserably, “Either that or your computer itself is haunted.”
Namjoon kept a firm grip on you as he shook the mouse, minimizing the tab and all the others until Koya’s smiling face spread across the screen. Gentle pressure turned you, hands leaving to spread palm up, fingers wiggling.
Softly, Namjoon encouraged, “Let’s go to bed.”
Marie’s meow managed to piece some of the scrambled pieces together once your slow advancements at the lead of Namjoon’s hand paused, leaving you to realize this isn’t your room.
“This is your room,” You audibly expressed, flinching away from one of the two foot tall character’s he had curled in the doorway.
He let go of your hand to allow you to make your decision, assuring that his searching gaze ducked to find your own. “Is that okay?”
Your whimper welcomed the stretch of one of his hoodies across your torso, snug to the fresh coffee ground and fresh rain scent that clung to his duvet as long fingers tucked it around your body. He settled in next to you, just close enough to stroke at your cheek with his thumb and the flat of his mouth.
“Hey Namjoon?”
He shifted closer, curled knees encasing yours as his fingertips began to stroke down the back of your head. “Yeah, love?”
“Do you want to try again?” You regarded him with just your eyes, mouth and nose hidden underneath the hem of his sheets. “To keep the store?”
His lips lingered on your forehead this time, cradling the back of your head until the shaking of your shoulders subsided. The tip of his nose pulled back to brush where yours would be underneath the blanket, nodding so the skin brushed accidentally a second time.
“What else is there to do?”
You found a warm bagel and a handwritten note on a napkin in place of Namjoon’s stature when you woke. Raw eyes found it difficult to decipher the shapes he’d quickly scrawled with a blunt tipped marker but somehow you made out store. You abandoned the plated bagel and headed for the staircase.
“If that’s not Marie I don’t want you down here,” A laughing voice ordered your descend when you’d barely made it to the fourth stair.
“Why?”
“Did you not read my note?”
“It said that you were working in the store.”
“And that you’re not allowed down here yet.”
You continued your descent a few slow stairs at a time, “I won’t look.”
Namjoon snorted, an image you saw when you already broke your promise to find him seated at the counter completely swamped in crafting materials. Strips of construction paper, jagged cardboard, stacks of printer paper still half hanging out of their packages.
“What are you doing? DIY decorations?”
He looked up where he was furiously spinning a shard of pipe cleaner, “I thought you said you wouldn’t look.”
“Oops,” You shrugged, bare feet chilled all the way up your legs to where your sleep shorts began as you shuffled toward him, squinting at the mass chaos he’d created. Your gaze trailed upward from the browns and purples and metal utensils, starting to offer a generic question once more until you found your manuscript still open on the computer monitor. “What are you…Namjoon what are you doing?”
He grunted into the last spin of his fingers, securing the last, electric blue pipe cleaner in the poorly jabed hole through the top of the object he held in whitening knuckles. An audible breath slipped through his lips, hanging ajar for a second before his lips drew upward into a smile.
“I, uhm,” Namjoon thrust the object toward you, “I made you something.”
It appeared to be made of three separate pieces of cardboard, a front and back cover with a sizable strip bent to accommodate either, acting as a mock spine. Purple construction paper was glued over the brown substance, dobs of glue staining some of the edges but flat otherwise. A trio of electric blue pipe cleaners sat in neatly spaced, tightly spun balls on the far left side, binding the ball of pages instead that had already begun to bend at the cardboard covers. The same messy handwriting that covered the napkin now forgotten in Namjoon’s bed graced the front, the title of the novel larger than your name. The back held similar penmanship, the synopsis you’d provided to various companies scrawled just above a tiny, attempted portrait of you.
“I know you said you got rid of the other one but if you ever wanted to try again, you know, to get it published—” Namjoon smiled, tucking his arms between his legs shyly as he leaned toward you, “—now you have a potential mock up to show them, too.”
You kissed him with your palm pressed into the pair of scissors he’d dropped when he heard you descend down the stairs, body leaned awkwardly over the counter until he stood to intercept you. His palm held onto the side of your neck while you clutched the book to your chest, breathing into the open seam of his lips.
“Thank you so much.”
“I’d make you ten more copies if you wanted me to.”
Your laughter stopped just a hair short of kissing him again when there was a knocking at the front door, gentle at first and then frantic when you jumped away from Namjoon. Through the spaces in the shelves, you could see Jeongguk, his over exaggerated waving growing smaller as you and Namjoon approached.
“Was I…” Jeongguk’s gaze flashed to Namjoon’s flushed cheeks when you pulled the door open, “Was I interrupting something?”
Namjoon did an astounding job of holding in his irritation, “What do you need, Guk?”
“Oh!” He perked up again, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. A sheet of paper was thrust against your chest, “Special delivery. You need to look at it now.”
“What—”
“No time to explain,” Jeongguk shot you a thumbs up, taking backward steps that had him stumbling over pieces of gravel on the sidewalk as he went to dash in the opposite direction of the hotel, “See you later!”
Namjoon went for the sheet of stickers while you came to inspect the tiny piece of notebook paper balanced on top of it.
“Are those tiny aloe plants?” He continued to awe, pointing at the characters on the sheet.
Hey dove, good news! I found your folder. If you want it uhm...look up. I guess.
Taehyung stood across the street, hair entirely longer than how’d you’d left him, adorned in a matching baggy grey sweatsuit with your yellow folder clutched against his chest.
He braced for the impact of your arms throwing themselves around his neck yet still managed to stumble back two or three paces in a fit of laughter as you clung to him. “Hey there,” He greeted, nose in your hair as he managed to properly weave his arms around your waist and squeeze. “How’ve you been?”
The initial joy seized in your heart as you pulled away to look at him, softening, “I’m not going to go back with you.”
Taehyung’s grin grew wider, all geometric edges and bouncing fringe as he nodded. A gentle understanding, leaning in closer to murmur, “I didn’t think you would, kid, not from the second you stepped out of the van—” After a second, he said a bit louder, “—and besides. That’s not what I asked you.”
You hummed thoughtfully, glancing over your shoulder to where Namjoon continued to regard the interaction fondly. You smiled, turning back to Taehyung.
“Have you had breakfast yet?”
He shook his head, gentle in sliding his hands down your arms before taking your hands, shaking them gently between your bodies, “I’m not going to stay much longer,” One hand left you to take the folder he’d shoved underneath his arm, “Just wanted to bring you this.”
You took it gently, rubbing thoughtfully at the old rip in the spine. A few more had joined it from whatever turmoil it had endured in the last months. “Where did you find it?”
“I’d put it underneath your seat when I cleaned. To keep it safe,” Taehyung’s smile was regretful and amused all the same, “Forgot I put it there…”
“Are your succulents okay?”
“Mhm…” His hand cupped yours where you held the folder, “You still haven’t answered me. Are you okay?”
Another involuntary glance behind you to Namjoon who offered you a thumbs up this time. “Yeah,” You nodded, “Yeah. Yeah, Taehyung, I’m great.”
Taehyung’s smile was equally as fond, nodding once to your rapid ones, “I’m glad…” He trailed off, patting the folder in your grasp, “Well I, uhm, just came to return that to you so—”
“Can you keep it?”
“What?”
“Can you keep it safe for me?” You pressed the folder back against his chest, “I don’t think I need it anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah I can…” Taehyung gradually pulled it closer until it was hugged against his chest, taking a step backward, “Yeah. I’ll keep it safe.” He made prolonged eye contact with you, smiling, “I’ll see you?”
“Of course,” You touched his chest, “And hey, Tae?”
“Hmm?”
You patted him and then your folder.
“Don’t get lost out there.”
#bts reactions#bts scenarios#bts imagines#bts x reader#namjoon imagines#bts fluff#namjoon fluff#namjoon x reader#fic: lost
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Oasis
Fandom: Mystic Messenger
Character: Jaehee Kang
Prompt: Originally meant for the Mystic Messenger Reverse Big Bang, but that fell through. Now I’m posting this as an individual piece since I did like the idea and poor Jaehee already gets so little attention. No art, unfortunately, but anyone is welcome to make one?
Witch!MC
Word count: 1000+
The sound that announced her arrival was a chime of crystals meeting, a chorus of 'tingeling' that resonated through the little shop in a calming manner that soothed Jaehee’s senses. It left a strong impression on the usually pragmatic secretary whose hand instantly went towards her nose as the thick scent of burnt herbs, lavender and chamomile hit her. Not out of unpleasantness, but out of surprise, for the scents tickled her nostrils before they settled and filled her very being.
"Welcome," a voice spoke from behind the wooden counter, equally as soothing as the smell, and voice as clear as the sound of the crystals at the door with a comely warm undertone. A serene smile played around the lips of the young self-dubbed witch that Jaehee had agreed to meet. Surrounding them were bigger and smaller plants. Jaehee vaguely recognised a few of them, knowing that the succulents were believed to purify the air and that the herbs were meant to be burned. Along the shelves crystals of all sizes could be found, a little note coming along with them that explained their properties. A recent fad, Jaehee knew, but one that mr. Han wished to invest in, for cats. For everything involved cats with the man.
"Good day," was Jaehee’s quick response, shedding her initial surprise as she approached the counter in a few swift steps. "I'm Jaehee Kang, we have been corresponding over mail to discuss some business opportunities-"
A laugh cut Jaehee off, a slow and gentle rumble rather than a mocking one that she was used to receiving. "Too stiff. Yes, I have been expecting you," the shop owner answered and Jaehee suppressed a frown from forming, not wanting to break her professionalism. It had been surprisingly hard trying to secure any sort of appointment for C&R International within this particular branch. Jaehee was loath to ruin it now.
“Ah, yes,” Jaehee spoke, “we spoke over the mail,” and shifting the weight to another leg she pulled out the documents she had prepared. Easy and comprehensible for a layman to read. Jaehee had enough sense and experience to know that these types never read through the entire thing anyway. “As you know C&R International is planning on--”
In her years of working for mr. Han, Jaehee prided herself in being able to read people down to the minute. Yet, Jaehee had a hard time reading the expression of the witch that was falling somewhere between serene and the picture of calm, but at the same time drowsy to the point of sleepiness. Halting in the middle of her sentence the female gulped as she ran a finger over her ear, as if trying to swipe a strand of hair out of her face. A force of habit from the times before she had a short coupe. “I’m sorry,” she chuckled, “I won’t be long,” and heaving another sigh she opened the report at the relevant page. This time she tried to avoid the witch’s gaze, feeling rather embarrassed at her lack of ability to entertain and charm.
A warm hand over Jaehee’s arm brought her attention back to the shop owner, her eyes widening at the kind touch as the witch smiled again, long wavy hair shaking from side to side before retreating. “I think some honey mint will do you good,” the witch spoke, the voice as steady as every movement made when plucking some stems from a plant to prepare a fresh brew.
“You wrote to me about opening an essential oils line for cats.” The discussion started smoothly and Jaehee relaxed at not having to lead; “I made some samples, but I was hoping for an actual cat to sample on.” Turning around the shop owner rummages through the cabinets behind, pulling out some woven herbs tied by some hennep and clear bottles of fluids.
“Most essential oils are harmful to cats, after all. But I’m sure you already read about that.”
Blinking Jaehee adjusted her glasses as she eyed the witch, evidently surprised at the forwardness and initiative shown. “I’m sorry,” she starts to apologise, not having expected to discuss actual ideas already, “I can bring Elizabeth the third the next time to test out the samples.” Always quick to adapt Jaehee offers the solution as she wonders if mr. Han would allow his cat to be a test subject. The project was, after all, set up with his white feline friend in mind after all. “Can you tell me what this is? And what the properties are?” They are the logical next questions that follow as Jaehee writes along as the explanation is given.
The next time Jaehee comes over she does have a cat in arms, though it wasn’t Elizabeth the third like promised. Mr. Han wouldn’t allow it and the secretary was about to apologise for the deceit when the shop owner simply laughs, head shaking as the witch reassures Jaehee that it is quite fine.
“You apologise too much for what is out of your hands.” Jaehee is told and she frowns at that statement, feeling an urge to apologise once more before relenting and deciding that there is some truth. But it isn't like she is in any position to refuse, being a secretary of a man whose faults meant more work for her. It earns her another cup of tea; this time it is chamomile with roses.
"I have a gift for you.” By the third time Jaehee visits she is more at ease with the self-proclaimed witch, a smile already curling up. "I thought you could use one," came the clarification from the shop-owner and Jaehee isn't sure how to take it as an envelope is pushed into her direction. Brown and square with an obvious protrusion in the middle.
As mr. Han's secretary Jaehee was used to all sorts of bribery. The type given in juice boxes, the type poured into expensive gifts, even the type that was as blatant as a stacked envelope. They came from sleazy figures with crisp appearances and ambition in their eyes. They came with phrases like: “I hope this suits mr. Han’s tastes well,” or “I hope to hear more soon.”.
But this time it didn't fit in any of those categories, not in appearance nor in character, or even in address. Jaehee had taken the envelope in hands without much of a second thought, or a question until she pulled out the amethyst necklace and a ticket to Zen's newest production. "This..?" Jaehee's heart jumps with anxiety coursing through her as she wonders how to return a gift without seeming rude. "I can't accept this," she wanted to say, but the words were stuck in her throat as she looked down at the gifts in hands. A gift one would give a friend.
Recognising Jaehee's silent distress a hand finds its way once more onto the secretary’s arm, a warm pinch given reassuring the female.
"Amethyst to help you relax, you have been tense," comes the explanation, "and the tickets are something I won, but I have no one to go with, but I know that you are a fan."
The explanation makes sense. They had talked about Zen briefly, though Jaehee had always kept her composure as she was on the job and didn’t want to lose her professional touch. Yet, the whole idea didn’t sit too well with Jaehee who had never gained any merit through the easy way.
"A gift from a friend," the answer is further supplied and Jaehee blinks, wondering when the two of them had become friends. It had all happened so strangely naturally, Jaehee felt as she turns her eyes up at the shop-owner with a serene smile, another copy of the ticket waving in hands. The knowledge that it isn't a bribe makes Jeahee feel better as she admires the gifts, wondering if she was allowed to accept this so easily.
"Friend?" she repeats, and this time she doesn't hide her wonder knowing that it isn’t minded, as long as Jaehee kept an open mind. Which the secretary always does, in eagerness, but also in gratefulness. It is a little routine they had figured out together after the first conversation.
The endeavour for essential oils for cats failed, but Jaehee didn’t mind it. The next time the chime of the crystals announced her arrival there was another greeting heading her way. This time a leatherbound notebook full of scraps could be found in place of documents. The amethyst crystal fashioned around her neck tickled by short brown hair that is slowly reaching for her shoulders.
“Ready for class?” The joke headed her way and Jaehee chuckles, a shy nod coming from her as she asks for lavender tea. Mr. Han was demanding as ever, after all, but Jaehee felt better knowing that there is an oasis to which she can return.
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Glitter is in the Air performance!
youtube
The stage is decorated with props of various different kinds of candy, big or small, some enormous; it's like the audience just got ported to Candyland! In the center there's crystallized rock candy that's wrapped with long blue streamers spreading out this way and that across the stage, either trialing on the ground or pulled taut in the air. After a few seconds of the audience having the time to digest the sugary scene before them the music kicks on, the lights flickering and drawing attention to one large wrapped candy on stage, as big as a human. As multiple stage lights focus in on it a voice rings out, indicating the start of the show. “Sou-Sour candy.”
The music starts to give a rhythm, the wrapped piece of candy starting to shift in time with it, something within wanting to burst out. A repeat of the words “Sou-Sour candy” is done in a deeper tone, fingers making their way through the wrapping before tearing it wide from the center. The candy inside is Pheonix; decked out in a rather sweet outfit, with the right amount of sassy. A look that hasn’t been seen on her before, but oh boy does it work. An off the shoulder top, bright shorts that hug her figure well, and ankle boots with heels that could kill. There’s straps over her shoulders and hips with round bits of candy chalk on them. A smirk dances on her lips as she keeps the wrapping wide open so everyone can see her.
“I'm sour candy.~” Pheonix takes her first step out. “So sweet, then I get a little angry, yeah.” Bits of candy are decorated onto her skin, sparkling in the light almost like glitter as they accentuate her body and makeup. She reaches up and shakes out her hair, a hop in her step as she takes center stage. "Sour candy, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!"
On the stage there's giant lollipops erected from the floor, of which Pheonix begins to strut towards. One hand grabs around the shaft of the lollipop stick while the other hand runs over the top of the sugary rock. She licks her lips, careful of the powdered sugar decorating them. “I'm super psycho. Make you crazy when I turn the lights looow.~ ” Pheonix drops her hips down to the ground, then straightens her legs while slowly grinding her backside upward. With her grip on the lollipop she twists the end and snaps it off the ground. “Sour candy, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!”
Pheonix walks with the candy in hand, spinning it lightly in her hands as she eyes Barry in the crowd, strutting his way. “Ask me to be nice, and then I'll do it extra mean.” She lets her tongue run along the candy head before holding it down towards Barry, and in her song she speaks in a different language. “Tteutbakkui pyojeong hanae neon danghwanghagetji.” Her hips sway side to side before taking her lollipop away from Barry, reaching and plucking off one of the candy chalk lining her hips, flicking it at Barry. “Bissan cheogiran maldeullo nal pojanghan geon, neoya.” Walking backwards, she waggles a finger at him. “Neoya.~”
The large candy rock stands in the background as she starts to walk up to it. “If you wanna fix me, then let's break up here and now!” Spinning around in front of it to face the audience again. “Georikkim eomneun nunbiche neon georil dunikka.” She props the lollipop over her shoulder, holding it like a large mace as she glances over the other shoulder towards the rock candy behind her. “Tuk kkabomyeon eogimeopsi sorijilleowa, uh-huh.” Spinning back around, she wields her candy stick like a weapon. “Uh-huh.~” Then strikes at a specific spot on the rock, cracks forming as Pheonix quickly moves out of the way.
The rock candy shatters into pieces to expose the center treat within, the blue streamers even within the candy wrapped around a tall elven figure. Sea green hair trails down behind her as her back faces the audience, but once freed she starts to sing. “I'm hard on the outside, but if you give me time, then I could make time for your love…” Jiroki slowly turns, the large streamers wrapped around her body while her shoulders are bare, leaving much to the imagination as they cling to her form. The scars on her body look like crystalized cracks, as if she were made of the candy she just been broken out of. “I'm hard on the outside, but if you see inside, inside, inside…”
Jiroki’s dark eyes are like the midnight sky, judging the crowd as she clicks long manicured nails together, the same color of blue as the streamers and decorated with bits of candy. “I. Might. Be. Messed up. But. I. Know. What's. Love.” Singing in a monotone sort of voice, pointing a nail towards the audience. “You. Want. A. Real taste?” Jiroki does a once-over on the crowd, squinting her eyes skeptically. “At least I'm not a fake.”
Some of the streamers begin to start being pulled from her, and she reaches down to grab hold of some and fling them up in the air, bit by bit having less on her. “Come, come, unwrap me! Come, come, unwrap me!” The ones taken from her form are pulled off stage, still having more on as her hands cover her eyes, peeking through spread fingers. “I'll. Show. You. What's. Me.
Close. Your. Eyes. Don't peek. Now. I'm. Un- Dressing.” Her hands slide down her body before grabbing at the steamers in front of her chest, about to rip them. “Unwrap sour candy.”
The streamers are ripped, and Jiroki struts out of her wrappings. A off the shoulder blue dress that goes to her knees, along with a sheer fabric with prints of stars and moons, trailing past the length of her dress and trailing behind her. “Come, come, unwrap me! Come, come, unwrap me!” On both wrists are frilly corsages, unsurprisingly also decorated with candy. “Come on, sour candy.”
Jiroki’s eyes set on Kon in the audience, starting to strut towards him in time with the music. “I'm hard on the outside, but if you give me time, then I could make time for your love.” One hand reaches down to tenderly cup his chin, tilting it upward so she can make better eye contact with him. Her free hand comes to the corsage on her wrist, plucking off a piece of candy. “I'm hard on the outside, but if you see inside, inside, inside…” Her thumb brushes over his lips, then she slips the piece of candy in his mouth, and boy is it SOUR.
“I'm sour candy.~” Pheonix begins to sing again, standing center stage as Jiroki walks back towards her. “So sweet then I get a little angry, yeah.~ Sour candy.” Pheonix rolls her lollipop in hand, craning one finger to coax Jiroki lower for a taste of it. But as Jiroki leans in Pheonix quickly yanks it away, instead planting a swift and sugary peck on the Kaldorei’s lips, getting sugar onto her. Jiroki is taken aback by the sweet gesture, but then Pheonix yanks a piece of candy off of Jiroki’s dress. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah! I'm super psycho; make you crazy when I turn the lights looow.~” Phoenix bumps her hip playfully against Jiroki, though the taller Kaldorei rolls her eyes. “Sour candy, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!”
“Take a bite, take a bite. S-Sour candy.” The song starts to roll towards the end, though not before Jiroki steals her own candy off of Pheonix. She grabs hold of one of the shorter elf's shoulders, but her head goes towards the other one, taking the candy strap in mouth. Jiroki pulls back and the strap snaps, scattering candy chalk on the ground as she crunches on the bits in her mouth. “Take a bite, take a bite. S-Sour candy.” Pheonix looks shocked, bringing her arm over her chest to keep things up, though nothing is at risk of slipping off. “Take a bite, take a bite. S-sour candy.” Despite candy being taken off each other they still had plenty leftover, now redirecting their attention back to the audience as they pose and tempt the audience. “Take a bite, take a bite. Sour candy.~”
(( Thank you @straightouttatheashes and Barry for doing the art piece, and thank you Phe for working with me! Was super fun! ))
@succulent-tart
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Sour Candy - Performance
Jiro & Phe’s performance for the Succulent Tart’s Glitter Is In The Air show! ))
MUSIC
----
The stage is decorated with props of various different kinds of candy, big or small, some enormous; it's like the audience just got ported to Candyland! In the center there's crystallized rock candy that's wrapped with long blue streamers spreading out this way and that across the stage, either trialing on the ground or pulled taut in the air. After a few seconds of the audience having the time to digest the sugary scene before them the music kicks on, the lights flickering and drawing attention to one large wrapped candy on stage, as big as a human. As multiple stage lights focus in on it a voice rings out, indicating the start of the show.
“Sou-Sour candy.”
The music starts to give a rhythm, the wrapped piece of candy starting to shift in time with it, something within wanting to burst out. A repeat of the words “Sou-Sour candy” is done in a deeper tone, fingers making their way through the wrapping before tearing it wide from the center. The candy inside is Pheonix; decked out in a rather sweet outfit, with the right amount of sassy. A look that hasn’t been seen on her before, but oh boy does it work. An off the shoulder top, bright shorts that hug her figure well, and ankle boots with heels that could kill. There’s straps over her shoulders and hips with round bits of candy chalk on them. A smirk dances on her lips as she keeps the wrapping wide open so everyone can see her.
“I'm sour candy.~”Pheonix takes her first step out. “So sweet, then I get a little angry, yeah.” Bits of candy are decorated onto her skin, sparkling in the light almost like glitter as they accentuate her body and makeup. She reaches up and shakes out her hair, a hop in her step as she takes center stage.
"Sour candy, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!"
On the stage there's giant lollipops erected from the floor, of which Pheonix begins to strut towards. One hand grabs around the shaft of the lollipop stick while the other hand runs over the top of the sugary rock. She licks her lips, careful of the powdered sugar decorating them.
“I'm super psycho. Make you crazy when I turn the lights looow.~ ”
Pheonix drops her hips down to the ground, then straightens her legs while slowly grinding her backside upward. With her grip on the lollipop she twists the end and snaps it off the ground.
“Sour candy, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!”
Pheonix walks with the candy in hand, spinning it lightly in her hands as she eyes Barry in the crowd, strutting his way.
“Ask me to be nice, and then I'll do it extra mean.”
She lets her tongue run along the candy head before holding it down towards Barry, and in her song she speaks in a different language. “Tteutbakkui pyojeong hanae neon danghwanghagetji.”
Her hips sway side to side before taking her lollipop away from Barry, reaching and plucking off one of the candy chalk lining her hips, flicking it at Barry.
“Bissan cheogiran maldeullo nal pojanghan geon, neoya.” Walking backwards, she waggles a finger at him. “Neoya.~”
The large candy rock stands in the background as she starts to walk up to it.
“If you wanna fix me, then let's break up here and now!”
Spinning around in front of it to face the audience again. “Georikkim eomneun nunbiche neon georil dunikka.” She props the lollipop over her shoulder, holding it like a large mace as she glances over the other shoulder towards the rock candy behind her. “Tuk kkabomyeon eogimeopsi sorijilleowa, uh-huh.”
Spinning back around, she wields her candy stick like a weapon. “Uh-huh.~”
Then strikes at a specific spot on the rock, cracks forming as Pheonix quickly moves out of the way.
The rock candy shatters into pieces to expose the center treat within, the blue streamers even within the candy wrapped around a tall elven figure. Sea green hair trails down behind her as her back faces the audience, but once freed she starts to sing. “I'm hard on the outside, but if you give me time, then I could make time for your love…” Jiroki slowly turns, the large streamers wrapped around her body while her shoulders are bare, leaving much to the imagination as they cling to her form. The scars on her body look like crystalized cracks, as if she were made of the candy she just been broken out of.
“I'm hard on the outside, but if you see inside, inside, inside…”
Jiroki’s dark eyes are like the midnight sky, judging the crowd as she clicks long manicured nails together, the same color of blue as the streamers and decorated with bits of candy. “I. Might. Be. Messed Up. But. I. Know. What's. Love.”
Singing in a monotone sort of voice, pointing a nail towards the audience.
“You. Want. A. Real Taste?” Jiroki does a once-over on the crowd, squinting her eyes skeptically.
“At least I'm not a fake.”
Some of the streamers begin to start being pulled from her, and she reaches down to grab hold of some and fling them up in the air, bit by bit having less on her. “Come, come, unwrap me! Come, come, unwrap me!”
The ones taken from her form are pulled off stage, still having more on as her hands cover her eyes, peeking through spread fingers. “I'll. Show. You. What's. Me. Close. Your. Eyes. Don't Peek. Now. I'm. Un- Dressing.”
Her hands slide down her body before grabbing at the steamers in front of her chest, about to rip them. “Unwrap sour candy.”
The streamers are ripped, and Jiroki struts out of her wrappings. A off the shoulder blue dress that goes to her knees, along with a sheer fabric with prints of stars and moons, trailing past the length of her dress and trailing behind her.
“Come, come, unwrap me! Come, come, unwrap me!”
On both wrists are frilly corsages, unsurprisingly also decorated with candy.
“Come on, sour candy.”
Jiroki’s eyes set on Kon in the audience, starting to strut towards him in time with the music.“I'm hard on the outside, but if you give me time, then I could make time for your love.”
One hand reaches down to tenderly cup his chin, tilting it upward so she can make better eye contact with him. Her free hand comes to the corsage on her wrist, plucking off a piece of candy.
“I'm hard on the outside, but if you see inside, inside, inside…”
Her thumb brushes over his lips, then she slips the piece of candy in his mouth, and boy is it SOUR.
“I'm sour candy.~” Pheonix begins to sing again, standing center stage as Jiroki walks back towards her. “So sweet then I get a little angry, yeah.~ Sour candy.” Pheonix rolls her lollipop in hand, craning one finger to coax Jiroki lower for a taste of it. But as Jiroki leans in Pheonix quickly yanks it away, instead planting a swift and sugary peck on the Kaldorei’s lips, getting sugar onto her.
Jiroki is taken aback by the sweet gesture, but then Pheonix yanks a piece of candy off of Jiroki’s dress. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah! I'm super psycho; make you crazy when I turn the lights looow.~” Pheonix bumps her hip playfully against Jiroki, though the taller Kaldorei rolls her eyes.
“Sour candy, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!”
“Take a bite, take a bite. S-Sour candy.” The song starts to roll towards the end, though not before Jiroki steals her own candy off of Pheonix. She grabs hold of one of the shorter elf's shoulders, but her head goes towards the other one, taking the candy strap in mouth. Jiroki pulls back and the strap snaps, scattering candy chalk on the ground as she crunches on the bits in her mouth.
“Take a bite, take a bite. S-Sour candy.”
Pheonix looks shocked, bringing her arm over her chest to keep things up, though nothing is at risk of slipping off. “Take a bite, take a bite. S-sour candy.” Despite candy being taken off each other they still had plenty leftover, now redirecting their attention back to the audience as they pose and tempt the audience.
“Take a bite, take a bite. Sour candy.~”
---
@bread-elf for writing this amazing performance and letting Phe be a part of it!))
@succulent-tart
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La douleur exquise
He's falling out of love with you, you can feel it.
It started with the small things.
As all beginnings and endings do.
It started when the flowers stopped coming. No longer did you get a fresh set as the old ones began to wither. Months went by of the vase on the kitchen island being empty before you had the courage to ask.
To save money was the only response you got.
You chalked it up to that and the fact that the two of you had been married for two years. That the honeymoon stage may have finally died.
A piece of your heart went into the same trashcan as those withered flowers. Little did you know that that's exactly how you would end up.
Clinging to life after being plucked from the very ground. Given little to work with to keep thriving.
One morning he failed to set out your outfit and since then had never touched another article of your clothing again.
This was before he stopped helping around the house. Dishes piled high until you washed them no matter how long it you tried to wait him out.
Then he stopped wanting to take shower with you.
Or watch the shows the two of you shared.
Nor did his hands find your body when he came home.
More often than not he would go straight to bed.
You cannot remember the last time he gave you a kiss, not since you stopped asking or being the first to initiate.
But the worst is how suddenly you can feel it in the weight of his gaze and looking back it was always there.
Just as you do now. You're making his favorite meal in hopes that the last few months or so has been your imagination.
That work has him tired but those eyes never lie.
Although his mouth does.
"I love you." You smile brightly as he sits at the table in the small kitchen. The sounds of meat and vegetables sizzling in the silence fighting hard to overshadow the aromatic spices that hang in the air.
His eyes find you slowly and you watch them. They make your heart pound, but in the worst way now.
As if your heart was beating into your rib cage for escape, to rip itself out of its home to avoid the pain, the weight of that fucking gaze.
It's as if he is debating. On what you're not sure. You can only guess. Maybe he is debating on packing his stuff late tonight when you've gone to bed or tomorrow while you're at work.
Would he leave a note? Would you find his ring in the dining room table along side the key to the house? Or would he keep them just in case?
Worse still would he find someone with a memory quirk?
And not for the sake of your fragility but for the simple fact that you have a vast knowledge about him.
Nothing that would be good to share.
Would he even let you live? Or just keep that icy glare as blue flames licked up the walls of your home.
Licking at the layer of paint the two of you spent all afternoon picking out, adorning the walls with something new and fresh, giggling from the small paint fight. Blue hot fire savoring the pictures of the two of you that hung on the walls or the sketches and paintings you have of him among other things.
Before devouring you as you're sound asleep in the bed the two of you hauled from the city wrapped in the sheets gifted for your wedding.
How ironic would it be to die practically the way you two met?
The exchange would be worth it for him. The pain of burning skin would be nothing. He endures it daily and no matter how many times you apply ointment or the scoldings you give he just gives a nasty smirk.
*"Sometimes trouble is neccessary."*
And why were you still so desperate to try to save this love?
Was it because every time you packed your things with hot angry tears while he was away your brain shoved a memory to the fore front of your mind?
Causing you to unpack with an empty chest and heavier tears.
Memories like how he saved you depsite you being in pursuit of him.
His blue flames were dancing along the walls and had been for hours. Weakening the wooden beams above.
You followed him down the same winding halls of that warehouse, he was just luckier than you. Just missing the half ton beam falling but it didn't miss you. The easy thing for him to do was leave you. No one would think any different. Just a hero down on her luck as she tried to save some homeless that used that warehouse along side the league.
Never knowing what happened on the other half of the building. Separated only by a wall of brick.
You saw him debating then. As the fired jumped gleefully from the heavy wood to a new fuel source. Melting the fabric of your suit into your skin. You saw that very moment he decided to save your life.
With a frustrated sigh lifting the beam just enough for you to wiggle out.
For months after your tried to catch him, burn screaming louder in warning when he was near.
You should have taken it as a warning but instead you fell for him.
In some twisted way that same night he showed up in the hospital when you had been ambushed after busting a nation wide drug ring. He left flowers and a note while the news blared of several drug ring leaders charred in their beds.
You knew he had done it for you although you never did get a straight answer.
So again you ask yourself why you were trying so God damn hard!
It's as if you're trying to breathe life into a brittle plant that had one green leaf while unbeknownst to you the roots had long since died, clinging to the Earth out of rigormortis.
That last leaf a lie as if to buy time for whatever reason before you rip it from the Earth. Ending its misery for the two of you.
So his eyes debate still as he weighs his options. All the while you think and think and think. Your old burn begins to scream for the first time in a long time, making you want to claw at the marred flesh until it is raw.
"I love you too." He replies, apathetic as he normally does. Icy blue eyes giving him away as you can see he's made whatever decision he's been in deliberation for months about. He lights the candles on the dinner table with his vibrant blue flame with a snap of his fingers.
Would he be kind enough to let you go peacefully?
You aren't sure but you know one thing, he's forced your hand.
The same hand that reaches out for the bottle of shake cheese. You remembered that he loves powdered parmesan as you sprinkle it liberally onto his meal. You place the container down and the wrapper begins to slowly peel away at the bottle due to the heat revealing something else beneath. Just enough for a picture of a small beady eye on a small brown body to wink at the fridge. Winking even through the little red X.
You place the meal before him, he doesn't even bother smiling up at you but he eats it.
Before long you don't have to worry about much. You swipe at the candles and they topple over, igniting the table cloth he brought home at random one evening with ease. Jumping eagerly from the black cloth to vastly cooling flesh.
A sad smile paints your lips as you watch it dance across the kitchen with solemn eyes. Its like watching an old friend preform a play or recital for a final time before they hang it up for good.
Only when it begins to make the grey paint in the living room bubble and the glass in the frames to crack do you grab onto your suitcase by the door.
The same one he walked by with no notice or maybe no mention as you shut the door behind you.
Slipping the key into the lock and twisting before leaving the golden metal to gleam in the moonlight before basking in the final call of the brightest flames.
@succulent-momma @thenezuko
Remember you asked to be tagged in ALL of my stories. Hope you liked the angst. 😘💋🐱
#dabi x reader#dabi x you#bnha dabi#dabi imagine#dabi bnha#mha dabi#dabi#bnha x reader#bnha x you#bnha x y/n#mha x reader
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“Defective Detective”
HHHHH-Forgot to post these like an idiot<:”D
Also freakin thank you @rainecloud020604 for helping me design the fella <3
This be me cold icecream fella Alfred, a fella whoo trusts no one and wishes to gain back the trust of folks in this world,it’s a reason why he signed up to be a detective, to just give folks some damn hope.Hates failing cause it’s like breaking his promise and pledge to those who trusted em with such. He gets treated horrible by his boss and don’t trust aaaannyone in that station- well, most of the times anyways.
Alfred was inspired by a writing project i had to do for school,a version of em for in inkwell and then a human version<:”D
Hope you all enjoy ^^
The Writing project is below here
Warning there is a tad bit of blood and bit of heavy subjects.
it’s also long as hell and you don’t have to read such i swear to ya <3 apologies
Alfred’s POV:
The rusted, busted joke of a clock hadn’t even struck 10am, and already my nostrils were being assaulted by the strong stench of coffee being brewed. Yep, a very average morning in this broken, little police station of ours, your everyday back breaking and mind crushing routine, oh what fun, right? You get use to all the all-nighters you got to pull and gallons of bitter coffee your knackered body is forced to swallow.
My entire body flinched hearing the erupting laughter burst from my “faithful” colleagues’ mouths. My teeth gritting in an instant with distaste for those gullible idiots. This job is far from some measly joke. It was barely even a week ago-dear lord that jewel of pure disaster. The burning hot blood dripping from my shredded hands, the repulsive smell of smoke and the dreadful ringing of that bullet-
The deafening crash from a stack of paperwork being slammed onto my desk snapped me out of my horrid thoughts, now being greeted with the piercing glare of the devil himself (Or if you prefer, my boss.)
“What are you doing?!”
His booming voice questioned, adding more agony to my aching eardrums. A low growl bubbling in my throat as hatred began to boil in the pit of my stomach. Even though my mind, so desperately wanted to lash back at this man with a snide comment of how he looked like a bin-bag full of coleslaw, wearing that uniform. I sighed silently in defeat and forced the most painful, weakest smile imaginable. Another little part of me, slowly dying this morning as I kissed-up to that filthy pig. But before my forced words could even leave my mouth, his enraged voice filled my ears once more.
“YOU’RE THIS CLOSE TO LOSING THAT BADGE OF YOURS ALFRED!! Your performance has been appalling, and so help me god- one more slip up and you can kiss this job good-bye!”
My lifeless eyes just stared at him blankly, feeling the peering stares of comrades on us now, enjoying every moment of this delightful show of me getting immaturely ridiculed for no reason whatsoever. Guess that would be another thing you get use to here.
All my burned-out mind, could possibly puppeteer my body to do was just simply nod in response, knowing full well he wasn’t even going to dare. Basically, cause this demon absolutely adored tormenting me. Wincing in response as he stormed off back into his office, giving me the succulent chance to glare at him with every step he took, the moment his back was turned.
I didn’t even bother to turn and face the smirking faces of my “loyal” team mates, my dried up eyes instead wandering around my desk and sticking on to the very first file on the stack of paperwork…With an irritated huff, my hands plucked the piece of flimsy paper off of the mountain of sheets and documents. My eyes now scanning every word, as if I was a broken-down robot, doing its destructive routine over and over again.
“Missing.
On Friday, 15th of November. A 9-year-old girl, by the name of Riley Grace was reported missing. Her distressed parents reporting once they had come home from a night out together, were greeted with a smashed window, ransacked rooms and their little girl gone. Police have searched the area, unfortunately not finding any leads or whereabouts of the child, or kidnapper- “
I was already scanning the contact info below and my eyes eventually landing on a heart-wrenching picture printed onto the paper. Now I was staring into the eyes of Riley Grace, a photo took in the lush, green fields of this year’s Spring. Her hair as golden as freshly bloomed sunflowers, emerald like eyes, rosy red cheeks, adorable smile and such a precious glow beaming from her face.
My eyes now dulling as a vile taste was planted into my mouth, my heart sinking into my dread filled stomach. Sick. The very first word that came to mind, how utterly sick you’d have to be in the head to do such a horrific thing, but for folks’ misfortune, this city was infested with these disgusting rats.
What was the exact action that lead me to this? Was it the dawning of my ragged, blood-stained jacket? The first steps out of the station and into the freezing cold streets, ready to face such a horrific world and be a “Hero”? Or was it simply the photo I had taken of this twisted gang that lead to me getting caught. Lead me to where I was now…
Both my legs and heart were burning, like someone had carelessly set them both ablaze to make me suffer more then I already was. Like their deepest and most twisted desire was for my hope of escape to slowly burn with them. At this point I couldn’t even tell if the loud bang in my ears, was my pounding heartbeat, or my bounding footsteps, desperately wanting to escape this living nightmare.
My entire body jumped suddenly feeling the freezing, cold water sink into the fabric of my ragged, ripped clothes, the heaven’s opening and pouring down a damn ocean worth of water onto this god forsaken city. Great. Just wonderful, just perfect! Yes, all I ever wanted tonight was a rage filled storm, just perfect! It fit so well with this entire hell I had gotten myself into!
And just like that my thoughts were shattered into a million pieces, as my bruised face collided and crashed onto the soaking, rough pavement. A sickening crack giving me the most politest reminder, I had broken something once more. Oh, what joy. Tonight, was just getting better by the moment!
I felt my stomach twist horribly, as warm, oozing liquid began to leak from my swollen wounds, sinking deep and deeper into my already filthy clothes. I almost felt sorry for this body of mine, it’s fail skin decorated with too many bruises to count, it’s bines burning and feeling like there were slowly being melted and it’s poor crushed heart felt like it was about to explode at any moment.
Though everything was in an ungodly amount of pure agony, it was difficult to even register as my mind began to suffocate me in its dreadful fears and darkest worries. Question, after question, regret, after regret. The entire weight of the world on my trembling shoulders, crushing me slowly as my head spun with questions that I pleaded answers for.
Why did I do this? Why this part of town? Why this gang? Why did I even bother being such a “hero”? Regret was the most-deadliest poison of all in my opinion, flowing through my bloodstream and tainting whatever hope I had left.
I knew. This was part of this soul crushing job. Faces would come ang go, your mind just grows use to it…But once it’s your time to bite the dust… Both your heart and soul scream out, pleading and begging. For someone, anyone to save your useless life.
It’s unfortunate how I lost this little, twisted game for “Chase”. My heart rocketing into my throat hearing those horrifying footsteps, echoing through the desolate alleyways.
Closer and closer. Louder and louder. Like a vicious, ferocious predator slowly closing in on its pathetic prey, on its mouth-watering prize… The world around my exhausted eyes began to fade, my broken mind confirming this was truly it, my crimson red blood sinking into the soaking wet pavement. The endless and deafening screams to “get up!” and “run!” were now slowly dying along with my shattered body.
Just I was about to accept my dreadful fate of becoming a new punching bag for this disgusting gang, just like little Riley… The ear-splitting sounds of sirens bursting my already in pain ear drums and jolting my mind awake in an instant. Once more I was consumed by such sickening questions that I would have begged answers for, key word folks is “would”.
My pale body, which was beautifully painted with too many wounds and bruises to keep track of, was still going through with the agonizing progress of shutting down. Even if my mind screamed it to stop.
However, as I slowly was losing my slender grip on this world, my body was suddenly lifted, not by those sick murders that had gave me a terrible beating beforehand. No. Instead the soft touch of my fellow colleagues, their soft and gentle voices filling my ears as they dragged my dying body into the back of what I hoped and prayed to be an ambulance. The blinding lights and voices were all such a blur to me, my body too weak to even keep its eyes open. Giving into the hellish pain and slowly fading out of consciousness.
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TWST Mond Twin Headcanons
((A masterlist of all the random facts and trivia bits for the Mond twins. I may create separate posts of new things in the future, but those new bits will always be added/archived in this post! As with some of my other character lists/profiles, a “last edited” date will be posted to inform when the last addition was.
Diamond Crown Academy, Katherine’s school, is created by @phoenix-manga.
Last Edited: 5-15-2020, added DCA Festival headcanons, corrected an old headcanon, newly added headcanons are in bold font.))
GENERAL HEADCANONS: headcanons that don't necessarily fit into a specific category, mainly little general snippets about the twins.
The Mond twins are a...peculiar set of siblings. They're friendly enough at their own schools, but get them together and you'll likely never see one without the other. They're very attached and seem to only trust each other. Despite how nice they seem, there always seems to be the aura that you talking to them feels like you're intruding in their space and better play by their rules because of it.
There's a rumor that the twins aren't entirely human, if they're human at all. Some believe they're fae or fairy. The twins have never addressed these rumors themselves and, if confronted with them, tend to give vague answers that neither confirm nor deny. Some believe that in of itself confirms the rumors, but the Monds have been known to be mischievous and may simply get entertainment out of confusing their classmates.
Despite their cunning, secretive behavior, the twins aren't bad or evil. They're mainly mischievous and distrustful of others. They're neutral at their worst, just wanting to protect each other above all else. They might relish in the chaos of something like a prank, but destruction and devastation doesn't sit well with them. They're not above schmoozing and sweet-talking to get something like an extension on homework or the last tart in the lunch line, but they wouldn't betray a friend to serve themselves. Ultimately, it's better to be on their good side, but being on their bad side isn't much of an inconvenience, unless the situation is very, VERY bad.
In regards to the above headcanon, the twins mostly represent characters that appear to be on the villain’s side before ultimately abandoning or straight-up betraying them, or characters that you’re absolutely sure are the main villains before the actual villain’s plot comes to light and you realize they were working against the evil.
"Canonically" for TWST Katherine might not be part of NRC due to the "all-boys school" angle, but at the very least she'd visit a lot; if she was part of a NRC dorm, it would be Ignihyde like her brother despite everyone and their grandmother expecting her to be sorted into Pomefiore. In Ignihyde, she'd specialize in web design, but she'd also have a knack for engineering; seeing various pieces like a giant puzzle to put together to make things work. Many classmates would come to her for help with building their own PCs.
Thomas and Katherine share a bank account, but have their own cards attached to it. Both earn relatively the same amount of money in their side jobs. Thomas' payments might be more substantial in the moment, but Katherine is commissioned much more frequently, either through bulk orders of products made by her own hand or companies paying substantial amounts for the rights to various recipes they pay her to concoct.
As proud as Thomas is of his sister's accomplishments, Katherine sends him a hysterical amount of perfumed goods of her own creation, asking for critiques. He does what he can, but to reduce them overwhelming his dorm room, he usually does his initial "testing" with them once before leaving them in a box on Pomefiore's doorstep.
Katherine's animal companion at DCA is an orchid mantis named Lamarie; while normally only the companion's owners can hear them speak, Thomas can hear Lamarie talk as well.
Lamarie is a very conceited, boastful little bug to the point where Vil would describe her as "full of herself" if he could hear her speak. Despite her selfish attitude, she cares about Katherine dearly and will go to great lengths to protect her, even if the effort isn't always necessary.
The Monds use a similar fragrance mainly comprising of cloves and fresh rosemary. Thomas' cologne also contains hints spearmint and bergamot. Katherine's perfume also contains hints of lavender and patchouli. Their respective scents are present in various products made by Katherine, and they regularly bathe with the pure oil mixtures stirred into their bath water. This leaves their smells being particularly persistent (almost overwhelming) and while Katherine says there's no magic additives, non- or weak-magicked beings tend to find themselves being slowly entranced or even "hypnotized" by the smell after a certain period, weakening their resolve and rationality.
While their favorite food is chestnuts, both of the twins' favorite dish is chicken curry, though Katherine likes Indian-style curry while Thomas likes Japanese-style curry. While both enjoy a certain level of spiciness, they tend to exaggerate their ability to tolerate it, leading to some...interesting scenarios when the host/cook takes their word on such.
While curry is their favorite food, Katherine enjoys caviar tasting, though Thomas finds caviar gross. However, Thomas enjoys artisan cheeses while Katherine loathes it.
Both twins love boba drinks, particularly ones with lots of fancy toppings. Thomas eats the toppings out of the whip cream with a spoon before drinking, Katherine likes to drink the toppings through her straw as they sink into the drink.
The twins are relatively neutral when it comes to sweets, though once in a blue moon they get plagued by a ravenous sweet tooth. They prefer baked goods over candy when it comes to satisfying their sugar cravings. Thomas is a straightforward cake-lover, especially chocolate (god tier: chocolate lava cake); Katherine will say her favorite dessert is French macarons because of the aesthetic, but she'll sneak out at the crack of dawn to get donuts for the aforementioned sugar craving above.
Thomas is naturally gifted in herbology and plant-based magic. Katherine grew into it in her teens with lots of training and practice, but she had the terrible luck of frequently killing plants when she was a child. When Thomas discovered his affinity, he'd often revive the plants to keep Katherine from crying. Katherine's prized possession is a lamb's tail succulent Thomas gave her when they were kids that he guided her into keeping alive. Thomas doesn't have a passion for herbology, but he keeps a small potted lilac tree in his dorm, as Katherine gave it to him as the first plant she was able to successfully grow during her first year at DCA.
On the flip side, Thomas could burn cereal as a child. Like how he helped Katherine with gardening, Katherine has tried to help his cooking skills. He learned well enough, but without a dedicated cooking class at NRC (chemistry being the closest thing, which HAS surprisingly helped), his learning process has been slow. He's an okay cook now, and what he does make is at least edible if not enjoyable, but it's definitely not pretty. (Thomas: *standing casually in front of a collapsed cake* "Started making it. Had a breakdown. Bon appetite.")
While Thomas is in the board game club, if the club is cancelled or on the days it doesn't meet, he sometimes sits in on magical shift or track and field clubs to help get regular exercise in; he also helps in tutoring/instructing junior students in the clubs.
If the gardening research club doesn't meet, Katherine might show up to the greenhouse/club room to watch and fuss over the plants, even if she doesn't actually interfere with them because she wants to be a good gardener. Sometimes other clubs, usually the volleyball club, will drag her to their meetings to keep her from worrying.
Thomas is usually on the magical shift team for Ignihyde during the tournament, but he's willing to yield his position on the team if there's 7 players stronger than he is.
BACKSTORY HEADCANONS: headcanons relating to their backstory or explanations of how their origins affect other aspects of their life.
The twins were taught how to read, write, and most basic skills by Mim, including how to use magic. This was to her advantage so they could be independent enough to follow her orders (and not bother her when she had no tasks for them).
However, King Arthur adapted magic into his being over his long life, both by being tutored by Merlin for so long and then over the course of his main journeys and triumphs. Spending so much time with the twins as kits, he imbued them with a little of this magic and is the main reason they remember him so well despite how young they were.
In short, the twins had an adaptation to both good and black magic when they were young.
The twins can change between being human and being squirrels. They themselves have wondered if they could transform midway into a hybrid form, but they’re worried about getting “stuck” and haven’t tried. They also don’t want to try because being born as squirrels is a secret they’ve kept from their classmates (they believe it’s a secret to the teachers and staff as well, but both Crowley and Citrouille are well aware of this, despite not knowing full details of the twins’ origins).
Since Mim is an incredibly powerful sorcerer, the twins adapted a human lifespan once they were transformed by her. They were only a few months old as young squirrels when she transformed them and they had become children as humans, but they also started to age as humans as time went on.
The twins adore mainstream human cuisine, but they still have the tendency to snack on nuts and berries they pluck straight off the plant. They have to be careful of this habit because while they can digest certain things like fresh acorns, they have to be mindful that someone might notice them eating raw foods that would normally be poisonous to humans, such as uncooked acorns.
Naturally, the twins excel at Animal Linguistics. They have to be particularly careful about this because animals on campus risk revealing the twins’ secret to other students proficient in Animal Linguistics if they’re spotted transforming. They have to feign natural excellency at the subject as humans, but also not be found out when transforming into squirrels to use their natural forms to their advantage.
The twins don’t remember Merlin very well from the short time he was looking after them. While he seemed kind enough in wanting to save them from Mim, they’re not interested in reuniting with him because they don’t know his true intentions.
What they don’t know is that Merlin had managed to locate them when they started school, but has decided to leave them alone for the most part. His original agreement with Arthur’s son was to make sure they were released safely into the wild and he sees their current situation as a way to interpret it. He’s normally away, but sometimes he checks in, guiding them as a disembodied voice or animating objects to lead them in the right direction. The twins write this off as normal absurdity in their magic-filled schools and don’t realize it’s him.
The twins weren't sorted into Savanaclaw or Sagamore despite being animal-humans partially because they're not clear hybrids. Another, bigger reason is that their memories from being in nature are not pleasant ones (first being orphaned as kits and then living under Mim's hand) and they want to distance themselves from nature and their "origins" as much as possible.
They put a lot of effort into learning as much as they could about the modern world in such a short amount of time. Their knowledge is certainly passable, but they still slip up here and there. They prioritized learning alchemy for potions that could help them stay awake to study longer or help retain information a bit better. The same came with learning how to use computers as they noticed it was important in the current society. It was difficult for them when they were in hiding before they enrolled, but their fear possibly being enslaved by another witch encourage them to study hard and get stronger in both knowledge and resolve.
Lamarie knows they’re origins and the twins know she knows, but she keeps their secret to respect their wishes and protect Katherine, worried that the witch from their past might be trying to find them.
Lilia and Malleus are also highly aware that the twins aren't human, but they keep it to themselves.
One reason the twins use such strong fragrances in their products is because when they were still hiding at NRC, one persistent Savannaclaw student could pick up on their scent in rooms they were previously in during the night. Even if they were in human form in that room, the student specifically mentioned picking up on the scent of "squirrel" so it lead the twins to believe that even as humans their natural scent/musk smells animalistic. They threw the student off their literal scent before he could find them out by slipping a potion into his drinks and food to give him horrible allergies for the rest of his time at NRC, making him unable to smell clearly until he graduated.
IN-GAME HEADCANONS: headcanons regarding how the twins would work as canon characters in the actual game.
Thomas' unique magic is called "Found Your Weak Spot". He zeroes in on an opponent's weakness, whether it's physical, emotional, or magical and identifies how to exploit it; his attacks become critical.
Katherine's unique magic is called "Take a Deep Breath". A pleasant, but abundant fragrance overtakes her opponents, confusing their minds and slowing their movements, making their attacks much easier to dodge.
If they were in the game, they'd have an overblot boss battle as a special event. During the event, a side story would unfold where the player finds out about their past. The event would reward the player for participating by giving them rare cards where the twins unlock a human-squirrel hybrid form (similar to Savanaclaw students). The cards would depict stories of the twins trying to come to terms with being more open about their origins with their classmates, as well as trying to adjust to their hybrid forms.
CHARACTER RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS: headcanons explaining how the twins, either separately or together, interact with canon or other OC characters.
During holidays where students can visit home, the twins stay at NRC, normally spending it having huge gaming marathons with Idia. While it took years of getting to know Thomas for Idia to open up to the idea, he enjoys how they're much more willing to venture out to restock on snacks and other supplies in his place. Ortho, unsurprisingly, has to be the voice of reason and makes sure the trio doesn't die from their diet of pizza and chocolate pretzels during this time.
Going back to how the twins have relatively normal diets, they will eat the most decadent, indulgent food concoctions (think burgers with jelly donuts as buns or hotdogs with s’more toppings) in front of Vil just to horrify him. Vil’s motions to have them banned from Pomefiore dorm and a restraining order from him personally have gone unapproved.
While not particularly kid-oriented, the twins are very good at interacting with Ortho. Thomas tries to look after him when Idia isn't around, particularly performing small maintenance on Ortho's suit (such as replacing worn wires or tightening bolts) when it wears a little from extensive use in the middle of the school day. Katherine has had less interaction with Ortho, but gives him little trinkets and souvenirs from DCA when she visits Thomas.
Cheka doesn't know the twins all that well, but he likes their long hair worn in braids (or, as he calls them, their "head-tails").
HOLIDAY HEADCANONS: headcanons specifically centered around how the twins celebrate the holidays.
During their first Christmas at NRC when they were hiding, they'd sneak into dorms and watch holiday movies any students were watching. They were enamored by gingerbread houses and managed to get a boxed kit each year to decorate, but now that they're older, they decide on a design and Katherine will bake the pieces herself when she visits NRC during the holiday break. Ortho typically joins them and has fun helping decorate the structure; he tries to get Idia to join, but the older Shroud tends to hyper fixate on one area to decorate and over-obsesses on how to make it "perfect" to not ruin the overall look of the gingerbread house. They're all glad Idia joins them, but they worry about whether or not he's actually having fun with it.
DCA FESTIVAL HEADCANONS: headcanons regarding the festival held by Diamond Crown Academy.
Katherine gives her bath products to be sold at the perfume booths by the alchemy students. She checks in occasionally to see if they need more of her products (and sometimes to man a stall for awhile so someone else can take a break), but she's normally involved in the more physically active attractions.
Katherine's duties for the festival rotates throughout the course of it. Since one of her strongest subjects is Obstacle Run (see: squirrel), she spends a good amount of time at the obstacle course being a potential challenger for the visiting students to race against.
Katherine is part of an idol group, but with rotating performances from different groups, she doesn't have to spend a lot of time on stage.
Despite not being a dorm leader, a lot of DCA students recognize Thomas as Katherine's brother (either as a formal acquaintance or just "hey, he looks exactly like the girl from Chateau Beastiale") so the native students are more open to approaching him out of familiarity. Some students even "drag" him to a certain booth or attraction to get his opinion on their hard work.
The first few years, Thomas was content to just wander around on his own. He tried hanging out with Rook during the festival for a bit, but the attention Rook tends to get got a little boring for Thomas to put up with. Now he just trades off who he hangs out with, if he hangs out with anyone at all while Katherine's busy.
Thomas doesn't realize it, but he has a bit of a "prince charming" reputation himself. This is because of his long hair and charming demeanor, but DCA students fawned over him at a distance one time while he was helping Katherine fix her hair before one of her performances, people swooning over his caring "older brother" instinct.
Aside from watching Katherine's group, Thomas tries to distance himself from the idol performances. Whether it comes from wanting to tease their colleague's brother or just wanting Thomas' attention, some groups will drag him on stage after their initial performance and encourage him to try and dance along to one of their songs. He goes along despite being embarrassed because he'd find it more embarrassing to "run away" or cause some sort of scene at Katherine's school by protesting.
Thomas usually spends his time trying out different foods, but he'll also find himself in the art gallery, trying to see if there's any pieces inspired by King Arthur or the twins' original home world. If there is, he purchases it immediately if he artist lets him, but given the unlimited points of inspiration in the world, he almost never sees any pieces.
He also spends a surprising amount of time at the Futterwacken dorm because the sentient tea sets stir a strange feeling of nostalgia in him. While he doesn't interact with Riddle too often, them both enjoying the tea parties at the festival allows them to catch up and have fun in familiar company, even if they don't usually hang out at NRC.
It's through the above that Thomas came into a possession of a very strange sugar bowl. The dish's enthusiasm humored him a great deal and when he asked about it, it brought attention to how nobody at DCA actually knew where that particular sugar bowl had come from and, with the staff's permission, they allowed Thomas to buy it and take it back to his dorm. The little bowl's antics still continue to amuse him, but he can't seem to make it understand that he doesn't want sugar in anything other than coffee or tea. He doesn't drink energy drinks or do his alchemy homework in his room anymore...
SPICY HEADCANONS: a link to general headcanons regarding NSFW headcanons about the twins. This set of headcanons will always linked at the bottom of the post. These headcanons will typically contain explict, sexual details so please do not read if you are not comfortable with such. (no link exists at this time)
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Kollyva
for the @ineffablehusbandsbingo
rating: gen // wc: 773 // prompt: hades & persephone // warnings: none // my card
i wrote this for the roleswap!au i’ve been making with @crowleys--angel over the past two weeks!
Aziraphale grimaced as his sleeve caught on old brick. The old building grumbled around him, cranking and clacking in the late evening like a beast settling down to sleep. Someone sobbed a few hallways away before growing silent. A man’s voice echoed through the vents. Things banged closed and creaked open. Down the hall, a naked light bulb flickered.
Tobacco smoke had seeped far enough into paint and plaster that the whole structure had a yellow smell. It was faint enough to just tickle the bottom of his nose, like he was always on the verge of sneezing.
Aziraphale stopped at a scratched oak door with a dulled H29 that looked as though it was too big for the frame it was supposed to fit in. The bottle of wine in his hand felt heavy as he knocked.
(He was a demon, one of the damned—he shouldn’t feel as though he was being watched.)
“I hate your apartment building,” he said when the door swung open.
A pair of clunky, dark red aviator sunglasses sat on Crowley’s nose, blocking most of his expression. The lenses reflected Aziraphale’s face, turning him into a taffy-stretched crimson beast.
He looked away.
“Hi, Aziraphale,” Crowley drawled, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. It almost brought them nose to nose. “How are you Aziraphale? How’s the twenty first century treating you, Aziraphale?”
“Sarcasm isn’t necessary, my dear,” Aziraphale frowned, eyes trailing up skinny jeans and over the lumpy, too-big knitted black sweater hanging off one of the angels’ shoulders. He offered the bottle of wine.
Crowley plucked it from his grasp—nails painted with a polish so dark it made the spaces between stars look bright—turned into the apartment, and left the door open behind him.
A hand carved wooden globe sat on a table, decorated with tiny glow in the dark stars to make constellations across the countries. Beside it was a tall, dark purple plant with almost neon pink leaves that looked as though it had been through better days. Three pieces of art hung from the walls—a sketch of the Mona Lisa, a painting of a forest that could have been done by Monet, and a copy of Starry Night.
(Aziraphale hoped it was a copy, at the very least.)
Every other spot in the apartment was occupied.
Shelves were stacked with pots and littler terrariums full of succulents, spider plants, ivy, ferns, and things Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to describe. Handmade wooden ladders had been placed across the ceiling—nailed together, probably, from cuttings of trees around the city. Each had jars hanging from them, attached only by rope entwined with long, green stems. Small candles burned inside the glass, casting amber light across viridian leaves and peeling white paint.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale paused, looking around at the maze the plants had created, entwined as they were with the tables, the chairs, and even the walls. He fumbled for a moment, looking for the right words. “Not to, uh, step on your toes, but I do believe that this is a fire hazard.”
Looking over his shoulder, Crowley scowled. With predator slowness, he turned his attention to a fern tree whose trunk was straighter than a yard stick. “Not if they know what’s good for them,” his voice snaked between the bricks, vibrating with something ancient. Dark, star dotted eyes looked over red glasses, raking over trembling leaves.
When Crowley turned back to glance at Aziraphale, his eyes were hidden once again and the sharp lines of his face had smoothed into something sort of resembling a smile. “Tea?”
“Please,” Aziraphale managed and sat down with a thump into one of the low, stick-woven chairs.
There was a clattering of steel, a clink of china. “Not that I don’t mind a visit from my favourite foul fiend,” Crowley’s voice drifted from the kitchen, “but you normally don’t visit for social calls.”
Drumming his fingers against his thigh, Aziraphale stared at the coiling orange petals of a massive tiger lily. “I delivered the antichrist this evening,” he said.
A crash came from the kitchen—something fragile shattering on tile and then sliding into hard-to-reach places.
Aziraphale was in the doorway in an instant. One of the black mugs was lying in pieces on the floor, gold edges glinting beneath the dim light. The kettle sat half on the stove, teetering on the edge until a miracle pushed it fully onto the flame.
“Well,” Crowley’s voice was hoarse as if he’d been breathing in car exhaust for a good couple of hours. “Definitely not a social call, then.”
#ineffablehusbandsbingo#crowley#Aziraphale#good omens#good omens fic#roleswap#spilled ink#i need a better name than roleswap
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This is not the first time she has yanked a plant from some random place to keep 😂 she really is a plant thief and i am often the accomplice. Ya know just take a small piece that you can get to root 🤷 you got yourself a whole new plant for free and no one will miss the small piece you took. I can grow a baby succulent just from a succulent leaf all i gotta do it snatch one and then i got myself a whole new plant
I was thinking about you today bc our bakery department has adopted a pot of succulents from the floral dpt and my coworker (the cute one with the tattooes) told me i could make a succulent at home just by plucking one of the leaves from our pet succulent and im like...i wanna but i dont have a pot
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A perplexment, indeed
Summary: Stiles uses a bunch of old-timey euphemisms to tell Derek he’s gay, but Derek doesn’t get it. Until he does.
Notes: I saw this list of code words for ‘gay’ in old films, and I immediately imagined Stiles using them to confuse people. Which led to this little fic! It’s a complete AU, Stiles and Derek have never met. (On AO3)
Stiles has resigned himself to being something of an oddity. He rents a house on the edge of town, all alone (because the only guys he knows who are gay or bi are also not interested), and is only seen once a week, when he visits his dad and gets groceries. And sometimes, if there’s not much he plans to buy, he just walks. Which, in a town like Beacon Hills, which has no public transportation, is seen as very strange.
But Stiles likes it because it gives him a lot of time to think, sometimes about whatever novel he’s writing, and sometimes about more banal personal matters.
And it’s on such a walk, nearly home, when he meets the hottest guy he’s ever seen. With his luck, he’s also wearing a dumb shirt and carrying a grocery bag that appears to be filled solely with brightly-colored children’s cereal. It’s great.
They sort of awkwardly pause facing one another on the narrow sidewalk, and Stiles watches the guy’s gaze jump from his shirt to his bag, and then back.
“Uh,” he says. “Is that the name of a band?”
“An Evening Botanist?” Stiles says, plucking at the hem of said shirt. “No, it’s more of a personal statement.”
“Oh,” the guy says, though he clearly doesn’t get it.
He does, however, step into the grass to let Stiles by. As he walks past, he sees the guy’s head turn to read the back of the shirt, which says A Perplexment.
“A what?” he hears the guy say, and tries hard not to laugh. He manages to make to his front door before he can’t hold it in anymore, but by then they guy is long gone.
*
He sees the hot guy again the next week, while carrying a grocery bag full of fresh vegetables this time (he’d felt a little ashamed, okay?), and the potted succulent his dad is somehow killing. Stiles his hoping to save its little plant life.
“Hey,” hot guy says. “Still a, um, botanist?” He looks pointedly at the succulent.
“Well, yeah. But today I’m thinking of myself more as a sunset lover,” Stiles says, waving his free hand grandly. “An aesthete, if you will.”
“I won’t,” Derek says, then looks surprised when Stiles laughs.
“I’m Stiles, the town eccentric,” Stiles says brightly.
Hot guy raises his eyebrows, smirks a little. “You trying to take that title from me, then?” he asks. “I’m Derek Hale.”
At first Stiles doesn’t get it, but then the name clicks into place, and— “You’re the guy who had that giant octopus statue in his front yard!”
“It was a squid sculpture,” Derek corrects, but he’s smiling. “And it was at my parent’s house.”
“And you installed those glow-in-the-dark frogs in the square, right?” Stiles asks eagerly. “I’m a big fan of your work.” He’d seen Derek Hale’s (smaller, earlier) pieces at the local art museum every now and then, but he’d have never guessed he was someone close to his own age.
Also, Stiles is pretty sure Derek’s perfect facial hair is in itself a work of art. He’s maybe a little enthralled.
Derek ducks his head. “Thanks,” he says awkwardly. “I just try to have fun.”
He steps aside into the grass, and Stiles takes that as his cue. “See you,” he says, and slowly finishes his short walk home.
He grins the whole way.
*
Another week passes, and finds Stiles lugging a heavy grocery bag on each shoulder. Normally he’d drive if he was planning to buy this much, but he didn’t want to miss his chance to talk to Derek. Their conversations are becoming the highlight of his week.
And he might have spent half the night researching and watching old movies so he could be ready.
Sure enough, Derek appears as he rounds the corner, already smiling a little. “What are you today?” he asks.
“I’d say I’m built on an uncertain foundation,” Stiles says, grinning. “Or maybe I’m a son of the moon.”
“I think you’re getting weirder,” Derek says, but he’s laughing, so Stiles doesn’t mind.
“You’re not wrong,” Stiles says, then grimaces and shifts the weight of his shopping bags. His shoulders are beginning to ache, and he’s disappointed he’ll have to cut their conversation short.
“Do you want some help?” Derek asks.
“Um, sure,” Stiles says, a little surprised. “It’s only a few more blocks.”
Derek takes one of the bags and hefts it with ease, and Stiles gets a lovely glimpse of his bicep flexing. He stands there for a moment, eyeing Stiles, then takes the other bag too.
“Hey, I can carry it,” Stiles huffs, but he gives himself away when he stretches his arms and rolls his shoulders happily.
“You carried it most of the way,” Derek says easily, already heading down the sidewalk. “Let me take it.”
Stiles can’t find it in himself to object, especially not when he’s getting a chance to admire Derek’s strength. Either sculping is a good workout, or Derek also spends a lot of time at the gym.
“So,” he asks, because he can’t stay quiet for long. “What brings you out on these walks?” As soon as he asks he feels like an idiot. Derek probably walks just because he likes to.
But Derek just shoots him another smile and says, “I’m looking for inspiration, usually.”
“Do you find any?” Stiles asks distractedly, directing Derek to turn onto his street.
“Not that often,” Derek says, shrugging. “But I think maybe that’s changing.”
“That’s awesome!” Stiles says brightly, bumping Derek’s shoulder with his fist. “I love your work, I can’t wait to see what you come up with next.”
“Thanks,” Derek says gruffly, but Stiles doesn’t miss his blush.
It’s adorable.
*
Stiles beginning to feel disappointed, because he’s almost home and there’s no Derek in sight. But then he spots Derek emerging from the forest that backs Stiles’ dead-end street, and heaves a sigh of relief. He’s slightly rumpled in an appealing way, and the way he smiles when he spots Stiles makes his heart lurch.
“I throw a party with an open guest list,” he says once Derek is close enough, not bothering with the usual pleasantries. “I salute another flag,” he adds with a wink.
“I, um, I looked up what you’ve been saying, and I get it. I’m a, uh, keen-eyed birdwatcher,” Derek says awkwardly. “I’m a skillful mountain climber.”
“Really the outdoorsy type, huh?” Stiles says teasingly, raising his eyebrows. “You might have a silk bathrobe, but are you actually interested?” He fights to keep his tone casual. “In a date with me?”
“I was going to ask,” Derek says nervously, “if you wanted to come over and see some of my art. And I can cook us dinner. Well, I can only make pasta,” he adds with a shrug. “So, if that’s not—”
“Pasta sounds great! Just let me put these groceries away,” Stiles says quickly, holding up the bag, “and then we can go. But first, I think you should kiss me, you jackdaw.”
“Better than upside-down chimney sweep,” Derek mutters, and then he does kiss him.
It’s so good that every other ridiculous euphemism goes right out of Stiles’ head. But that’s okay; he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need them anymore.
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130 - A Story About Us
This is a story about us, said the man in the radio.
And we were pleased, because we always wanted to hear about ourselves on the radio.
Welcome to Night Vale.
This is a story about us.
We live in trailers out near the car lot, next to the house where the angels reside. We live in homes near a poorly secured library, hiding and shivering, fearing an escape. We live in apartments below heavy-footed neighbors. We live on streets, removing ourselves from a world that refuses to learn how to love us.
At night, we can see the red light blinking on and off on top of the radio tower. A tiny flurry of human activity against the implacable backdrop of stars and void. We sit out on the steps of our trailer, on the balcony of our apartment, on a bench in Mission Grove Park, on a tree swing in our yard. With our backs to the brightness of the moon, watching the radio tower for hours. But only sometimes. Mostly we do other things.
This is a story about us.
We eat together in the Moonlite All-Nite Diner. One of us is philanthropist Thomas Charles Fleming, who once caught a hog and showed it to a local radio host, who happened to find hogs adorable, and just wanted to pet one and speak in high-pitched voices to it, and name it Gary or Dolores, and listen to its snorting breaths I order to feel alive. Especially on that particular day, where that radio host’s intern forgot to buy coffee. Anything to start the day with a charge.
Thomas Charles sits in the Moonlite All-Nite eating his skirt steak, and he begins to choke. We are alarmed, because we feel empathy. Selfish, selfish empathy. We feel our own necks (cease) up. We hold our hands to our own throats gently, choreographed mimickry, a moder dance around the themes of mortality, as Thomas Charles heaves forward gasping, his eyes bulging. We look to the OSHA-mandated choking assistance poster near the cash register. We begin to recite the instructions to each other and demonstrate the moves required to complete this life-saving (--) [0:04:34].
One of us, dinosaur expert Joel Eisenberg, stands and wraps his thin arms around Thomas Charles. Joel pulls his hands into a central fist under the victim’s sternum. Joel yanks his hand back and up, and we shout, “Harder!” and some of us shout, “Softer!” Thomas Charles thinks of the new Night Vale botanic gardens he created. His mind wanders to the pride he felt opening this cultural institution, and secretly, the guilt he feels about the frightening people he partnered with to fund it.
He knows he must warn us, but does not know about what, exactly. In dying, we often find that the lists of what must be done evaporate, and there is nothing left to be done, and there never was. Needing to do this was an illusion we built to keep ourselves busy.
We panic in our efforts to free Thomas Charles’ esophagus. One of us, Laura, a waitress in the diner, breaks off a heavy branch that is growing out of her hip, and begins poking Thomas Charles in the chest. We frantically fumble for our phones typing in “Heimlich Maneuver”, all unsure how to spell it. Some of us saying, “It’s H-I-E”, others saying, “H-E-I”, one of us even saying, “Manoeuver has an O in it somewhere, I’m sure of it”. We find an article headlined “Save a Choking Victim with One Surprising Move”, but become frustrated by the amount of pop-up windows.
Thomas Charles grabs a pen and a napkin and scrawles a single word. We argue about what exactly it says. “Maybe he wrote ‘swan pups’”, we say. “That’s not a word,” we reply. “What about ‘sound-roos’?” we interject as we stare at ourselves wondering who would think that made any sense.
“You know, like children’s pyjamas made from audio frequencies,” one of us says. “It could work,” that same one says to the quiet room, then continuing: “as a technology startup, like an app on your phone that makes…” before trailing off, running out of words to protect the judgmental silence.
“Oh it’s a great idea,” we all agree in order to ameliorate the situation. And we pat Thomas George on the back to congratulate him on his multimillion dollar idea of audio-only children’s sleepware.
We think for a moment that it is this companionable swat of the choking man’s ribs that will finally free the steak from his throat. We have read enough short stories to know that this is a sensible narrative resolution, requiring an unforeseen solution to an impossible problem. And given that we are hearing our story on the radio, we know that this is the perfect culmination of a tale about a collective we, a coming together, a climactic comradery.
But it does not work. Thomas Charles sinks to his knees, eyes wet and resolved. In the commotion of choking hazards, clickbait, and startup dreams, we fail to notice two men who have entered the diner. One is not tall. One is not short. They are not part of us, so we know that this story is not about them. The one who is not short moves Joel Eisenberg aside and then grabs Thomas Charles’ shoulders. The one who is not tall punches Thomas Charles in the stomach, as a piece of beef shoomps out of his mouth, a rope of spit and a soft weeze tailing it. the piece of unchewed meat arcs perfectly into a waste basket, and we cheer. These strangers saved a man we barely knew. Thomas Charles inhales loudly and finally shouts, “It says ‘stone crops’. Stone crops!”
“Shut up,” says the man who is not tall.
“Come outside,” says the man who is not short.
“Please,” Thomas Charles pleads. “I’m sorry I told them about stone crops.”
“Everyone is sorry you did that,” says the not-short man.
“This is not how I wanted to spend my day,” says the not-tall man.
We hear the radio describe two men of indistinct heights, walking another man out of the Moonlite All-Nite. We hear the man on the radio describe a muffled pop of a handgun from the parking lot, the slamming of a trunk, and the fading Doppler effect of a vehicle speeding away.
We sit in our booths, poking hashbrowns with spoons, imagining we heard a car backfiring instead. We leave the diner and find a blood stain on the asphalt by our truck, or our sedan, or our motorcycle, and we pretend it is a spilled drink.
Let’s have a look at the Community Calendar.
Last Saturday at noon, we all went to the Botanic Gardens, for the opening of the new exhibit called (Sedum Fields). One of us who is a dosent at the gardens named Halla Darwish, explained to us that these succulent plants are excellent for private gardens, as they are affordable, easy to maintain, beautiful, and require little water. Sedum are often referred to as “stone crops”, Halla tells us before it means anything. She then thanked Thomas George Fleming and an anonymous benefactor for funding the Botanic Gardens.
On Monday, we attended an emergency press conference at the site of City Hall, where no mayor currently presides. Before an empty mic, reporters asked questions and then tried to transcribe the occasional sounds of wind and crickets onto their notepads. One of us, Pamela Winchell, uncharacteristically tamped down her usual bluster and allowed someone else to speak for her, in this case the incidental sounds of nature.
On Tuesday, we took a longer than usual lunch break to go look again at the Sedum Fields exhibit at the Botanic Gardens, and we saw the sunny summer blooms, which are elongated pink tubes billowing at the top, looking ready to burst. But in the middle, there are asymmetrical bulges, like small crouching humans inside. A dosent who was not Halla Darwish, and who was not any of us, and who was neither tall nor short, told us to look at another plant. These were not for us. As we got back into our vehicles, cranberry spinach salads with sesame vinaigrette only half eaten, we caught a glimpse of this new dosent plucking the unopened blooms and placing them gently into crates. We heard one of us on the radio say this aloud, as we scattered back to our desks and counters and warehouses and trucks and kitchen.
This has been… a… oops. That was last week’s Community Calendar. Well, this has been Community History.
Disturbed by the presence of the men who carry crates, who possibly kill philanthropist hog catchers, and who hurry us through our garden visits, we anxiously eat our daily meals. Absent-mindedly do our jobs and mutter angrily during showers about our own inaction in the face of brutality by those who are not us.
“We are people of action. This is a story about us,” we say aloud in unison from our couches. We stand and walk and look at each other in the streets and join hands. We join hands and sing. We sing “Angel is a Centerfold”, because some of us had just attended a minor league baseball game and could not rid themselves of the sexist earworm.
We walk past the Scrublands and the Sand Wastes to the edge of the desert, and we surround a cargo truck filled with crates. There are two men, neither tall nor short. They do not move.
One of us, who is a sheriff named Sam, places the men under arrest for the murder of Thomas Charles Fleming. The man who is not tall says, “He was not the man you thought he was.”
The man who is not short says, “Do they still have HBO in the abandoned mine shaft out of town?”
“This is not a story about you,” we shout. “This is a story about us.”
Sam places the two handcuffed men into a white police car with “Undercover Police” with bold lettering across the sides, and a stylized rhinoceros holding a night stick painted on the hood.
We turn to each other and celebrate with smiles and eye contact. Diane Crayton tells Nazr al-Mujaheed: “We saved our town.” Nazr groans and does not respond. He has talked little in recent months.
Susan Willman tells Simone Rigideaux: “What a happy ending.”
Amber Akini tells Wilson Levy: “This is a better world now, Wilson. For our son.” She pats her belly, and Wilson begins to cry.
Steve Carlsberg, who can sometimes be a killjoy, but whose intuition is not often wrong, says: “Look! The truck!”
We look at the truck. “This is not a story about a truck,” we say, as six-foot-long pink blooms burst from tiny crates. They stumble and squirm, like humans swaddled in plastic wrap, toward us, under a clear predictable afternoon sky and in the face of terror.
The last thing on our minds
is the weather.
[“Space and Time” by Joseph Fink]
The protagonist of a story must have agency, must use their skills against their antagonist. This is a story about us, and so we actively confront our predicament.
Nilanjana Sikdar attempts to communicate with the beings. They make no noise. Pamela Winchells shouts at them through a bullhorn, but they do not react. Josh Crayton changes his physical form into a great white shark, but they show no fear. And he finds it hard to breathe on land, so changes back into a hummingbird. Henrietta Bell throws her co-worker, Sarah Sultan, who is a fist-sized river rock, at the creatures but they do not flinch. 16-year-old Tamika Flynn loads a crossbow with an explosive-tipped arrow, and we question our lackadaisical weapons laws in this state.
Overwhelmed, we back against each other, surrounded by the writhing featureless beasts. A flower monster reaches out, its arms stretching, elastic under the petals and touches former mayor Dana Cardinal. Another touches Harrison Kip, and another touches Leann Hart, just as she reaches for the hatchet she keeps in a waste holster.
The top of the flower opens up, and inside it is you. Yes, specifically you.
We all recall many years ago, there once was a story about you, right here on this radio station. Now your eyes are open, but empty. Your face swollen and teeth shattered in places. Part of your right ear is gone.
And we remember you died in that story. We all felt bad. But here you are, again, inside a flower, staring crooked and blank at our screaming faces. Another flower opens, and another broken face of someone who once lived in Night Vale. And another, and another. And as the last flower opens, the face of Thomas Charles Fleming emerges, his head split right where his hair once parted. This lips in the final hiss of an S, like a man whose last word was “stone crops”.
Sheriff Sam returns with the two men and releases them from their handcuffs, ordering them to take those monstrosities away from here and then come back to be arrested. The men gently lift each writhing bloom into the back of the cargo truck. They say nothing. We ask: “Who are you?” They say nothing.
“What are these crates?” They say nothing.
“These are people you have killed.” They pause briefly, but say nothing.
“Are the crates always filled with bodies which are also flowers?” The men shake their heads no.
The man who is not short says, “We are only doing our job.”
“And what is your job?” we ask.
“We handle the crates,” says the one who is not tall.
“Are you hiring?” says Trish Hidge, who recently lost her job at City Hall.
“The Botanic Gardens are closed to the public,” the not-short man says.
“It is better that no one involve themselves with this,” the not-tall man says.
They climb into the truck and drive away with their broken crates and human flowers.
We look at each other, relieved to know we completed another day, alive and together, but bereft of solutions or answer.
“We have defeated gods!” we say. “And dragons!” we say. “And librarians!” we say. “And despotic corporate overlords!” we say and kind of high five each other about that one in particular.
“But these men,” Missy Wilkes says.
“Maintenance men,” Leann Hart says, already writing a story in her head.
“Mafia,” Sheriff Sam suggests.
“They’re kind of cute,” Michelle Nguyen says, as her girlfriend Maureen nods in agreement.
“Not everyone gets to know everything,” we tell ourselves. “We have limitations,” we say, stumbling upon a new truth. “And when we know what we cannot know, we can believe whatever we want.”
“Flower mafia,” Sheriff Sam insists.
“Cancer is actually more inexplicable and frightening than those men,” Lorelai Alvarez says from great and terrible experience. And we sigh and, yeah, collectively nod. Culminating in a town-wide understanding that we not only touched the sky, but pushed against it. We know more about what we cannot know, and we are less afraid, even if we are still quite afraid. But in a productive, positive way. Like knowing not to put hornets in your mouth. We learned this, all together.
Tough luck about you, though. Hope you’re doing OK at the gardens, I mean it didn’t look like you were, but we do wish you the best.
We walk to our homes, turn on our radios and hide. And we listen to a familiar voice say: “This has been a story about us.”
And we are pleased, because we always wanted to hear about ourselves on the radio.
Good night,
Night Vale,
Good night.
Today’s proverb: Anything is a piñata if you hit it hard enough.
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Haven: Chapter 2
Steve Rogers x Reader
Warnings: none
Wordcount: 3,302
Chapter 1
Summary: Steve begins his adventure in gardening and finds himself blossoming....
A year had come and gone, a whole entire year. And yet, every day she thought about the stranger with the sad blue eyes and an unshakable, radiating goodness. She hoped he would call, or grace the garden with his presence once more. Every time she heard the familiar shriek of the old iron gate ring through the garden, a twinkle of hope stuttered in ther chest, only to find it wasn't the fateful stranger. Although it had been but a passing moment in time, she felt Steve coming to the garden had been a special moment, perhaps a simple twist of fate. She was usually right about these things, and even if she had no idea what purpose she held in that twist of fate, she was so sure she'd see him again.
And again she would see him. Just not the way she ever imagined...
A little after the start of a new spring, her bleeding hearts sprouting forth to blossom from their hibernation, the busy bodies of her community gardeners finding themselves plucking and planting in full swing once more, she found herself curled on the couch, mindlessly viewing the TV. Mindless of course, until a familiar face made itself known on the glowing screen.
There, descending the stairs of one of the city's courthouses and surrounded by hordes of reporters and cameras, face painted with a worn out look, was Steve. His body stiff yet protectively shielding that of a slightly less burly but far more exhausted looking man with dark brown hair. The reporter' voice making it known the man in fact was one James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, formerly known as the Winter Soldier.
A bell of recognition went off in her head at the title. She remembered some gardeners and colleagues at work mentioning the trial of a man they reffered to as the Winter Soldier. It was a great source of talk for months, apparantly, but she had never had much time for it nor for whatever TV show highlights they chatted about around the water cooler. She was far too busy managing her graphics assignments and handling her supervisorial duties at the garden; it was a day to day life of work, sleep, quiet lonely dinners, and service to her little slice of Brooklyn.
But never in the stray water cooler talks had anyone ever mentioned the name Steve, let one the name Steve Rogers. No, they talked only about the man with the title of Captain America, the All-American icon, the Sentinel of Liberty, the Man Out of Time, not the seemingly sweet but quietly lost man she'd met in the sunshine of her favorite place on earth. And even now, looking at him as a pixelated composition on her television, he looked nothing like the perfect stranger she'd been thinking about for months.
This man held the same beauty, the same physique, the same features, but this man held a mask up to the flashing cameras that recorded his every movement. There on his face was written a quiet preservation, a closed look behind the eyes, a clenched jaw so tight she could swear that any minute he would burst, but somehow she knew he wouldn't. This was a man far too calculated, an actor really, far too experinced with the chaotic potential of the media and the general public. Here was a man who'd been through much, much worse, she realized.
And now more than ever did she wish he would step foot in the garden again, to find the smile and the laughter he'd shared with the plants and the ground beneath their feet. As she watched him enter a waiting vehicle, mask unmoving, she sent out a silent prayer that soon, ever so soon, her phone would ring...
-------------
Steve sat at the edge of his bed, a cold relief overcoming his body as he sat in silence for the first time in months. Relief that his best friend was now a free man, relief that there was no legal weight or reason to subject Bucky to far more confinement and injustice, yet Steve could not shake the stress of the ordeal from his shoulders. It perched tauntingly upon them, purposefully ruining any expectation of relaxation that Steve had sworn to himself would come at the end of it all.
He’d taken hot showers, read books, drawn in his sketchbook, punched it out, even meditated as Sam had suggested in the week after Bucky’s verdict. But Steve could not shake the weight of every up and down the trial had taken within the year. It wasn’t even him on the stand, but when one of the people you care about is in trouble, their troubles becomes yours. And Steve, being the good man to his core that all his friends knew him to be, could not let his brother in soul and turmoil carry the burden of one more misery.
Getting up from his spot on the bed, Steve walked to the living room of his Brooklyn apartment, looking for a task to occupy his hands and the unfamiliar silence around him. And boy, did he have many a task: his apartment was now a vision of frantic chaos. He hadn’t much resided in it as a result of the trial, choosing to spend most nights at Sam and Bucky’s place, but when he had it was in flashes of mindless mobility. Dropped changes of clothing littered the floor, quickly thrown dishes piled high in the sink from rushed dinners of takeout and whatever he could muster the energy to cook, and his coffee table was drowning in tossed pieces of junk mail. He hated to admit it, but even before the trial Steve wasn’t the tidiest man in the world. It was however, never this bad.
So he sat there with yet another housewarming gift, a paper shredder (courtesy of Maria Hill), tackling the growing hill of junk mail, wondering just who let useless advertising get to this point as he shredded another sales flyer. He’d almost gotten to the bottom of it all when he finally noticed the crisp white card with its shiny black letters and prettily embossed flowers. A sudden wave of warmth hit him reading the name upon it, recalling the unreal beauty of Brooklyn’s little heaven on earth guarded by its kind gatekeeper.
He was hesitant at first. A year had gone by, after all. He had made a promise, but did a promise like this have an expiration date? Would she find him rude to call after all this time? He would have never called had he not heard Sam’s warm but bright voice in his head urging him to take a chance. He laughed at himself a little, noticing his heart rate go up and hands turn faintly clammy as he dialed the number on the card. Taking a deep breath in and out, Steve waited nervously as the phone began to ring. He was close to hanging up by the 4th ring until a familiar voice made itself known.
“(y/n) (y/l/n) speaking, how can I help you?” she said, voice as calm and open as the day Steve had happened upon her refuge. It was strange how soothing it was even after a year and one meeting. He chalked it up to her just being one of those undeniably brilliant people.
“Hi Ms. (y/l/n), I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Steve? The guy who wandered into the community garden a few months back? You told me to call you before I paid it a visit again. I’m really sorry, it’s been a while, so I really don’t blame you if you don’t” he said.
From her end of the line Steve could hear a light chuckle and what he could only guess was the metallic sound of someone sinking a small trowel into the earth. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what the garden could look like now. Probably still as serene and unbelievably beautiful as the day he wandered into it, he thought.
“Please, call me (y/n), no need for formality Steve! Yeah I remember you. It’s been more than a little while hasn’t it? It’s alright though. I...” she said, trailing off, “understand the hold up. I saw what happened.”
Steve’s stomach dropped. His anonymity and normalcy in the eyes of this kind stranger had been such a blessing but now that she knew, would she do what they always did? Would she see him differently? Would she set him on a pedestal he didn’t deserve? Would the help she extended change its nature? Steve had been much too silent, her worry moving her to speak.
“Steve? Steve, it’s okay! Look, I can imagine being in the spotlight must be hard and frustrating, especially when have no control of the way people see you, let alone, I don’t know...idolise you? Jesus that's gotta suck...just, please don’t let this stop you from paying us a visit! I promise I still mean what I said, nothing about helping you has changed and I still think you really need it. If you don’t want to...I-I completely understand” she said, the slight lingering sadness at the end of her statement not lost on Steve.
He gave a deep sigh of relief. He couldn’t doubt the sincerity in her voice but he also could not help approaching the matter with caution. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had said those words to him. Again, he imagined he heard the sound of a friend’s voice telling him to take a chance, this time Bucky’s Brooklyn drawl. He hesitated for a moment before he spoke:
“Sunflowers. I want - I want to plant sunflowers,” he said. He heard a sigh and what he swore was laugh of relief from the other line and smiled.
“Okay Steve. Sunflowers, we’ll plant sunflowers. I’ll call and see you soon...” she said with hope tinging her words.
----------
They met the next day at (y/n)’s favorite nursery, thinking it a good idea to get Steve out and about after months of being cooped up in lawyers’ offices, courtrooms, and quinjets. Steve was hesitant at first, conscious of the fact that his status as a recognisable figure could be a detriment to their little trip. But she assured him it was a safe place, a place he’d no doubt fall in love with the second he stepped inside.
And she was right, smiling brightly while watching Steve in awe at the cactus and succulent varieties on display as they entered the nursery. She knew he didn't know much about anything as they explored the different greenhouses but she found herself endeared by his constant willingness to learn from her. The Steve she met a year ago was slowly dropping the mask once more, eyes beginning to swim with the spirit of inquiry, and more than ready to absorb the color and life around him.
They walked side by side as they continues on to the exotic greenhouse for the sake of Steve’s exploration, (y/n) naming the different species of bizzare flowers and plants he seemed most fascinated by.The carnivorous pitcher plants, fragrant trumpet lilies, and neon birds of paradise among his favorites, his wonder and smiles at the facts she fed him making her heart feel warm. This world of greenery was becoming something Steve was more than happy to take his first steps in, and (y/n) was more than glad to hold his hand to walk him through it.
To Steve’s pleasant surprise, after a while of comfortable silence, he realized not a single person amongst them had recognized him, let alone bothered the two of them upon their little excursion into the world of botany. (Y/n) joked after he’d mentioned it that horticulturists, botanists, and herbalists were far too busy tending to their botanical children to care too much about anything else. He said a silent thank you for that and chuckled as they made their way to the variety of seeds and bulbs which had been the main objective of their trip. The sight of almost an entire wall full of sunflower seed varieties made Steve instantly anxious. How the hell was he supposed to choose from all these options?
In what was becoming the strangely usual fast, (y/n) picked up on Steve’s nervous energy without him saying a word, instead reading the tightness of Steve’s jaw, and the crinkle of worry between his eyes.
“Hey Steve, can I ask...why sunflowers?” she said, hoping the question would guide Steve out of his headspace. He knew just why, but he still gave it some thought, hoping to articulate the reason just right without seeming too corny or silly. She waited patiently, Steve never feeling a rush to open up, and decided that even if it did sound a bit sappy she’d probably be as kind about it as ever. He gave a deep sigh before he finally spoke:
“Because they’re so...human,” he said. Her head gave a little jolt of pleasant surprise but she didn’t interrupt him with any of her own thoughts and he took that as a cue to continue. ”They’re beautiful but they’re a little awkward aren’t they? They get so tall and goofy looking when they sway around in the breeze, gives them a lot of personality. Sorta’ like those inflatable men they got in front of the shops nowadays” he said, recalling the first time he’d seen one of those bright red things flopping around in the cold wind on a trip to the neighboring bodega, it had put a smile on his face. “But what I love most about them is the way they bloom,” he continued, “ It’s such a vulnerable process: bright, wide, and so open to being seen and appreciated for what they are. When we looked at a few a ways back in one of the greenhouses I never noticed their centers are actually just a bunch of smaller flowers and aren’t we all a bit like that? Ultimately wanting to be pried open by the warmth of someone else’s light and just be seen and loved for all the smaller things we wish others would notice about us? I think they connect with us that way, I mean look at how often they’re chosen as symbols and subjects of paintings, Van Gogh’s interpretation especially. They’re beautiful for the most wonderful and human of ways.”
She was silent, Steve looked at her fearing any and all possibilities of a negative or even mocking reaction, but instead he found the most beautiful smile on her face as she seemed to gaze at the floor, nodding in mistified thought. The stress from months before instantly beginning to dissolve, the weight of a super-soldiered Atlas lifting. It was amazing just how powerful it was, the sight of something so genuine, something he hadn’t realized he needed for so long: the sight of someone actually listening to what he’d had to say.
“Steve...that’s beautiful,” she said finally looking up at him and gazing into the blue of his eyes, “I don’t know if you know this but sunflowers are also one of the most resilient flowers to plant. They can withstand a lot of heat and thrive in full sunlight. I’d say you’ve made a perfect choice. A flower much like yourself...It’ll be such a special and more than welcome sight in our garden.” Steve felt his heart just about ready to burst in his chest at her words, the feeling of being understood in just the way he needed and which allowed him to feel at peace with his own thoughts felt like a salve for his soul.
“Thank you. For that, for all of this. I would have never thought I’d be doing anything like this, but you never really know what you need till you try, huh?”, he said gazing at her with some unknown affection, “Now...how do I even begin to choose a variety!?”
Steve blushed a little at this new feeling, of slowly opening up to someone about things outside the realm of his unbelievable and unrelatable world and having them actually appreciate it. It was something he rarely got from anyone, with the exception of Sam and Bucky of course, but he often found himself holding his tongue for their comfort.
“Well! You mentioned Van Gogh earlier, and these beauties,” she said pulling a packet of seeds from their slot and handing them to Steve, “are the variety he so famously painted. They’re called Sunbeams, I guess cause of that gorgeous bright lemon yellow and spectacular green ring they got going on in the middle that makes them look like they’re radiating sunlight.”
She proceeded to reach for another packet of seeds, handing them to him so he could look at the pictures indicating just what the seeds would ultimately grow in to. “There’s also these fun little variety! They look like funny little pom poms, they're called Teddy Bears. They’re perfect for planting in pots since they grow kinda shorter than most. They’re also fitting for someone who’s quiet literally a giant Teddy Bear” she said with a wink.
Steve felt heat the likes of hot lava rush to his face and began to rub at the back of his neck in a fluster, managing to muster up a thank you to the sweet compliment. (Y/n) chuckled at how red Steve had become, it was quite cute like most things she was starting to notice about him. “I think I’ll go with the Sunbeams,” Steve said, “They’re perfect.”
“Good! If we’re planting those we gotta build a raised flower bed, the soil isn’t loose enough for them to really thrive and root down in the garden. Usually I’d be lazy and just add compost, fertilizer, or something but come on, when I got this much muscle to work with why not put it to good use? I got a perfect spot in mind too!” she said, Steve bursting into laughter at her words.
Steve’s face would only continue to get redder than before as she grabbed his hand and began to pull him towards what he could only assume was in search of a register, guiding him quietly but happily through the maze of the greenhouses. It was probably not a conscious gesture he thought, but it was a surprisingly welcome one. He smiled to himself relishing in the simple joy he felt at her touch and the pleasantly normal memories she’d given him on this day. He would be grateful for them for as long as he lived.
They paid for the seeds, (y/n) asking when Steve had free time so they could takea trip to the nearest hardware store to gather the necessary supplies for the raised beds. She wanted Steve to be involved in every bit of the process, to really feel like he had a space all his own, and he was beyond happy and more excited than he’d ever been in years to participate in the culmination of his sunflowers.
They agreed to meet in a couple of days time again, (y/n) having a few things to tie up at work whilst Steve had luckily been given a couple of weeks off. The chaos of the trial and standard mission duty he’d had to juggle throughout the previous years had earned him that much at least. Of course, if there was a high level mission that required the presence of Captain America, he’d be on call.
It was a much deserved break, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to use it to the fullest and plant beautiful flowers with an equally as beautiful woman to guide him...
#steve rogers#stever rogers x you#stever rogers x reader#captain america#gardening fic#iiidddkkk what to tag thiiisssss oh well
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Bought a 3bhk Flat in Kolkata: How to Deck up your Living Room?
The living room is the most important part of the house as it is where you entertain your guests. The decor of the living room gives your guests a peek into your personality. If you have just bought a 3 BHK flat in Kolkata, here are some ideas that will help you get started with giving your living room a classy appeal:
Go for smart furniture solutions:
To add a dose of chic to the decor, go for a clutter-free look. This means going for furniture pieces that serve more than one purpose. Buy furniture pieces that are designed to be flexible in terms of style and functionality.
A contemporary sofa bed is perfect for saving space as it doubles up as a bed.
Coffee tables with storage can help keep the living room clutter-free.
A bookshelf can serve as a room divider.
Ottomans can be used as side tables as well as footrests.
2. Turn those nooks into useful corners:
Living in an apartment is all about making the most out of the space you have. Make use of every nook of your living room.
Place antique pieces in these corners. To highlight, use good accent lighting to draw attention to them.
If you are into music, you can hang your guitar or ukulele by using wall mount hangers.
3. Smart use of the balcony space:
If you have a balcony adjacent to your living room, add styling elements to complement your living room.
Are you working from home and miss the outdoor vibes? You can transform your balcony into a temporary mini workstation.
There’s no joy like plucking your vegetables that are homegrown. Although it is a challenging task if you are living in an apartment, try to find properties that give you the option of a spacious balcony connected to a living room.
4. Change throw pillows to match season or mood:
Pillow covers are a quick way to bring new energy into the living room. It is a budget-friendly way to deck up the living space. Go for vibrant and colourful fabrics during summer and monochrome patterns in winter. Feel free to experiment as per your taste.
5. Floor to ceiling wall units:
Floor to ceiling wall units are a trendy way to keep the clutter out of the usable surfaces. It not only looks stylish but can also be used for displaying decorative pieces, keep a book collection and even reserve a cocktail area.
6. Enliven the living room with plants
Plants add a lively finishing touch to a space. Indoor plants not only look gorgeous, some of them can also act as great air purifiers. Buy pothos, succulents, or other low maintenance houseplants to bring vibrancy to your living room.
Looking for a 3 bhk flat for sale in Kolkata?
For a spacious 3 bhk flat for sale in salt lake Kolkata explore Ideal Aquaview, a premium housing complex in Salt Lake, Sector V. It offers you exquisite 2 BHK and 3 BHK flats spread across 7 towers.
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For Lasting First Impressions: Living Room Décor Ideas
A house is something made of four walls, a roof and a ceiling. A home, on the other hand, is a lot more than that. It is a safe place for us and our loved ones to make merry memories; it is our sanctuary, our comfort zone, our safe corner in the city. This home represents us in more ways that we think - how we polish every corner with care, how we adorn it with handpicked elements; each piece of décor gives the guests a glimpse into our very personality and a thoughtfully led lifestyle.
When it comes to decorating homes in a way that they reel your guests right in, there is a treasure trove of ideas out there on how to decorate living rooms. Here are some home décor ideas for the living room that can help you get started-
Living Room Center Table Decoration Ideas
1. Go Green:
What better than a spacious living room with a little life thriving right in the centre of it? In a world that is now more inclined towards a sustainable way of life, you can extend your support by going green with your living room. Select a sturdy vase that can hold a little plant within; one that can best promote its growth. This makes for one of the most thoughtful living room corner table ideas for multiple reasons. You welcome a little bit of nature in the form of succulents or easy to maintain plants into your home, and they selflessly bring a fresh aura and obvious charm along with them. There are a number of Ceramic, Longpi or Stoneware succulent planters available out there, so you can experiment with the themes to your heart’s content.
2. Floral Touch:
Another enticing and eco-friendly way of decorating your living room centre table is by adorning it with colorful flora and fauna. The best part is that you do not have to pluck the flowers off the plants. You can take some other creative routes instead. All you have to do is take a walk in the garden to take some inspiration. Then, you can create some DIY flowers out of colorful paper crafts and place them in a decorative way into glass vases. If you love indulging in the art of hosting in the evening, then you can place some scented candles alongside the glass canvases - this makes for an elegant setting for both formal and informal occasions.
Corner Decoration Ideas For Living Rooms
1. Art Corner:
Making a little room for art in your living room will always make for a pleasant experience for you and for your guests. If you yourself are an artist, then you can dedicate a corner of your living room to displaying your talent in all its glory. If you are a connoisseur of a certain kind of craft and love collecting different artifacts, you can put them on display in the living room corner for the world to enjoy the pieces just as much as you do. There are multiple brands out there who bring you easy access to lovely handmade pieces by artisans across the world - all online.
2. Rustic Appeal:
If you love all-things-out-of-the-box and all-things-nature, here is an idea that is sure to take your fancy. Look for a large and sturdy chunk of a tree trunk. Level it out at the bottom in a way that it can hold its ground. You can then carve out different spots on the truck to place different items like photo frames or little souvenirs and gifts. You can even adorn it with little succulents. This will make for an idea that is exceptional both in terms of visual appeal and high functionality. Moreover, if your living room must follow a rustic theme, then this idea will fit perfectly into it.
Diwali Decoration Ideas For Living Rooms
1. Fairy Lights For The Win:
Diwali being the festival of lights, it is only fair to brighten up your living room with some fancy fairy lights, while the diyas shine bright outside in your balcony or garden. When it comes to fairy lights, there is plenty to choose from as well, from stars to long strings studded with differently colored lights. You can let your creative juices flow freely and paint the corners of your living room in a way that brings out the best of your living room décor and wall colors / wallpapers. You can even roll a fairy light string and place it in a round glass vase at the centre of your table, surrounded by little scented candles.
2. Little Lanterns All The Way:
Yes, as tradition demands, there has to be one large primary lantern that guards your door with pride during Diwali. However, that does not have to take away from the obvious charm of the little lanterns that accompany it. You can hang little lanterns that are in sync with your living room décor - in terms of colors, textures and such. Here is where you can indulge in some DIY fun to make merry festive memories with friends and family. These small lanterns will surely contribute greatly to giving a festive makeover to your living room.
Handcrafted Vases By Ikai Asai
No matter the theme, the spot or the occasion, vases can play a vital role in making your living room more inviting. To help you adorn your living room with pieces that hold the power to impress and inspire, here are some handcrafted vases by Ikai Asai. Artisans from across the country delve into centuries-old craft types to bring you each piece, crafted to perfection-
1.
Longpi
(Delhi):
Distinguished by its surreal black glow and rustic matte finish, our Manipuri pottery carries great historical significance. Crafted by hand-patting clay, our unglazed pieces acquire their natural sheen from an age-old low-firing process. Moreover, Longpi chips on ageing, creating unique patterns on each artefact - the perfect homage to the beautiful imperfections of the handmade.
2.
Terracotta
(Maharashtra):
Our fine terracotta is handcrafted by gifted craftsmen, descending from a lineage of traditional kalakars. Using ancestral knowledge, our craftsmen channel the creative energy of the elements of nature, to create pieces that cut through the fabric of time and civilization.
3.
Glasswork
(Delhi):
In the bustling town of Firozabad in India, our craftsmen follow centuries-old glass blowing traditions to create this glassware. Each piece is inflated with a blowpipe to form a glass bubble and then carefully moulded into contemporary glassware - the perfect amalgam of heritage and modern art.
4.
Kutch Clay
(Gujarat):
Our artist from Auroville has taken from her fond memories of watching a wise matriarch carefully store handmade pickles in off-coloured mustard jars to create tableware. We mould the essence of the venerated Barni, into exquisite stoneware, with each piece manifesting a distinct mustard glaze.
5.
Studio Pottery
(Mysore):
Our ceramic vases, with their rounded curves and light blue colour, are a playful yet elegant addition to any corner. They are handmade by artisans in Morbi, Gujarat. Place a bunch of white lilies or pink carnations in the vase for an easy fix to livening up a forgotten corner at home.
6.
Metal Work
(Rajasthan):
Our artists operate in Moradabad, the largest copper making region of India, rightfully known as the Peetal Nagri (Brass City). They use advanced technologies like electroplating, lacquering and powder coating to create contemporary metalware adorned with time-tested designs.
Be it be festive occasions or an everyday affair - if you wish to transform your living room into a space that best shelters incredible experiences, our handcrafted vases are here to serve you well. Explore our Décor collection and select from pieces born out of inspiring crafts.
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