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earthtooz · 1 year

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x : BOX OF SURPRISES :*+ﾟ

in which: sampo has something for you and you fall a little more in love with him.

warnings: 1k wc, FLUFF (slight angst), reader is a little mean :,) but it's bc sampo's annoying, gn!merchant!reader, banter, seemingly unrequited feelings, ambiguous relationship?

a/n: need this pathetic sop of a man so badly it's not even funny. anyways, enjoy! pls rb if u liked it :D

“sampo, what is the meaning of this?” setting down the heavy boxes of goods with a huff, suspicion stirs in your gut.

“did you not see my text earlier? i could have sworn you read it,” he hums, trailing off thoughtfully as he looks at you through his swept-aside strands of hair.

you look away from the carefree glint in his eyes whilst ignoring the pounding of your heart.

“i’m working, sampo- being an ethical and trustworthy merchant is a hard job, y’know?”

the man laughs, boisterous and loud. a migraine is coming, it's only natural to get one after dealing with its human embodiment.

“don’t you have other things to do?” you mutter.

“what, other than talking with my favourite fellow merchant?”

“you mean terrorising.”

sampo laughs again. this time, he shuts his eyes close and grins so wide that he flashes his annoyingly perfect teeth. it’s so painful that he’s so beautiful, if only that could excuse his horrendous personality (you adore him).

pretending to wipe a tear from his eyes, he sighs wistfully. “this is why i love talking to you, never a dull moment with you, y/n.”

you try not to let his flattery get to you. besides, he probably says this to all of his competitors just to butter them up, breaking their walls before inevitably taking them and distributing their resources to consumers at cheaper prices.

“whatever, sampo. will you leave me alone now?”

“hey, hey, hey, what’s the rush?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips. you try not to look at the exposed skin that sits above. “the business day is over. don’t you have some time to spare for little old me?”

“the business day may be over for me but never for crooks like you. besides. i need to pack up and i want to go home, so i don’t appreciate any delays.”

“you think of me as a mere ‘delay’?” sampo gestures to himself, all grandiose and dramatics. “i’m hurt, and here i was thinking that we had a connection.”

there’s a part of you that hopefully yearns for him to expand on the ‘connection’ he so speaks of, but the desire fades as quickly as it appears, replaced with dejection instead. to cross the line with sampo koski would be fatal for your business and you fear that you were already toeing the boundaries. tolerating and talking to him for goodwill was one thing, but going ahead and falling for him was another.

furthermore, you don’t like the feeling that he knows about how you feel. everywhere you turn, sampo is there, leaning against the wall, looking like temptation itself as he toys with those small blades of his. they’re kind of like boomerangs, but you’re not too sure.

there’s a lot about sampo you’re not too sure about- perhaps if you weren’t a competing merchant, you would have tried to learn them all.

“you drive me insane,” you murmur, packing up all the leftover goods into a crate.

“let me help you,” he offers, picking up some goods and sorting them without permission. you have half a mind to slap him away, but against the better judgement of your brain, you allow him to assist.

when the crate is filled, sampo walks over to grab another empty box, passing it to you. you eye him suspiciously and the blue-haired merchant is quick to make a comment on your speculatory glance.

“why are you looking at me like that?”

“why are you… helping me?”

“what? is it so wild that sampo koski can be of assistance? i have some good in my heart, ya know,” he sings, reaching over your stall to adjust the twisted strap of your outfit.

sampo winks at you when he meets your gaze again.

you hate the way your body reacts to his fleeting touch, and the way you want more. you want to feel how his hands would fit in yours, or around your waist, or holding your face, or-

“speechless, are we now?” chuckles the merchant. “i normally elicit this reaction-”

shaking your thoughts away, you cut him off with a slam of your crate, defeated by the betrayal of your own wandering mind. “sampo.”

for a moment, shock shines in his eyes, his hair bouncing as he jolts. you also can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to run your hands through it. if he won’t share his heart then perhaps his hair care routine could do, after all, it is unfair to have such luminous hair despite running around all day.

“didn’t you have something for me?” you ask, trying not to let your exasperation bleed into your tone. “that’s why you’re here, no?”

he presses a hand to his chest and acts like he's been shot. “so you read my message and chose not to reply? i’m hurt, y/n, how cou-”

“sampo. please, i’m in no mood to banter. can we get this exchange over and done with?”

for a flash of a second, you delude yourself into seeing a slight furrow in sampo’s eyebrows, expression moulding into something akin to sadness. it’s a face that will haunt your dreams, you think, especially with the way he glanced away from you, doubt evident in his body language as he nods shyly.

it's not like sampo to break eye contact, but he recovers too quickly for you to comment on it and then further shuts you up when he presents an innocently pretty box. through common sense, it looks like a box of chocolates, but because you know sampo koski, you’re a little frightful of the contents inside.

“wh-what’s the meaning of this?” you ask, eyeing the gift carefully.

sampo pushes it further towards you. “open it and find out!”

“it’s not going to blow up in my face, is it?”

“do you think so little of me?”

“yes, because you trick people like this, sampo, by presenting a seemingly innocent box of chocolates and then bam- they blow up in-”

“okay, okay, i promise this isn’t one of them ones that go ‘bam’! trust me!”

"okay... i'll trust you on this one."

with a little reluctance, you take the outstretched box, scepticism written all over your face. preparing for the worst, you untie the little bow and gently lift off the cover, melting at the contents within.

chocolates of various sizes and design litter the inside and the cuteness of it is enough to make you melt, the small smile appearing on your face only a tiny indication of the affection growing within you. not to mention, these sweets don’t look like the cheap mimics that the underworld produces. how did sampo get his hands on these, and why would he give them to you?

suddenly laced with guilt at the unnecessary attitude and rudeness you showed him earlier, you look up with a ‘thank you’ and apology on the tip of your tongue, but he’s gone. disappeared into thin air at the crumbling of your heart's walls.

disappointed, you sigh and make a mental note to thank him the next time you see him. resuming your packing up, you’re unaware of the new brightness your expression carries, and how you move around with a little more bounce to your step.

hugging the gift close to you, a certain merchant lays low nearby and watches how enthused you seem by the new gift. sampo concludes then and there that your smile is priceless and he would do anything to be the cause of it.

if only he could tell you.

#my pookie...#exams are over and the first thing i write is sampo. what is happening.#anyways.#sampo x reader #sampo koski x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai x reader #sampo fluff #sampo x reader fluff

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violixs · 2 years

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WORTH IT

pairing: bang chan x reader

genre: angst, fluff if u squint rlly tightly, idolverse

wc: 1.6k

a/n: let’s hope this chan fic works? i’ve never posted in the morning so this feels weird… but i hope you enjoy 1.6k of angst ㅠㅠ feedback is appreciated and pls rb if you enjoy!

Morning light settles over the room and although not everything is lit up perfectly, Chan can still see the outline of your face and the way that your eyes have grown puffy throughout the night.

The feeling of skin against skin is both a slap to the face and something he can’t resist, indulging in the softness of your hands as they cling onto him to keep him close. Underneath the covers, your legs are tangled together and everything feels warm. From the sound of the birds singing their morning song (despite it still being just four o’clock) to the heat that keeps your bodies toasty beneath the quilt—there’s a certain mood that he can almost taste on his tongue and he knows it’s pleasant, and that he should enjoy the moment as fully as possible, but he can’t.

It’s impossible to enjoy it when he knows he’ll be gone, for a while, very soon.

Aware of the fact he cannot keep coming to you like this, in need of love and the feeling of someone else’s lips pressing against his, not with need, but with utmost care and gentleness. You don’t treat him rough or use his body without paying plenty of attention to his heart, and it’s ruining him with every second going by.

Of course he doesn’t think, because if he did, he knows he wouldn’t be trying to sneak out quietly right now. It’s why the voice in the back of his head is screaming so loud for him to go back, to convince him that people have hidden these relationships before and that he is more than capable of being one of them.

He doesn’t want to break your heart—really, he doesn’t think he can forgive himself if he does—but it’s all too much. Overwhelming and never ending love that he’s not used to, affection and care that he doesn’t think he deserves when he’s putting you in a situation where if it doesn’t go right, you could be receiving mountains of hate on his behalf. Sometimes Chan hates his career choice. Right now, as he kneels on the side of the bed, he knows this is one of those times.

Your hair is messily splayed over your face, and he reaches up to it with his hand and pushes it away from your eyes with the ghost of a touch. Calm. You look calm and at peace, and he hopes that even when he’s gone, you can stay like that, continue to be just as happy as you are in your sleep. There’s a little bit of what he can presume is dried saliva on the corner of your lips and your mouth is parted every so slightly to help you breathe, but he still looks at you as though you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. He’s never been more sure of anything in his life. The innocence that paints your swollen face is one that tugs on his heart strings, and although he kicks himself for it, he reaches down and presses his lips against the warm skin.

Praying. Chan is praying that you don’t wake up because his heart can’t take the turmoil of you knowing he’s leaving, or having to stay another day when he knows that was not what he was planning to do. He can’t stay longer otherwise he’s going to stay forever, and that is ultimately a luxury he cannot afford. His image, his reputation and his music are his life and the way he gets by; in no way does he think you’d tarnish that, but he knows other people would think differently. It’s the one thing celebrities can’t have until they are past the age of people caring—the true love of another person, a solid companionship.

But it’s okay. He has his members and he has friends at the company, and even his family to stop him from being lonely. He doesn’t think they know him like you do, though. Of course they love him, they admire him and care for him but not in the way you do. They’ll never kiss his shoulders softly while he’s drifting to sleep or run him a warm bath and boil a cup of green tea when practice is particularly gruelling. He loves his members and his friends and his family but his relationships with them and with you are two completely different things. Chan isn’t sure he can find another you, ever again.

However he can’t complain. This is what he chose, right?

He puts his jacket on from the coat hanger and he still feels cold. There’s still an unpleasant feeling lingering in his gut telling him he should not go because this is going to hurt you both, but for some reason he just can’t listen. However he can compromise, an idea that only pops into his head when he sees a pen and pad (one which he knows is made for shopping lists, you told him the first time he came over), and within seconds he’s quietly walking towards the counter thinking of what to say.

He’s never liked goodbyes. Since he had to say goodbye to his family in Australia and since he had to say goodbye to a normal life, he thinks they’re the worst things ever. The feeling of saying goodbye is all too similar to that of losing someone and it’s uncontrollable and horrible. Like sand slipping through his fingers—he just can’t grasp whoever he’s trying not to lose, and no matter how hard he tries to hold on, eventually he has to let go.

The fact this feels exactly like that, and the fact he can feel his eyes welling up as pen meets paper for the hundredth time makes him bite his cheek painfully hard. But he’s finished. He signs the note with his name and a little “X”, his final kiss goodbye.

He places it on the coffee table beside your sofa, pinned down by a coaster so it doesn’t fly away. When he looks around the apartment for one final time, he’s almost unaware of how he actually feels. It’s something that he’s never felt before—both the tightening of his stomach and the awfully nauseous feeling that comes with it, and the regret of something he hasn’t even gone. Such a small space holds so many precious memories and he’s convinced he’ll remember this flag for the rest of his life. He’s made you breakfast in that kitchen and you’ve let him cry on your shoulder on the sofa. He’s kissed you against the door and bandaged up cuts on those barstools. It’s as though he’s done something in every corner of the open spaced room, to the point where Chan feels like he belongs here because why on earth would he feel so content if he wasn’t?

That feeling only solidifies when he sees you standing in the corridor, a large t-shirt and joggers that are almost definitely his drooping over your frame. You look confused and a little scared. He can tell, even from a good ten metres away, that you have noticed the tears in his eyes. Probably the fact he’s wearing shoes and a coat, and has a bag in his hand, too. You’re not oblivious, and you’re one of the smartest, most beautifully intelligent people he knows. But even you can’t form words from your mouth.

“Why are you leaving?“ You ask, taking unsteady, shaky steps towards him as though your body is still asleep. Now you’re in front of him. You can see the wobble of his lip and you've already noticed the piece of paper slipped beneath a coaster. Suddenly the worst reality seems to be inching closer and closer and he can tell you have realised what’s going on, because your eyebrows are furrowed and you look so frustrated. Chan doesn’t blame you—he would be, too.

“Because I love you.” He answers, smiling at you with the most bittersweet look he’s ever held. He’s crumbling; you can see it happening right in front of your eyes. The way his body starts to shake as he turns and makes his way towards the door, the fact you can’t even make out the sound of him breathing among the poisoning silence of the room.

Chan is gone, he says it’s because he loves you. You trust that, he knows you do. But he still wants to run back, he still wants you to run after him even if it’s just to the apartment door. Maybe that’s why he stills for a moment after he closes it, the sense of hope that you’ll come running after him. The naivety of him is truly the killing factor: he didn’t just leave himself broken, the other half of the equation stood lifeless behind the door.

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