#I SWEAR ITS LIKE TRYING TO MAKE A SKETCH BUT YOU KEEP PAINTING CERTAIN PARTS BECAUSE IT HAS TO LOOK NICE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theimpossiblehologramtree · 2 years

Text

Broken graphite and gelatos

Pairing: Ethan Torchio x fem!reader

Word count: 7.2k

Summary: Ethan doesn't like annoying cashiers, and Y/N really wants him to collect some stamps.

Warnings: fluff, Ethan being a slight asshole at the beginning, swearing

A/N: Hey everyone! I even made a playlist for you to listen to while reading this. Make sure to check it out!

Please keep in mind that English is not my first language.

PLAYLIST

🐝masterlist🐝 taglist

☕buy me a ko-fi!☕

The professor told them about the upcoming project on a Wednesday, which truly sucked because Ethan really liked Wednesdays. He got his first bike on a Wednesday, he played a first "concert" for his parents and siblings in their living room on a Wednesday, and the first party he had ever been invited to happened on a Wednesday. Obviously, he couldn't remember any of those things now, but his heart still bore a certain fondness for that day of the week.

So it didn't come as a surprise when an irritated growl escaped past his lips when Professor Mancini announced that they had a month to prepare a presentation on the influences of ancient and medieval architecture in modern buildings. And on top of that, the assignment was supposed to make up over 40% of the final grade.

"It has to contain your own sketches or photos. If I see anything copied off the internet from one of those Stocks or whatnot, I will fail you on the spot," the teacher's piercing glare swept over the auditorium. "Is that understood?"

A loud cacophony of wails and groans of dismay erupted in the room as unpleased students argued with the lecturer, trying to bargain the change of deadline. Ethan had started to get a migraine already and wanted nothing more than to come back to his flat, change into his favourite pair of sweatpants (with unwashable coffee stains all over them) and bury himself under the warm covers on his bed. Truth be told, he liked studying architecture and completing the pilling assignments on time never caused any problem. His head was always full of new ideas inspiration for his work. But this time, he had no idea where to start and what to choose as the main object of his project.

Leaving the class, Ethan decided that this was the worst Wednesday ever.

"Fucking shit," curses left his lips as he frantically stuffed his sketchbook and all of his pencils into his backpack.

Raindrops were falling on the grey pavement, forming puddles which Ethan hated wholeheartedly. There was always a chance of stepping onto one and ruining your shoes, so why would anyone enjoin rain? He had been sketching an outline of an old church when suddenly it started raining. It wasn't surprising since spring thunderstorms happened very often in this part of the country, but it still annoyed him. As fast as he could, he scrambled his favourite sketchbook he got as a gift from his friends, shielding it from the damaging effect of rain. Graphite and water don't go together.

In only a few minutes, Ethan was soaked to his core. The sensation of his wet clothes clinging to his body only irritated him even more when he looked around the now-empty plaza in search of some shelter.

He felt as if hours had passed when his piercing gaze scanned around the buildings. His eyes stumbled upon a small yet decent-looking café at the end of the nearest street. Without thinking twice, he grabbed his backpack and ran into the store.

Inside, the walls were painted in bright pastel colours, with artwork hung all around them. There were plants in tiny pots with names on them scattered in every empty space of the shop, and Ethan spotted a cactus - Peter, as the writing on the pot informed - with tiny paper bows on its spikes. It all felt nice and friendly.

Ethan hated it. Well, truth be told, he didn't actually hate everything about it (the framed vintage photos seemed rather cool), but his grim mood made him feel alienated in this bubbly, colourful space.

"Hi, welcome to Frozen Heaven. How can I help ya?"

After the long day, he needed coffee. He had woken up early to work on his drawings for nearly three hours only to get drenched in the chilly rainfall.

"Small black coffee. No sugar," Ethan mumbled under his breath and grabbed his backpack in search of a wallet.

"Sure, I can get you coffee. But not the kind you want," you said. "This is an ice cream parlour," you added, noticing the confused expression on his face. Tilting your head towards the giant refrigerators filled with containers full of colourful ice cream, you giggled in amusement.

Ethan's blood boiled with irritation. He wanted to drink something hot to warm himself up, not frozen dessert! Not only couldn't he get his long-awaited coffee, whose taste would welcome him into its arms like a passionate lover, he was also stuck with you, the bright, sparkly and extremely annoying cashier. Outside it was only raining harder, and Ethan simply couldn't risk getting his precious sketchbook any wetter.

"Right. I'll just sit here until it stops raining then," he whispered and turned his body towards a small round table. A sigh left your lips.

"Look, I can make you some tea since you look miserable, but you have to buy at least one scoop, alright?" you offered from behind the counter. It made him feel stupid and somehow dependent on you, and he didn't like that at all.

But when Ethan turned around, about to tell you that no, he did not want any fucking tea, let alone ice cream, his voice got caught in his throat as the image of a warm cup full of steaming liquid flashed in front of his eyes. The unpleasant shiver that ran up his spine only reminded him how wet and cold he felt. Yes, tea would do nicely under these circumstances.

"Fine."

"Great, what flavour would you like?" you said, smiling. "We have-"

Not even letting you begin listing all of the favours, he cut you short with a simple, "I'll take hazelnut," ignoring the small scoff that left your lips.

Ethan waited impatiently as you took one cone from the stack and scooped a generous amount of his favourite ice cream onto the crunchy wafer. He took out his wallet and grabbed the frozen treat from your hands. You leaned against the counter to collect the change he had placed on the edge of the surface, your lower abdomen digging into the cash register.

Just as Ethan was about to walk away again, hoping to enjoy his snack that was practically unenjoyable in this weather, your cheery voice reached his ears.

"And do you collect our stamps?

"Do I what?", he asked, finding it hard to understand the question.

Your eyes sparkled brightly as you spoke, "well, you can collect stamps in our shop. One scoop equals one stamp, and if you collect ten, you can get a free scoop! I can give you the card if ya want," you rambled on in a sing-song voice that made Ethan feel chills on the back of his neck. Or was it the weather?

He felt as if he was about to explode with anger. Why would you ask him if he collected some ridiculous stamps? Who was he? A seven-year-old child? He felt like throwing the ice cream cone he was holding right in your face and ripping all of your stamp cards in half, just to make you stop talking.

"No."

"Well, do ya-?"

"Can I get my tea now?" he snarled through gritted teeth and sat down at the small table with a baby blue cloth. Even if you kept talking, he wouldn't even bother to listen.

He felt a bit bad for treating you like that, you were only doing your job, and his fucked up day wasn't your fault, but your bright appearance and your sweet, happy voice made his guts turn. Ethan was always put together and organized, his mind would find harmony everywhere he looked. The presence of people like you, bubbly and incidental, made it difficult for him to predict their next move, and he hated that, so he opted out for avoiding those people whenever he could. Also, the fact that you were dry, clad in clothes that didn't cling to your skin with every move and standing in a warm shop certainly didn't help his attitude towards you.

The droplets of rain strummed against the foggy windows. The sky didn't look as if it would clear out any soon. The wind howled in the street, dancing with bits of trash and debris in the air.

Ethan loudly sighed as he tried a bit of his hazelnut ice cream. It wasn't bad, he thought. He would have even thought it delicious if it wasn't for his gloomy mood.

"Here ya go," the sound of your warm voice made him tear his eyes away from the window. You had placed a mug with smiley sheep wearing thongs on the table right in front of him. "I hope you don't catch a cold."

"Errr... yeah, thanks," Ethan mumbled, looking critically at the beverage in front of him. The amber-coloured liquid steamed from the bit childish cup, and the smell of freshly brewed Earl Grey overcame his senses.

Deep in his heart, he was truly thankful for your favour. You had no benefit from helping him and being such a kind heart. The tea you made him (which, by the way, wasn't half as bad as he expected it to be and definitely did its job of warming him up) was most likely meant for you to drink during your lunch break or something. And yet here you were, letting a complete stranger, who was being nothing but a dick to you, drink away from your favourite sheep cup.

Ethan brushed away the slight feeling of guilt that stung deep in his chest. As soon as it stopped raining, he would give your mug back, leave the shop and never come back. He would never have to see you again, and you would never have to deal with his bitchy attitude.

Lost in his thoughts, Ethan took out his sketchbook, examining it for any signs of destruction. His eyes scanned the paper carefully, trying to spot any new tears, wiped pencil or ink stains.

"You an artist?" you asked, pointing at his notebook that was open on a page with a sketch of a medieval bridge he did a few months before. "These are good."

Ethan sighed again. He was hoping to spend the time in peace and quiet, and he definitely didn't need you to tell him that he was good. He was a student of architecture, of course, he had to be good. He half-hummed, half-grunted an incoherent response, opting out for not keeping up the conversation with you.

The message was clear - I don't want to talk to you, so kindly piss off. With a curt nod of your head and a frown on your face, you walked back behind the counter, picking up a book to entertain yourself while waiting for any other potential customers. Though it seemed very unlikely that any would show up, considering the foul weather, that wasn't ideal for buying ice cream.

Time on the clock passed slowly for both of you. Ethan's mind was clouded with thoughts about his project and the sketches he had yet to do, but his gaze occasionally darted towards your figure absentmindedly.

The rainstorm eventually passed, the sky cleared out, and Ethan could finally leave this awful place. You were somewhere in the back, and he couldn't see you (not that he wanted to, you were the definition of annoying AF, but he did feel bad when he couldn't properly say goodbye), so he left his cup on the counter next to the cash register and simply walked out the door.

Next time Ethan saw you was exactly two days later.

He came back to the same plaza to continue his work, everything exactly the same, with the slight exception of an umbrella he remembered to put in his backpack. Transferring all the tiny ridges of the old church's giant portal in full sun was a tiring process, so when he finished, he felt as if he aged at least twenty years. He was hot, and his thoughts immediately travelled to the taste of Frozen Heaven's hazelnut ice cream. He could go for another scoop. After all, it wasn't far away.

Ethan didn't let himself weigh on the idea for too long. Grabbing his stationery, he repeated his footsteps from two days before, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of a giant pink-neon sign. A doorbell rang when he entered.

This time, the parlour seemed different. It was still the same bright and pointlessly happy place, but it wasn't as deserted as it had been the last time he was there. In the corner, there was a smooching couple, and by the counter stood a small boy, picking out his favourite flavours with his grandad.

"But, nonno, I want three scoops."

"You won't eat that much. Remember last time? I had to finish half of your portion."

"This time will be different!"

A sweet giggle erupted from behind the counter. Your giggle. "You can get two, and if you're still hungry, you can come back to get another one. How do ya like that?"

You were perched up next to the cash register, wearing the exact same bright pink apron, flashing your teeth in an amused smile. Ethan felt his annoyance grow slightly at the memory of your previous encounter. It was embarrassing, knowing that you had to deal with his attitude and that you were seeing each other again.

But before Ethan could change his mind and walk away, you had already served the customers and were looking at him with a puzzled yet friendly expression on your face.

"Hiya, grumpy face. Pleased to see you didn't get sick."

Ethan scoffed, earning a small chuckle from you. Of course, you had to bring it up.

"I hoped you wouldn't be in now," he said.

You laughed again. God, when didn't you laugh? Were you always in such a good mood?

"On a peaceful Friday afternoon? One of the first warm days of the year, when people start to remember that long night walks and ice cream are an amazing combination?" you retorted, looking him deep into his dark eyes, still smiling warmly. "You wish."

Ethan snorted. Maybe you were annoying, but at least you had some sense of humour.

"Alrighty, Mr Pouty Lips. What can I get ya?"

"Hazelnut. One scoop."

"Okey-dokey."

Okey-dokey. Who even says that? Ethan couldn't understand how you could still be so nice to him, even after he had treated you. Maybe it was some kind of requirement in employee protocol or something. He knew that if he had been in your shoes, he would have given himself a piece of his mind.

Maybe you took a different path of revenge. He once heard his friend Thomas tell him that poison was a women's weapon. It seemed unlikely that you would add anything to his wafer, but one can never be too cautious. He observed all your movements carefully.

Yet none of your movements seemed suspicious and Ethan let himself relax his shoulders.

"Do you want to start collecting our stamps?" you asked after passing him his portion.

Or maybe your way of revenge was constantly bugging him about some ridiculous stamps.

"No."

"Ya sure? Ten stamps equal one free scoop."

"No."

"You are a really weird person," you said. Ethan frowned again but didn't respond.

He took a seat at the same table he did two days before. Since he sat in the same place twice, it officially became his spot. Ethan always had his favourite chairs in every café he visited, and he couldn't go to see a new film at a cinema without taking his favourite seat (row F, seat 11).

Somehow his ice cream tasted even better than before, and the wafer was extra crispy. Ethan, completely ignoring other customers present, looked at the shop's decor. The artwork that caught his attention last time was hung right above his table. It was an old photograph of the nearby plaza, all in black and white.

Everything on it seemed so different yet exactly the same as it is now. The only exception was an old fountain that stood proudly in the centre, right in front of the entrance to the church he had been making sketches of for the past few days. The intricate carvings on the stone intrigued Ethan, and he had to know more. Right next to the monument stood a couple. They were standing in a warm embrace, throwing coins and making wishes.

Ethan imagined you, standing next to the fountain and wearing a dress similar to the woman's in the photograph. He wasn't sure why he did it, yet in his mind, you seemed to fit right in. He pictured you throwing some coins into the fountain, wishing for love and a happy future. An image of you pressing a kiss to the coin before tossing it into the murky water flashed in front of his eyes.

"Whatcha looking at?" an all-too-familiar voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

Ethan felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. You couldn't have known what he was thinking about, yet it still felt as if you had caught him doing something inappropriate.

And he didn't have any excuse as to why he was thinking about you. You didn't know each other, you definitely weren't friends, and he had barely even tolerated you in the first place.

"Where's the photo from?" he asked instead of trying to justify his flushed cheeks.

"Dunno. I think it used to belong to the previous owner of this establishment," you shrugged your arms and turned your head to the side. "We just put it up with a bunch of other things we found during renovation."

Ethan nodded. When he tore his gaze away from the framed picture, he noticed that you had taken the free seat next to him. Shifting awkwardly in his seat, he tried to avoid looking directly into your eyes. He wasn't sure why you decided to join him by his table, and the napkin holder suddenly started looking very interesting.

However, you didn't move.

"So you're just gonna sit here now?" he asked.

"Maybe."

Ethan sighed and finally gave in to your piercing gaze. Looking directly into your eyes, he felt as if you could see right through him. What the hell did you want?

"Listen, if you want an apology for me being a dickhead, you're out of luck. We're out of those today," he snickered.

You let out a small giggle, and Ethan felt himself settle when he noticed your grin widened at his remark. God, if the pitch of your laughter were any higher, only dogs would hear you, he thought with amusement.

"Are you sure? Can you check in the back for me?" you said, in between fits of giggles.

This time it was Ethan's time to laugh. Okay, maybe you weren't as irritating as he initially thought, but it was probably a matter of time before you did something that would throw him off completely.

"Scusa, nothing in there. Maybe you should try a different store."

"Or maybe I'll come back another day," you responded, smiling from ear to ear. Standing up from your chair, you came back behind the counter, ready to serve the new customers.

Ethan diverted his focus back to the vintage photograph. It was beautiful, and he knew it would fit perfectly in his project. A side by side comparison of the sketch and the picture sounded amazing. Professor Mancini would love it. He was an elderly man on a brink of retirement, and even though most of the time he was quite quick to catch up with the latest trends, he always appreciated when students tried to practice traditional studying methods. If somehow Ethan managed to get his hands on the original photograph, he would have a guaranteed pass.

As soon as the idea formed in his mind, no one could change his mind. Ethan had to get the photograph from the wall, and he was determined to do so. It all seemed to be too good to be easy.

First of all, it wasn't his wall nor his establishment so just getting it off the wall was off hands. Sure, sometimes he acted like a dick, but he wasn't a thief. So he had to find another way to get it. And to do it, he had to get through you or whoever was in charge here.

Secondly, he had to find out more about it. He couldn't just put it in his presentation without knowing at least who the people on the photograph were, when exactly had it been taken or who had been the author. This might require a lot of energy and time from him, and Ethan physically shuddered at that thought but pushed it aside, deciding that he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

The first thing decided to do was ask you. The idea sounded dreadful in his head, but he knew that it was the most obvious and easiest way.

Letting out a deep sigh, Ethan pushed himself off the chair and made his way towards the counter. You were cleaning an ice cream scoop, your back facing him. This time wanting to propitiate you, he waited patiently until you finished.

When you finally turned around, your eyes met his. You smiled warmly. Of course, you would.

"What's up, sour face?" you asked cheekily.

Ethan froze. He didn't actually have a plan as to how he would conduct this conversation. Hi, I know we aren't friends or anything, but can I take this photograph off the wall that isn't even yours? Yeah no, he couldn't do that.

He realized he had been standing in silence for a good minute or two, his mouth slightly open, when you looked at him with slight worry in your eyes and waved your hand in front of his face.

"Hey, you alright?" you asked.

"I'm Ethan."

"What?"

Another silence.

Ethan took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair nervously.

"My name is Ethan," he repeated, reaching out his hand. "Thought I should give my name, so you'd stop calling me all those weird nicknames."

"No way. I'll never stop," you smirked. "My name is Y/N. Nice to properly meet you," you shook his hand, and Ethan tried to ignore the spark, an arc flash that tingled his fingers when your skin touched his.

Y/N. At least he got your name, so that was a good start, right?

"Alright, so this might sound weird," he started, keeping his eyes locked on your face watching for any changes in your expression. There were none. You were still staring back at him, bright sparkles in your eyes and a playful smile dancing in the corners of your lips. "But I really like the old photograph over that table. Can I have it?"

You laughed. Maybe you thought he was joking. You must have because when you noticed Ethan didn't laugh with you, your face stilled, and your eyes widened. Shit.

"Wait, are you serious?" you said.

Ethan nodded slowly.

"Yeah, I am. You see," he tried to justify himself and convince you to change your mind," I study architecture, and I have a very important presentation coming up. This photo would fit right in."

Preparing himself for instant rejection, Ethan absentmindedly fumbled with a sleeve of his shirt while waiting for your answer.

But no sound escaped your lips. He looked back at you, his eyes desperately searching for some kind of reaction. A yell, a nod, a slap on his face, or the cute freakin' giggle he somehow grew accustomed to after having met you only two times.

After what literally felt like an eternity and a half (or at least watching the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy two times in a row, director's cut!), you finally replied, "S-sure, I guess."

Ethan's face lit up at your words.

"Really?"

"Yep. But..." you trailed off, pretending to think about something very intensely. "I want something in return."

Ah. There it was. The catch he tried to brace himself for. The revenge you had probably been plotting since his rude remarks he gifted you in return for your selfless kindness on day one.

Ethan sighed. Part of him was annoyed, but he was also... glad? Yes, he was glad. Pleased to see that you weren't all unrequited kindness and care.

"I can draw something for that spot in return," he suggested, raising his eyebrows at you. Instantly, he knew that was not what you had planned. It was something much more vile and tiresome for him. And when Ethan looked into your eyes and spotted a devilish smirk appear on your lips, he knew.

"You have to collect ten stamps from our shop."

Of. Fuckin'. Course.

He should have expected this. It's not like it was the worst thing he could ever think of. Sure, you could have asked him to mop the entire store or give you money. Collecting ten stamps from an ice cream parlour would sound like a dream to any average person, but to Ethan, it was like the worst nightmare coming to life. He knew he was most surely overreacting, but it felt ridiculous, stupid and pointless, and Ethan hated that.

"Can I maybe-?"

"No," you cut him off before he could even finish his sentence. "You have to come here and buy enough scoops to get ten stamps."

"Come on, Y/N-"

"But here's the catch," you cut him off again, your finger shooting straight to his mouth and resting on his lips to shush him. So that's not the end? "You can't get more than one stamp per day. I'll make sure to give advance notice to all my coworkers, so don't even try to woo them with your luscious hair."

Fuckin' amazing, he thought. For a good minute, Ethan contemplated backing off and telling you that he didn't need the photograph, but he decided against it. That photograph in the project would definitely raise his grade.

"Gimme the fuckin' card," he said through gritted teeth and shot you a glare.

You flashed your teeth at him in a knowing smile and passed him the small card, which he snatched from your hand. Somehow, you knew just how to push his buttons even when he was warming up to the idea that you might be tolerable.

Ethan stared at you intensely for a couple of seconds before giving in to your smile and leaning over the counter.

"So," he started, a smirk appearing on his lips, "my luscious hair, huh?"

"Oh, shut it."

For the next five days, Ethan worked out - in his opinion - a pretty neat routine. In the mornings, he would walk around the city, his trusted sketchbook in hand, and look for inspiration for his project. He would usually stop around midday to grab some lunch and continue his tedious work.

But then, in the afternoon, the time when he had to see you would come. He would quickly go to Frozen Heaven, order himself a scoop of hazelnut ice cream, try to ignore your smug smirk of satisfaction when you asked if he wanted a stamp and sit in his spot while reviewing the drawings he made that day, making small corrections occasionally.

If you had nothing to do, you always came to sit next to him, mostly admiring his sketches, sometimes throwing in tiny compliments and talking about whatever was on your mind. Whether it was complaining about rude customers or gushing over your neighbour's dog Lemon, Ethan always listened. He had no other choice, you were practically invading his personal space with your gestures. But for some strange reason, he couldn't exactly pit point it didn't bother him.

Over the five days he visited, Ethan's annoyance towards you deflated significantly. It baffled him greatly, but he didn't hate you anymore. Maybe every day, you added some magic potion to his hazelnut ice cream. He even started enjoying your everyday encounters.

"And then I told her, she has something stuck in her teeth, and she spilt her water on my dress!" you almost knocked a napkin holder off the table when you gestured vigorously. "Can you believe that? I was just trying to be nice and help her out so she wouldn't be embarrassed after the photos came out, and she acted like the biggest bitch there could be!"

Just like every single day, you were sitting by the table with him, your sheep mug in front of you, and told him one of your many crazy stories. This time it was about one of the bridesmaids at your cousin's wedding.

"She couldn't have been that rude, Y/N," Ethan said, looking at you with a wide smile. "Stuff like that only happens in cliché Hollywood films."

"And yet there I was, nocciola," you shook your head, "completely soaked and humiliated. And my dress was totally destroyed!"

Ethan chuckled at you, his cheeks heating up when you used the endearing nickname you came up with. He refused to be called sour face and grumpy, so you just started calling him nocciola since he always orders hazelnut. At some point, you even stopped asking, and as soon as a mop of raven hair flashed in front of your eyes, you automatically prepared one scoop.

When your giggles and his laughter died out, a comfortable silence descended in the shop. Apart from you and Ethan, there was no one else, no customers nor any other cashiers. It felt calming and cosy.

Ethan's eyes were locked on you, studying the features of your face. His gaze followed a line from your forehead to your nose, stopping by your eyes to gaze into them for a split second before noticing the gentle crinkles that formed next to your eyelids from laughing. He looked at the skin on your cheeks (has it always been this soft and inviting to touch?), his stare outlining the crease of your cupid's bow and the smooth edge of your bottom lip. Ethan glanced at the small scar that adorned your chin. You once told him that when you were thirteen, your older brother tried to teach you to ride a bike without holding the handlebar (or your parents knowing). You fell on your face when the bike collided with the nearest curb.

Ethan's breath hitched when you raised your hand to tuck the loose hairs behind your ear. Your hair always looked so smooth and silky, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to entangle his own fingers in it.

How the hell in a span of a few minutes did you become so fucking nice to look at?

You fumbled with your half-empty tea mug as you looked up from your lap and into his piercing gaze. A scarlet blush covered Ethan's cheek when you caught him staring, but it didn't feel awkward. Exchanged smiles didn't let the friendly atmosphere change, both of you still felt comfortable, and there was no awkwardness that usually comes after catching someone staring at you.

That day, Ethan stayed longer than usual. He waited patiently until the shift was over and helped you close up. He even walked you to the bus stop, lying that yes, he was heading in the same direction.

Everything was still exactly the same, but something in Ethan changed, softened. It was one of the first signs, and he should have noticed, but he didn't. He was too caught up falling for you to even notice it.

On day seven, at the entrance, Ethan was met with your detectable absence. When he walked into the shop, he couldn't hear your giggles or your usual g'morning, nocciola, I have something for you before you presented him with his favourite hazelnut ice cream already prepared.

It shocked him. At first, the thought it was a joke, and maybe you hid somewhere only to jump at him in a pathetic attempt to scare him. But when instead of your bright pink apron he saw a young man with a grey uniform, he panicked.

"Hello, welcome to Frozen Heaven, what can I do for you?" the man said, barely making any effort to look at Ethan. Hearing those words coming out of his mouth felt wrong, it was what you usually said, it was your line, and how dare he say it?

"Where's Y/N?"

"Oh, she couldn't come in today."

It hit Ethan like a ton of bricks. He didn't know where you were, and he was excited to show you the sketches he worked on today. He also didn't know when, if ever, you would be coming back. Sadness and disappointment flooded his chest, and Ethan had no idea why. You were most probably sick, but the lack of your gentle voice and your high-pitched giggle made him queasy.

"Excuse me, sir. Are you going to order?"

Ethan snapped back to reality. That sad reality without you in it. Shaking his head, he mumbled a short no, thanks and left the store, trying not to think about the softness of your hair or the glittery shimmer of your eyes.

The stone dyke Ethan was sitting on dug into his bottom painfully, but he couldn't care less. To be honest, he didn't even notice the discomfort. He was too preoccupied with outlining the details of the building to notice. The black graphite left dark smudges on the paper of his notebook as he bit his lip in concentration.

This time, he chose to draw a beautiful bridge with giant sculptures on each side of the river. Ethan remembered his friends talking about this place; apparently, it was a great place for a romantic date. But he came here alone, and the sight of lovesick couples wandering around the place made him feel a little sad and heartbroken, though he would never admit it.

Ethan would have loved to bring you here. He didn't even realize it, but as soon as he saw the bridge, his thoughts subconsciously travelled to you. He could picture you with him, holding hands and walking around admiring the fast-flowing waters of the river. Ethan imagined tracing your soft cheeks with his rough fingers, looking you deep in the eyes and whispering sweet compliments into your ears before stealing a loving kiss. He imagined, and his heart fluttered with realization.

Somewhere along the way, he stopped finding you irritating, and the hatred he once felt turned into affection. A feeling that made him smile more than usual, appreciate Earl Grey tea more and listen to the same music you always played in your shop.

Ethan had surrounded himself with you for the past couple of days, and he didn't even notice. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could see a familiar smiley face, smell the floral scent of your perfumes and hear the familiar giggle. In fact, he could hear it even then.

It was too clear and pronounced to be just a figment of his imagination. His eyes snapped open, and his head turned around to find the source of the heavenly sound. Ethan's heart skipped a beat or two when he saw your figure, standing by a flock of pigeons. You were laughing and throwing breadcrumbs at them, your phone in hand.

Ethan couldn't believe his eyes. Pigeons! Pigeons had made you laugh uncontrollably, and you didn't care about what anyone thought of you, too caught up in your own world. It was amusing, and the sight of you made Ethan feel like he was a teenager in love once again. Oh, how much he would give just to be the one to make you laugh like this.

His pencils fell from his lap and scattered all over the pavement. The sound was enough to catch your attention. You turned to the side, and when you spotted Ethan, your smile only grew wider. He waved at you sheepishly, trying to hide the blush already forming on his cheeks.

"Nocciola!" you called out and walked over to him." Fancy seeing you here. Missed me much yesterday?

"You have no fucking idea," Ethan let out a breath.

"Sorry," you muttered." I had a small family emergency I had to attend to and called in sick. There was no way of letting you know. I hope Adam was nice to ya and gave you the usual."

Ethan shook his head.

"Didn't even order. Eating ice cream wouldn't be the same without you and your laugh," he said, winking at you.

Blushing at his playful remark, you leaned down to help him pick up all the things that fell from his lap earlier. Ethan couldn't help but glance at you every millisecond, transfixed by your overwhelming presence. He watched as your hands reached down to pick up his sketchbook that was opened on a page with a half-finished drawing of a park he once visited with his family. Your fingers hovered over the paper.

"Ethan, this is so beautiful," you said, your voice barely a whisper, and it took him all his will not to blurt out you are beautiful.

He could see the slight hesitance on your face before you let your fingers linger over the image, your eyes lighting up.

"Can I see the rest?" you asked.

"Of course."

Ethan bit the inside of his cheek and sucked in his breath when you took a seat on the uncomfortable curb next to him, your arm brushing his. His stare was fixated on your figure when you flipped through the pages, admiring his work.

"You are really talented, nocciola," you murmured softly, giving him his notebook back.

And before Ethan hadthe chance to reply, other words that left your mouth made his stomach erupt with butterflies.

"Can I stay here with you?"

There's no way he could say no to that.

And so you stayed with him until he finished his drawing. Even when he was focused on his sketches, your presence made everything easier. He didn't worry about lines not being at the right angle or the proportions of the lamposts being all wrong. All that mattered was that you were sitting by him, on the edge of the curb, watching him draw. You were so close he could smell your perfume. It was sweet and floral.

Everything was exactly like he had imagined many times before.

He realized what his mother meant while talking about being in love with his dad. It just feels right.

The two of you ended up going on a walk, slowly making your way to the Frozen Heaven for your afternoon shift. The time passed slowly as you walked through the city. You had already told him a heart-wrenching story about how your brother's cat got lost, and you had to look for it instead of going to work. Ethan could swear he had never felt happier.

"I ended up finding her under the dryer in the bathroom! Can you believe that? That little bitch was hiding in the bathroom the whole time, and I missed work because of her!" you exclaimed loudly, making Ethan laugh.

"Well, I'm glad you found her in the end. Yesterday really sucked since I didn't get my ice cream."

"Maybe you don't actually like me, you just got addicted to sugar." Bullshit.

Ethan laughed and stopped walking, turning you around.

"Definitely not true."

You looked up at him, looking deep into his pretty brown eyes. You could see right through him, straight into his heart and soul. Ethan's hand darted up to brush away loose strands of hair from your face, physically restraining himself from kissing your forehead afterwards. His eyes met yours for a split second.

You grabbed his hand, and Ethan felt sparks of electricity strike through his body, his heart speeding up at your touch. He had no idea what to prepare himself for, and your touch distracted him from the surroundings.

The next thing he knew, you stood on your toes and pulled his hand to help yourself reach him.

When Ethan felt your lips crash onto his, he melted underneath the soft touch. His mind went blank for a second before his senses were overwhelmed by you. Holy shit.

The kiss was short yet sweet, and when you started pulling back, Ethan's hand itched towards your waist and pulled you right back in. The taste of your cherry chapstick on his tongue only drove him crazy and made him pull you even closer, closing every little space between your bodies. Your arms wrapped themselves around his neck instinctively, your fingers playing with his hair. It was like the final two pieces of a puzzle coming together - everything felt perfect and complete. Just like it had always meant to be.

All his nerves tingled, and his body itched for your touch when your lips separated, both of you smiling like some crazy idiots in love. Well, maybe you were crazy idiots in love.

Ethan rested his forehead against yours, your arms still wrapped around his neck and his hands gripping your waist.

"Just so you know," he whispered softly, not caring about anything else but you, "I'm planning on doing that again and again and again. And then once more, for good measure."

"I'd like that," you replied, biting your lip.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I'd like that a lot."

Ethan had never felt more excited in his life. Not even when he first got his drum kit and waited for school to finish to come home and try it out. It had felt amazing, but it was nothing compared to what he was experiencing walking fast through the busy streets.

It was the last day of your "agreement", and he had fulfilled all your promises. Since the day of your kiss, not much had changed, but Ethan was determined to have you in his life.

Making his way to the familiar building with a neon sign of an ice cream cone, he felt his heartbeat speed up. Ethan walked through the door, and his eyes immediately caught your figure standing behind the counter.

You had already prepared a portion of hazelnut ice cream along with the photograph you had promised to give him and were now waiting for him patiently, a shit-eating grin never leaving the soft features of your face. When Ethan saw you, his eyes sparkled, and his heart fluttered.

He walked closer, fumbling with a pocket of his jean jacket. Not breaking eye contact with you, he took out the card with all ten stamps collected and slammed it on the counter, making you giggle.

"Hi, welcome to Frozen Heaven," you said, still laughing. "How can I help ya?"

"I came here to pick up my free scoop," he said, voice lingering at the end of the sentence, before adding, "And your number."

You smiled at him and leaned over the cash register to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

"I s'ppose that could be arranged."

Ethan chuckled and connected your lips once again, pulling your figure closer to him, hoping that he would never have to let you go.

He decided that spending all this money on ice cream was worth it.

taglist: @till-you-scream-and-cry @weareoddlydrawn @bluscryn @jrj2 @maneskindiva @iamaperfectlyloudbouquet @profesjonalny-mizantrop @iosonoarina @writingmaneskin @iamtashaquinn

#majka writes #ethan torchio #ethan torchio x reader #maneskin #maneskin x reader #victoria de angelis #damiano david #thomas raggi #x reader #imagine #lmao yes i accidentally posted a draft of this earlier than i wanted to #ooops

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yehet-me-up · 7 years

Text

Temptation

Pairing: Lay/Zhang Yixing x reader (female)

Rating: (M) for swearing and explicit sex

Word Count: 13,475

Summary: Cursing yourself for not majoring in something more practical, you struggle to find work after graduation. On the recommendation of a friend you finally take a temporary job working at Sinful, the chocolate store in the mall, for the Valentine’s Day season.

You think that the name is perfectly suited to the man who runs it, Yixing. Sensual, talented, and creative, you can’t wait to get to work everyday to see him. You chastise yourself for having these feelings about your boss, but don’t seem to be able to stop. When the season ends he surprises you both, deciding that he wants to keep you in his life, as more than just an employee.

Part two of the Exodus Mall series! (Can be read independently, but you’ll get some extra backstory if you read the other parts first!)

January 15th, 1997

You close the car door behind you with your back, trying to simultaneously wrap your coat around you to ward off the cold, hold the folder containing your resume under your arm, and put your keys into your purse. A cold wind whips past you, knocking you back against the car and you instinctively hold onto your coat and your purse, the folder falling out of your grip and into a puddle.

“Fuck,” you say to yourself with a laugh. You sling your purse over your shoulder and regard the folder as you try to figure out what to do next.

“Let me get that for you,” a melodic voice says across from you.

Looking up you see a man bend down and extract the folder, holding it out as it drips icy water. He stands up and you jolt when you take in just how gorgeous he is. White button-down shirt, black dress pants; a warm looking long black trench coat. Deep brown hair, blown across his forehead by the wind, wide dark eyes dancing with laughter. A dimple appears in his cheek as he smiles sympathetically at you.

“Maybe it’s a lost cause?” he asks and you break into a grin.

You shrug and laugh. “I guess you’re right. Thanks for trying though,” you say and he walks over to the nearby trash can and throws it away. He returns, running a hand through his hair to brush it out of his face. “Was it anything important?” he asks, humor still lighting his expression.

“It was a resume for a job I’m applying for this morning,” you say, glancing back at the mall before looking down at your watch. 8:57am. You’d wanted to get there nice and early so you’d have time to talk to your friend who owns the bookstore first. She’d recommended you for the job at Sinful, the chocolate shop inside Exodus Mall, and you wanted to ask for advice about what the owner is like and what he’s looking for before you head in.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Oh? Where at?”

“The chocolate shop. It’s called Sinful,” you answer, nodding toward the main mall entrance.

His eyes widen momentarily and then he gives you a lopsided smile. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I know the owner and he’s pretty easygoing,” he says with a wink.

“Really? That’s great to know, thank you,” you say, uncharacteristically flustered by his flirtation.

“No worries,” he says. “Well, I’ll see you around. I hope you get the job,” he says with a wry grin and moves past you to head into the mall.

“Thanks,” you say as he walks away. You can’t help but admire his profile as he approaches the entrance. He steps through the doors and a sharp wind blows past you. You shiver and fold your arms in your coat again, quickly gathering it about you and dashing into the mall, out of the wind.

Reassured by what the man said, you decide to skip going to see your friend. With your varied work experience and personality, not to mention her recommendation, you feel confident you’ll make a good impression.

Stepping inside, you head into the bathroom to double check your reflection, ensuring that your dress and leggings are still in place and that your make up stayed put. Satisfied, you head out into the mall. Things are just coming to life, most stores are open by now and jazz plays soothingly over the mall’s speakers. You turn toward the chocolate shop, gazing hungrily at the delectable looking creations on display.

You’re impressed at the varied selections, much more than the usual milk or dark chocolate. A platter of strawberries are dipped in chocolate and topped with what looks like honeycomb crumbles. 3D shapes created out of hardened chocolate adorn white chocolate truffles. Squares of fudge feature red sugar hearts that looks like glass. Small squares of chocolate are painted with what looks like watercolor patterns, the colors swirling together.

Even though it’s a month off, there’s a big Valentine’s display, a sign mentioning pre-orders. Hmm, that’s a smart idea you think appreciatively. The owner must be pretty savvy. You walk inside. The small shop is well laid out, with a long glass top counter forming an L-shape to the right. A floor to ceiling shelving system is on the left, each cubby filled with gift boxes in varying colors. Behind the glass counters you see a doorway leading to the kitchen, gleaming appliances visible, waiting to be used for the day.

You can hear someone moving things around in the back room. You brush your hair behind your left ear, smiling to yourself as you recognize your old nervous habit. It’s been a while since anything made you anxious and you welcome the feeling; you always did like fresh starts.

“Excuse me?” you call politely, leaning your head over to peek into the room.

A dark haired man has his back to you, tying a white apron over a white shirt and black pants. At your question he turns around, a knowing smile already on his face, a dimple appearing in his cheek. You click your tongue, laughing to yourself. It’s the man from the parking lot. Know the owner, my ass, you think. He walks out and gives you an ironic smile.

“Long time no see,” he says and you laugh. “Come on back and we can get started with the interview.”

He takes your coat and purse and sets them on the small desk in his tiny office off the back room. The interview goes quickly; it seems your friend already filled him in on your experience when she persuaded him to give you an interview. He goes over the job duties and asks you a few questions about whether or not you have experience with different things.

Twenty minutes later he says he’ll review some things and call you as soon as he decides. You walk straight over to the bookstore and drop your palms onto the counter, startling your friend as she sets a stack of books down. She turns around and takes in your shaken expression. “Don’t tell me the interview went that bad?” she asks, coming over to you.

You sputter. “No – the interview went just fine. But why didn’t you warn me that he’s absolutely gorgeous?” you demand. She blinks and her attention is immediately drawn across the mall to the record store. “Ah, right. Your attention is a little tied up these days,” you say, teasing. She’s been hopelessly in love with its owner for years but refuses to say anything, much to your chagrin.

She waves a hand at you dismissively. “Anyway, tell me how it went, did he offer you a job?”

“Not yet,” you say with a sigh. “He said he had to consider some things and that he’d call me soon to let me know.” You fill her in on the specifics of what was said and then head home, leaving her to the running of her fantastic bookstore.

You walk in the door to your apartment a short while later. The phone is ringing when you push it open. Dropping your bag on the floor, you dash over to answer it. “Hello?” you say into the receiver.

“Hi, is this Y/N?” a melodic voice asks. Ah, the dangerously good looking Yixing then.

“Yes it is,” you reply, fighting the urge to sass him that it’s obviously you.

“It’s Yixing. Well, if you’re up for it I’d love to offer you a job. Just through the first of March for certain, but we can revisit once that gets close to see where things stand. What do you say?” he asks and you wonder if he actually sounds flustered or if it’s just your imagination.

“Sounds great, I’m in,” you say, excitement leaking it your voice. Six weeks of solid employment, thank the gods. Scratch that, thank your friend from the bookstore for suggesting this.

“Perfect, let’s go over the details,” he says. Ten minutes later it’s all set - the pay rate, the hours, dress code, everything. It’s decided that you’ll start next Monday. As soon as you hang up you do a little happy dance, grinning from ear to ear, and pour yourself a glass of wine to celebrate.

January 19th, 1997

You sit in your car, patiently waiting for it to be 8:55, not wanting to awkwardly be too early on your first day. Drumming your fingers on the steering wheel you think of how easy it was to leave the temp agency. A quick phone call to let them know you got another job and that Friday would be your last day, apologizing for the short notice.

“No problem. Please report your hours as usual for tomorrow and we will mail out your final paycheck once the site verifies the hours. Reach out to us if you ever need employment again, have a nice day,” the almost robotic female voice of the dispatcher said before abruptly hanging up.

You’d shrugged, thankful for the lack of drama, and then proceeded to spend the weekend on your main passion in life: art. Painting, sketching with charcoal, messing around with Photoshop 4 on your secondhand desktop; you weren’t picky.

Y/N will take any chance to make the world more beautiful, that’s what your best friend always said about you, with a smile on her face. You’d met during your freshman year, her junior year, at a liberal arts mixer, bonding over a hilariously self-important English professor who taught a required class you were taking to fulfill your general education credits. A waste of time and a distraction from your art, you thought. Regardless, as an Art major and an English major specializing in the Romantic poets, you found kindred spirits in each other and you became inseparable.

While she worked her ass off through college to pay tuition, and later to save up money for what would become the bookstore, you’d taken a much more leisurely path. After winning several local and national art competitions for your mixed media creations and your paintings, you were a shoe-in for the local University’s art scholarship. You spent four years blissfully lost in the world of art, taking a wide variety of classes, gaining experience doing projects for a local independent magazine.

Other students worried about the “real world” and logical, normal people things like bills and careers. All you cared about was the colored pencil in your hand and the minutes left you had to capture your subject before the light changed. You sigh and rest your elbow against the door, leaning your head onto your hand. Those were the good days, you think nostalgically.

Now, all these years later, she was running a successful bookshop and you were spinning your wheels. You’d bounced around – six months interning in graphic design for an ad agency during your junior year, six months as a receptionist at an art museum owned by a friend of your father’s during senior year. And you’d spent most of the last year at a little café that served coffee and pastries, reluctantly turning to temp work after they closed down.

But nothing had stuck. The vague feeling that something was missing perpetually drove you to seek something else. And look where it had gotten you – a miserable few months of temping, being shuffled from assignment to assignment like cattle in the stockyard. But, as you remind yourself, for six glorious weeks you’ll have firm footing. You smile to yourself, excited to get started. Checking your watch you see it’s finally time to go in.

When you arrive an older woman with a graying bun of hair and a kind smile is waiting for you at the front door. She takes you through the gate into the store. She shows you where to put your stuff in the back. Her name is Peggy, she tells you in a cheerful tone, in between asking you a thousand questions about yourself before you can catch your breath.

Yixing walks in a minute before the clock hits nine, unlocking the gate and sliding it open. He gives you a warm hello before heading into the back room to hang up his coat, motioning for you to follow him. Peggy takes her place at the register, straightening things up as she waits for the first customers of the day.

The morning passes in a blur of paperwork and policies as Yixing shows you around. He says you’ll work the register and the counter until you feel comfortable and then he’ll start showing you the process of making and packing the chocolates.

Yixing goes to work making the day’s batches in the back and you train with Peggy for the rest of the afternoon. She chatters on happily, reminding you of your own grandmother with her affectionate pats on the arm and easy ability to draw you into conversation. She tells you how she came to work there after a miserably boring few months of retirement, wanting something to fill her days.

The other full time staff member, a young woman with a shock of neon blue hair and a spike through the top of one ear named Vera, comes in for the closing shift. Despite the studded jacket and shit-kicker boots she wears, you learn quickly that she’s basically a pocket-sized ball of energy.

She happily discusses the next tattoo she wants to get with you and Peggy while she restocks the cases. You love the designs she has so far, and she grins ear to ear when you compliment them.

The day flies by and you get into a groove. The register is simple enough, you used one just like during your year at the café. Your natural curiosity and openness lends itself perfectly to customer service and many happy customers smile genuinely as they leave the store.

After a busy, full day you head home satisfied.

January 26th, 1997

The mall is almost deserted this time of day – two in the afternoon on a Monday. You sit in a chair in the food court, feet propped up on an opposite chair, a sketchbook stretched out across your legs. You switch charcoals, hand moving rapidly as you try to capture the image in your mind. Warm eyes, elegant neck, perpetually ruffled hair, hands in motion as he mixes up a batch.

Taking a quick look around, you make sure there’s no one nearby to see what you’re drawing. You lasted exactly a week before you couldn’t take it anymore, and finally drew Yixing. Desperate to capture his expression, frustrated you can’t nail it just right, you flip to the next page to try again.

“Your technique is incredible,” a gentle female voice says from above you. Whipping your head up you see a girl dressed in a conservative black dress and heels, her purse slung over her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says nervously, waving her hands and backing up a step. “I’m just – I’m an artist too. Well, sort of, I make jewelry. I love your style and I wanted to tell you,” she finishes, red in the cheeks.

You drop your feet to the floor and put the sketchpad on the table next to you, your breath slowing from the shock. For a moment you’d thought it was Peggy, but they don’t sound anything alike in hindsight.

“Oh, no worries. I just thought you were someone else for a moment and I almost had a heart attack,” you say with a laugh. You motion to the seat opposite with you and she joins you with a sweet smile. “And what are you talking about? Of course, jewelry is art. Anything that adds to the beauty of the world counts as art in my book,” you continue insistently.

She laughs at your enthusiasm. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

You introduce yourselves to each other and you find out that she also just started at the mall, working at the jewelry store across the way. Lunch passes by quickly as you get lost in conversation, delighted to talk about art with a fellow creator. She keeps darting glances over your shoulder, in the direction of the food court.

You lean forward conspiratorially, raising an eyebrow. “What do you keep looking at?”

With a sly smile that seems wholly at odds with her professional appearance, she says, “I’ll tell you, if you’ll tell me who the gorgeous man is that you were drawing.”

You let out a laugh. “Fair is fair,” you sigh. “It’s my boss at Sinful, Yixing. He is handsome isn’t he? You should see him pouring chocolate, it’s downright pornographic,” you say and she giggles. “I thought you were one of my co-workers when you spoke to me.”

She casts another furtive glance behind you and sighs. “All right, one of the owners of the pizza parlor is my ex. I haven’t seen him in forever. I didn’t know he worked here when I took this job. I’ve been nervous about running into him,” she says, looking down at her hands.

“Well one thing’s for sure, there’s no shortage of drama here in this mall,” you say, blowing out a breath, and she nods in agreement. Soon you both finish your lunches and head to back work, happy that you made what’s sure to be another friend here.

February 10th, 1997

On his way through the mall to the bank to make a deposit and buy change, Yixing spots you in the food court. He’s been wondering what you do for lunch and he’s surprised to see you leaned back in a chair, your feet up on an adjacent chair, a sketchpad resting on your knees. He thinks about coming closer, seeing what you’re creating with the brightly colored pencils spread out on the table next to you, but he doesn’t want to disturb you.

While he can’t see what you’re drawing, he can see your face as he walks by. With a smile he thinks your face in and of itself is art. Your hair pulled out of your face, eyes racing across the page as you draw. You lean back for a moment, tilting your head to appraise what you’ve made, absently biting on your lip.

With his gaze fixated on you he isn’t watching where he’s going. With a thump he smacks into someone coming the opposite way, dropping the deposit bag.

“You all right man?” Jongin says with a laugh, dramatically rubbing his shoulder with an exaggerated wince.

Yixing shakes his head with a rueful laugh, reaching out briefly to pound fists with Jongin in greeting. “Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, I was uhh, distracted,” he says with a grin, glancing back to you.

Jongin looks over to you in the food court and lets out a whistle. “That sure is some distraction,” he says and jokingly pushes Yixing’s shoulder in retaliation.

Yixing bends down to pick up the bag, running his hand along his neck with a sigh. “Tell me about it,” he says. “See you around man.”

Jongin gives him a mock salute with a sardonic smile. “See you.”

When he returns from the bank you’re just finishing up lunch, hanging up your coat and putting your sketchbook and pencils back in your large tote bag. You look over and give him a warm smile.

“So any chance you’d be willing to show me what you were working on?” he says with a quirk of an eyebrow.

You jolt, fingers clenching protectively around the book. He laughs. “I saw you drawing on my way to the bank, I promise I haven’t been spying.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Good. If you were I’d have to kill you,” you joke. “Hmm, let me find something,” you say and he pretends to lean over. You give him a fierce look and he throws his hands up, taking a step back.

The piece you were finishing on lunch is part of a larger series you’ve been exploring. Lush, colorful floral designs overlaid with stark black geometric designs. You weren’t sure where you were going with it when you started, but after five finished designs, you’re pretty pleased with the results.

You find the first one, three brilliant photorealistic red roses overlaid with large and small overlapping circular patterns. Handing the sketchpad to him, his eyes run across the page, appraising.

He doesn’t immediately give praise and you like him even more for it. So often friends of yours clap and announce that they love it without really taking a look. It’s sweet, and you know they just want to support you, but from someone as talented in his own right as Yixing, you’re dying to know his true opinion.

After a beat he reaches out a hand and flips to the next page. A cluster of peonies in various shades of pink covered with interlocking triangles. Next comes a deep pink orchid with winding lines around the borders. A royal blue string of bluebells and a loose pattern of repeating dots and diamonds. Last is your favorite – sprigs of lavender wrapped in a pattern of star shapes.

He lifts his hand to turn the next page and before you can stop him he flips it over. Your eyes go wide and your heart feels like it’s stopped beating. Before starting on this series you’d finally finished a portrait of him that felt perfect, capturing him exactly as you like him best – sensual hands mixing a bowl of chocolate. His warm, expressive eyes observing his process, a contented smile on his face revealing his dimple. You react instinctively, grabbing the sketchpad to try and pry it out from underneath his stunned gaze.

“Wait,” he says, maintaining his grip. His eyes lift to meet yours, something stirring in the depths that you can’t name. “You drew me? Is this how you see me?” he asks in a low voice.

You know how it looks, know that he sees right through the piece. There are portraits you draw of friends, family – happy pieces alight with affection. There are the portraits you draw of strangers, at a street fair or for commission – technically and stylistically precise, but lacking the sense of feeling that comes from drawing someone you know well. And then there are other portraits, the kind you draw of lovers. Where your every emotion is sprawled across the page, desire radiating from every curve and line.

Unfortunately, you realize in a rush as you look at the drawing, this is clearly the latter.

You open your mouth to speak but close it immediately. What words can you offer that would explain this away? Instead you just nod silently, meeting his stare.

With a cough, he flips back to the last design, the one of the lavender. “I’ve been coming up with some early new recipes for our Mother’s Day collection this year. These designs would be perfect for the boxes, would you be open to discussing a collaboration? I’d love to see what they might look like with gold accents instead of black, if you’re open to it?”

“Really?” you ask, grateful that he didn’t pry into the drawing. “I mean – yes. Yes, that would be incredible,” you say.

He leads you back to the tiny office to discuss plans, a welcome break from the frantic Valentine’s Day preparations you both started on this morning.

February 12th, 1997

Strong hands slide along your waist, brushing up and under your shirt. Your skin feels heavy, aware, as if it’s desperately trying to hold onto his touch. His head bends, his lips trailing up your shoulder to your neck. You moan softly, arching your back as you push further into his skilled hands. You’ve watched them for weeks. Mixing chocolate, carefully adding decorations with precision.

For weeks you’d fantasized about having those skilled hands on your body, desperate to know the ways in which they could mold you beneath their meticulous attention. His finger traces the underside of your breast as his full lips tease your jaw. Desperate to feel those lips on yours, finally, you reach a hand around his neck and pull him close, leaning in to -

A shrill buzzing sound jolts you awake. You instinctively reach over to turn off your alarm clock. You throw your arm over your eyes to block out the sunlight. It feels as though you’re emerging from the depths, pulled from the world of your dream harshly into reality.

You gulp in big breaths of air, your body still desperately clinging to what had been about to happen, as if it could conjure Yixing just by sheer force of will. Skin buzzing with arousal, breasts heavy; a pool of wetness at your core.

When your breath slows, you shake your head and cover your face with your hands, laughing to yourself. For days, weeks if you were honest, you’d been fantasizing about what Yixing would be like as a lover, surreptitiously watching him as you worked together.

Would he be gentle, the type to steadily thrust in and out, building your orgasm slowly? Kissing down your body, teasing and tasting before getting down to business. Maybe he had a rough side, the type to set a brutal pace, holding your hips in place, slamming into you until you screamed his name.

You bite your lip, moaning softly to yourself at the images flashing through your mind. All that wondering and sexual frustration had seeped from your waking thoughts into your dreams. You huff out a laugh.

You glance over at the clock, mentally hugging yourself for always setting your alarm for at least ten minutes before you needed to get up. Stretching out, you slide your hands down your body, closing your eyes and trying to recall where your dream was headed before it was so rudely interrupted. It’s not quite as good as the real thing would have been, but you’ll happily make do with your own two hands for the time being.

February 13th, 1997

The day before Valentine’s Day is a full-blown strategic undertaking. Peggy shuts the gate at eight o’clock and works on the normal closing duties while you, Vera, and Yixing are working hard in the back. Mixing batches, laying out molds, popping the set chocolates from this afternoon’s batches out and neatly arranging them into gift boxes, waiting for Yixing to add the finishing touches.

The pre-orders that Yixing had been taking the past few weeks were stacked on neat slips on the counter; dozens and dozens of neatly written pieces of paper that were slowly being worked through.

After closing Yixing grabs a CD and pops it in the boom box on the counter; the upbeat sounds of Wham! start. The mood is light, energetic; the celebration before the onslaught tomorrow. You and Vera sing enthusiastically into wooden spoons, while Yixing shakes his hips as he moves, bobbing his head in time to the music. You can’t remember the last time you had this much fun at work.

At fifteen past the hour Peggy deposits the money into the safe and gathers her stuff, giving an amused smile to the scene in the back room before leaving. You finish just before ten. Vera goes home, yawning, saying she’ll see you both in the morning for “the onslaught.”

You cram the last paper slip onto the overstuffed spindle with a grin of triumph. Turning toward Yixing you sigh and lean against the counter, pleased with the day’s work. He’s drying his hands on a towel, watching you from across the room. He raises one of his eyebrows and gives you a conspiratorial smile.

“I saved a batch of your favorites,” he says, setting down the towel and pulling out a box from one of the back cabinets. “As a thank you for your fantastic work today, and this month.”

You clap your hands together and beam at him, walking over to his outstretched hands. Coming to a stop in front of him you slip off the lid. Inside are eight perfect dark chocolate mint truffles, warm from the heat of the room.

He watches intently as you carefully select a chocolate and pop it in your mouth, eyes closing as you savor the rich taste. An involuntary moan leaves your mouth as your tongue melts the chocolate. You swallow and open your eyes, realizing abruptly how close you’re standing, how warm the room has become - your skin flushed from the hours of busyness.

Yixing sets the box down on the counter slowly. He turns back to face you, his gaze drawn down to your mouth. Smirking, he points to the corner of your mouth. You dart your tongue out to lick up the chocolate, still missing a small blob in the edge of your lips. His body tilts forward, lips parting as though he’s going to speak. His hand raises before he catches himself, dropping it suddenly to his side with a shake of his head.

“What is it?” you ask, confused.

He looks back to your eyes, your lips. “You’ve got some there, on the corner of your mouth,” he says, his voice low and strained. He battles with himself for a moment, a pained expression on his face. His eyes darken, resolved. Stepping toward you he raises his hand and gently cups your face, drawing a thumb along your lips, swiping up the chocolate.

Your body immediately reacts to his closeness, your breathing speeding up as his presence engulfs you. He draws his hand back and slowly sucks on his thumb, eyes never leaving yours. Your world narrows to his mouth, watching as he pulls his thumb back and runs his tongue along his lips.

“Just kiss me already,” you murmur under your breath, not thinking.

His eyes widen with awareness as he processes your words. You abruptly realize where you are and what you just said. Your hands fly to your mouth as if they can shove the words back in. Taking two steps away from him toward the store you dip your head, a blush rising in your face.

“Oh my God, Yixing. I’m so sorry. That was so unprofessional, please just ignore me and forget this ever happened,” you say emphatically and wave your hands in front of you as if you can make the situation disappear like a cloud of smoke.

You turn and start walking back out into the store, embarrassment flooding your body, wishing you could sink through the floor. Rapid steps sound behind you and his hand gently grabs your arm, turning you to face him. He’s watching you with an intensity that you’ve never seen before, breathing deeply.

“What if I don’t want to forget? What if… I want to kiss you just as much?” he asks, looking at you with such passion that you find it hard to breathe, your body flooding with warmth.

You tilt your head to regard him. He’s so straightforward, you can’t imagine he’d be joking or messing around with you. Maybe he’s felt he tension between you as much as you have these past few weeks. Not one to overthink things, you give him a seductive smile and bite your lip. You watch as his attention is drawn to your mouth, internally cheering as his hand on your arm squeezes slightly.

“Well, if that’s true, what are you going to do about it?” you say, voice teasing.

His eyes darken at the taunt. He moves closer, his usual sweetness melting away to become a predator stalking its prey. You back up against the nearby counter, it’s hardness pressing into your lower back as you remain targeted in his hungry gaze. Throwing his arms out to rest against the table behind you, he leans in close, hovering his lips above your own before moving over to your ear.

You breathe in a huge breath, trying to remind yourself that you need oxygen to survive, even if he’s stolen all the air in the room. Of course he smells like chocolate, you think ruefully, but there’s something else too. Some musky undertone unique to him, that invades your senses and makes your mouth water.

His lips are close to your skin as he whispers, “Are you sure you want to find out?”

When he pulls back to meet your eyes he quirks an eyebrow, regarding you seriously. You feel it too, the boundary you’re both about to cross, between employer and employee and… something else. But you’ve never been very good at reality, at consequences; at thinking toward the future.

All you know is the here and now, what’s in front of you. And right now you have a very real and very enticing man on the verge of kissing you, his hot gaze drawn to your lips.

Not one to miss an opportunity for pleasure, or to resolve a curiosity, you nod, not breaking from his intense stare. He grins at you, a satisfied smile that sets your blood on fire. One of his graceful hands slides around your back to hold you intimately against him, the other weaving into the hair at the nape of your neck.

You shiver at the touch, a delicious thrill of anticipation running down your spine. You splay your hands on his chest, your mind already wondering if your imagination of him beneath his shirt is close to the reality.

Achingly slow, he leans in and you close your eyes. You feel his breath across your lips, but for several seconds he waits there. With a noise of impatience you open your eyes, wondering what he’s waiting for. When your gaze meets his, that’s when he dives forward to take your lips. You laugh against his mouth. So it’s a mix of teasing and sensual then, you think.

The laughter dies in your throat as his hand on your back drives you closer together. You slide your arms around his neck, coming up on your tiptoes as his lips play with yours, giving light kisses before pulling back, over and over.

With your new height you grab him by the neck and press him firmly against you, not wanting to waste any time with teasing. Not after waiting for several agonizing weeks. He seems to agree, his hands coming to your ribs on either side, holding you firm. He groans against your mouth, a deep, needy sound that sends heat to your core. You lick his lower lip and moan as he slides his tongue against yours.

A familiar female voice breaks through your haze of passion. “Jesus, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed onto my neck, wouldn’t I?” Vera laughs, and you hear her come through the gate. You and Yixing break apart. Your hand comes to your mouth. Whether in self-preservation, to hide any evidence of what just happened, or on instinct, trying to keep the taste of him near, you don’t know.

She peeks her head in the back room, chattering on, oblivious to the heady mood in the room. “I spent forever digging in my purse and my car for my glasses. I can’t drive without them, you know. And here they are, right where I left them on the counter,” she says, clicking her tongue at herself in chastisement. “Anyways, you two have a good night and I’ll see you tomorrow!” she calls and leaves again.

After she leaves you both regard each other from opposite sides of the room. You finally drop your hand and lick your lips, savoring the taste of chocolate and him on your lips. He stares you down, smirking. Just when you’re ready to stride across the room and grab him again, he looks down, breaking the moment. With a cough he turns back to the equipment, grabbing a clean rag to start wiping down the counters.

“We should get out of here, tomorrow will be a long day,” he says and you reluctantly agree. You don’t say another word to each other as you gather your things and head to your cars.

February 14th, 1997

The rapid pace of the day means the two of you are constantly walking past each other. It’s pure torture for him, watching you bend over to reach into the case, passing behind you repeatedly. He keeps catching his hands as they reach for you, groaning internally, reminding himself why this is a bad idea.

Finally at two o’clock when Vera arrives, he heads out for a brief lunch, making a beeline for Guardians. Junmyeon, the owner, has been a good friend of his since they both opened stores three years ago, within weeks of each other. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even further. He enters the store and a bell dings. Junmyeon comes out from the back room, smiling when he sees who it is.

“Hey, man. It’s been a while. What’s up with you? You look like you got run over by a truck, is the Valentine’s Day rush that crazy this year?” he asks as he starts sorting through some collectable books.

Yixing pauses, letting out a big sigh. He’s not the type to beat around the bush, especially with Junmyeon. He walks forward, leaning against the counter on his elbows. “No, that’s fine. Sales are good and it’s flowing well. But you know that new girl I hired?”

“Oh yeah, the one that’s friends with the owner of the bookstore?” Yixing nods. “Sure, she’s a stunner. What about her?” Junmeyon asks.

He thinks to himself that he’s never seen Yixing this agitated before, and he hides a smile, hoping that it’s about the girl; that he’s finally found someone who captured his attention.

“We were closing down together last night and... we kissed,” he says, memories of your lips and skin and taste washing over him.

Junmyeon lets out a whistle. “Are we talking about an ‘oops, one time only’ sort of thing or a kiss that means the start of something?” he asks.

Yixing groans and drops his head into his hands. “I’m pretty sure it’s the second one.”

Junmyeon pats his shoulder sympathetically. “You’re screwed, my friend,” he says with a happy laugh. “So are you getting her something for Valentine’s Day?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, I hadn’t thought about it. I guess chocolate is out,” he says with a laugh.

He looks around the store, trying to think of something that might be your taste, already imagining the expressive joy that lights your face when something pleases you. When you make a customer happy or when he puts on your favorite CD after hours. Or when you’d tasted the chocolate last night, your blissed out expression running through his mind.

In the corner, behind a stack of old hats, is a sleek, dark wood case with antique silver clasps. It’s so you that he smiles, walking over to examine it. When he opens it he realizes it’s an old fashioned art case that folds out on both sides. Carefully extracting it he brings it over to the counter and pulls out his wallet.

“No, no. It’s all yours. If my perpetually single friend has finally found someone who caught his eye, it’s worth it,” Junmyeon says with a wink.

He leaves the case discreetyl next to your things. When you discover it later, on your way home, you give him an enormous hug from behind.

Holding it out you ask him, “Is this really for me? It’s exquisite,” you say and he grins at you in response.

“It’s nothing,” he says dismissively, even as his face is alight with satisfaction. “I saw it and thought of you, that’s all.”

The moment you get home you fill it with all your supplies – paints, brushes, charcoals, colored pencils. They all fit perfectly. The rest of the day you can’t help but run your fingers over the case, smiling whenever you look at it. You feel relieved, that the awkward tension between the two of you from last night and this morning has dissipated.

February 18th, 1997

Baekhyun and his friend, who you’ve come to learn goes by the nickname Hitchcock, for her obsession with horror movies, stop by on their break, smiling as they dash into the chocolate shop in a flurry of energy.

“After a long week of work, we’ve decided it’s time for another night out on the town,” she says, grinning mischievously.

“Saturday. Shari’s. Nine pm. Bring your dancing shoes,” Baekhyun says in a rush to you and Yixing before dashing over to the clothing store, laughing together.

You raise a brow at Yixing. “Where’s Shari’s?”

“It’s this nightclub up the street, it’s their favorite. Decent drinks, off the map so it’s not crowded with tourists. The best part is that on Saturday nights Jongdae, the unique guy that owns the computer repair shop, leaves his lair and DJs there. It’s always the most eclectic mix of things and it never fails to keeps us entertained.”

“Oooh, sounds like fun. I’m in. Are you coming?” you ask, trying to be subtle.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says in a low voice, leaning over to you. A thrill of excitement runs down your spine.

February 19th, 1997

The club is in full swing when you and your friend from the jewelry store walk in. Before you left last night you’d stopped by to invite her, insisting that she break from her usual routine of reading and have some fun. Her roommate had the Saturday closing shift with Kyungsoo at Barada, but you were excited to meet her at some point. She sounded like a similar “free spirit” as your best friend would describe you in a sarcastic tone. Your best friend also closes her bookstore Saturdays, so you’re happy to have the company.

You nervously run a hand through your hair, letting it fall loose over your shoulders. You smooth a hand down your dress, waving as you spot the group at a large table in the corner. You can’t remember the last time you wore something other than the slacks and soft sweaters that had become your uniform this frigid winter.

The assembled people scoot over to let the two of you in. Looking around the table your attention falls like a laser on Yixing. His normally fluffy hair is drawn back into a small ponytail, revealing closely shaved sides. Without the hair in his face he looks dangerous, you think. Dangerous and sexy, especially as his gaze settles appreciatively on your low neckline.

Chanyeol comes back to the table carrying several drinks in his hands, his face concentrated as he tries not to spill them. You feel your friend next to you go stock still, her hand frantically grabbing yours under the table. Chanyeol sets the drinks on the table, turning to give you a friendly smile. He stops abruptly when he notices your friend. You’d completely forgotten that they were exes, remembering in a rush what she’d told you the first time you had lunch together.

She sets her coat and purse down on the seat behind her and squeezes your hand. Her eyes are wild as they look to you. “Let’s go dance?” she pleads. You glance between her and Chanyeol, who’s mouth is hanging open as he looks her up and down, face white as if he’d seen a ghost.

You nod supportively, setting down your own coat and purse and pulling her up, heading for the dance floor. “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls starts playing and a decidedly female cheer sounds from the crowd. You look up at the DJ booth and as promised, find the mysterious form of Jongdae, looking down at the mixing boards intensely. You find a spot far away from the table on the dance floor for you and your friend.

“Are you all right? I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about him being here,” you say in her ear over the music.

She takes a steadying breath and shakes her head, giving you a small smile. “No, it’s okay. It was going to happen eventually, at least here it’s in a large group,” she says with a shrug. “Let’s dance. I came out to have a good time and I fully intend to have one, ex-boyfriend or no,” she says, her smile widening into a grin, shaking off her shock.

“Let’s do it,” you reply and grab her hand, pulling her into the crush of bodies to shake your booties to the music.

After another song more of the group joins you. Jongin dances with Hitchcock and Baekhyun pulls your friend into a hilariously dramatic tango. In the back you can see Chanyeol at the table, nursing his beer thoughtfully, watching her like a hawk. Next to him the girl from Starlight, the clothing shop, sips a colorful drink and gestures happily while she talks to him. You look around, wondering where Yixing has gone.

A tap on your shoulder has you turning around. Yixing is grinning at you like the cat that caught the canary, eyes sweeping up your body before meeting your gaze. He approaches slowly, giving you time to back away. Instead you step into his embrace, hands coming to his shoulders while his wrap around your hips. He’s wearing dark jeans, a white shirt that shines in the light of the club, and black boots. Out of his usual work outfit of plain slacks and a button-down he looks even better, you think.

The song switches to an upbeat R&B tempo as you start moving together. “Let’s talk about you and me. Let’s talk about all the good things and the bad things that may be. Let’s talk about sex, baby,” the singers croon and you can’t help the teasing smile that comes to your lips. He raises an eyebrow and gives you a knowing look that causes you to tilt your head back and laugh.

The night goes on and you have a couple of drinks with your friend, two delicious lemon drops. Though you take breaks to dance with Baekhyun and Jongin for a few songs, you and Yixing keep finding each other. Late in the night a slower song starts, the heady beats driving your bodies closer together. Emboldened by the alcohol and his hands warm on your hips, you lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. Briefly, testing the waters, seeing where you stand.

When you pull back he’s watching you intently, licking his lips. With a look around, making sure none of the group is watching, he pulls you through the crowd to the back wall, hidden by a pillar. He plants his hand against the wall, leaning in close, his other hand sneaking around your low back to push you against him.

With no hint of his earlier teasing he drops his head and captures your lips in a frantic kiss. Long, sensual movements of his lips against yours, drawing out the sensation. Your hands grasp his shoulders, pulling at him fervently.

You lick along his lower lip, seeking to deepen the kiss, but he pulls back, looking torn. “I’m your boss. I shouldn’t,” he says in your ear, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

“But you want to,” you say. It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yes, I want to, very much,” he says, and you feel his lips ghost over your neck. You arch against him, body flooding with need.

“Yixing, we’re both adults, we’re both single. I’m not some teenager head over heels in love with her married supervisor,” you say with a laugh. “What harm is there in a kiss?”

“What harm is there indeed,” he says with a wolf’s grin, showing his teeth. But he’s persuaded, at least for tonight, and he leans forward to hungrily recapture your lips.

Eventually you tear yourselves away and return to the group. You settled nothing tonight, but that desire in your heart doesn’t care. You might be playing with fire, balancing on the edge of something with him, but a few burns seem worth it when it comes to Yixing.

April 5th, 1997

You’re both humming along to the song on the boom box as you mix batches of chocolates, a new white chocolate mint recipe that’s been flying off the shelves. You look up to see it’s lunch time. On your way past him he pulls you out of view of the store, pressing you against the industrial fridge and kissing the daylights out of you. You laugh against his mouth and he smiles against your lips.

You’ve spent the past few weeks in a routine. Working in the back room with Yixing in the mornings, tending to the counter with Peggy in the afternoons. Valentine’s Day flowing seamlessly into steady business as new love bloomed everywhere with the arrival of spring, carrying on into Mother’s Day preparations.

You and Yixing sneak in kisses whenever you can, sometimes hot and heavy, sometimes sweet and light. All of them leave you breathless and ecstatic. But neither of you push for more, staying in this limbo together.

Eventually Peggy calls back to him, asking if he has any more mixed truffle gift boxes in the back and you manage to sneak away from his arms with a giggle. You sprint over to the food court where your friend is patiently waiting.

“Sorry about that, I got caught up with something,” you say in a rush, linking your arms with hers as you walk in and find a seat in the pub.

“Something, or someone?” she asks with a wry smile, taking in your flushed cheeks and slightly askew clothing. You choke on the sip of water you’re taking, coughing a few times.

You stare at her openmouthed. “How’d you know?”

She gives you a knowing look. “You’re not the most subtle of people when you’re into someone,” she says with a laugh. “So who is it? And how come you haven’t said anything before?” she demands, waving a finger at you.

You lean forward, hands raised, ready to come up with an excuse. But it’s pointless trying to deny it, she’s already seen through you, and you sag in resignation. “It’s Yixing,” you say with a wince.

She laughs joyfully and slaps her hand against her knee. “Ha! I knew it, you like him don’t you?” she asks happily.

“Yes, ugh, the past few weeks, since Valentine’s Day, we’ve been… I don’t know. Tempting each other,” you say with a groan. “We kissed right before Valentine’s Day, then again that night we went to Shari’s, and almost every day since then. If only you’d been there, maybe I would have been able to resist,” you say.

“Since when have I been the voice of reason when it comes to romance?” she asks sarcastically, waving her hand in the direction of KMS Music.

You pick up your water and clink it to her glass. “Well, at least we’re in this together. Here’s to being head over heels for unfathomable men.”

She picks up her glass and takes a sip. “Cheers to that my friend.”

April 23rd, 1997

You’re singing along to the radio, happily pouring the day’s molds when the delivery man arrives. Several more boxes than usual, Yixing thinks. He smiles to himself as he signs for the delivery and starts bringing the boxes into the back room. He opens a box and pulls out the first design, his favorite, because he knows it’s your favorite. The purple of the lavender and the gold of the stars pop on the shiny material.

Sliding an arm around your waist he presses quick kiss against your neck. You turn around to face him and squeal with delight when you see what he’s holding.

“It came out amazing!” you breathe, running your fingers along the material. He was right, you think, the gold does compliment the flowers perfectly. And you’ve already tasted the recipes he created to go along with each design, another area where the two of you mesh perfectly. He presses a lingering kiss to your mouth before turning back to start assembling the boxes.

May 12th, 1997

You and Yixing both have the day after Mother’s Day off. It was a smashing success, selling out of all the pre-orders and the stash of extras you’d prepared just in case. When you finally went home, long after it got dark, you’d stopped at the front display window. Yixing had a large poster of your designs made to advertise the pre-sales, and seeing it after such a successful day made you feel as though you could burst with happiness.

After sleeping in you drag yourself out of bed and get up, finally attending to the long list of chores that had fallen behind in the days leading up to Mother’s Day. You start a load of laundry, tidy up the apartment, write checks for the electrical and water bills and pop them in the mail. You look around in the kitchen for food and come up laughably empty. It’s a gorgeous, warm, early spring day and you decide to walk the few blocks to the grocery store next to the mall.

As you’re coming through the big park by the mall you see a familiar set of figures by the swing set. Yixing and Junmyeon are standing together, sipping to-go cups of coffee, watching the crowd of children play. Junmyeon pauses every few seconds to reach out his other hand and push a small boy on the swings. You’d heard Junmyeon and Yixing mention his son in conversation in the many times he’d come into the store, but you hadn’t met the boy yet. Yixing spots you and waves you over.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Yixing asks with a warm smile as Junmyeon gives you a one-armed hug in greeting.

The boy turns around in the seat. “Dad, I want to go on the slide!” he says cutely.

“Okay, buddy. This is my friend, Y/N, can you say hi?” Junmyeon says with a sweet smile on his face.

The little boy jumps off the swing and holds out a hand to you. “Hello, I’m Sungmin, nice to meet you,” he says with a polite shake of your hand. “Want to come on the slide with me?” he asks, grinning, tilting his head to look at you.

You laugh at how cute he is and nod. “Absolutely, let’s do it,” you say with a look at Yixing. Sungmin pulls on your hand and you follow after him to the slide. You climb up and settle into the side by side slides. Junmyeon sets down his coffee, holding out his hands to catch Sungmin at the bottom. Yixing comes to the end of your slide, holding out his hands with a teasing grin.

“Ready?” you ask Sungmin and he nods excitedly. You both push off and sail to the bottom. He squeals with delight as he slides down, throwing his arms up into the air. You hit the bottom in a rush, falling into Yixing’s strong arms, and he swings you up into his chest. You crash into him with a whoosh of breath and he spins you around, both of you laughing. He sets you down on your feet, his arms not budging from around your waist, gazing down at you.

“Let’s go again!” Sungmin says, tugging on your jacket and you reluctantly break eye contact with Yixing.

“Let’s do it!” you say and take his hand, running back around to the steps to the slide.

You spend over an hour at the playground, chatting with Junmyeon and chasing Sungmin around with Yixing, his sweet little giggles making you grin as Yixing pretends to be a dinosaur. Unbidden, images rise in your mind of you and Yixing chasing around a little girl on the playground, one with his smile and your eyes. With a shake of your head, you push the image away and pick up the pace to catch up with them.

June 1st, 1997

Maybe this is it, you wonder. The sign you’ve been waiting for, a purpose and a place that are calling to you. Sitting on your kitchen table, your feet on a chair, you chew on a fingernail as you re-read the letter in front of you for the tenth time.

It sounds so appealing – a coveted artist-in-residence position at Zion National Park. You’d applied months ago and it hadn’t crossed your mind in weeks. Paid accommodation in the park for a year, a stipend for food and supplies. Unlimited access to the park to paint or draw or create whatever you wished.

They were intrigued at your modern style, mixed with your traditional background and influence. They were trying something new, something “edgy” they said. Past meets the future, technology meets nature. You’d be a fool to turn it down.

But your mind resists, flooding with images of the little group of people in your life - here, now. Lunches spent with your best friend, watching her eyes light up as she talks about the new books that came in that day. The sweet smile that adorns her face now every time Minseok walks by, their eyes only for each other in their little bubble of fresh love.

You’d miss joking with Chanyeol when you stop in for a slice on your way home, his booming laugh when you surprise him with a good pun. Baekhyun and Hitchcock always goofing off, drawing you into whatever adventure they were going on after work. Driving around together off to an arcade or to see the latest movie. Shopping with your friend from the jewelry store, seeking out new paints for you and new stones for her to use in her creations.

Playing hide and go seek on the playground with Junmyeon and his son had become a regular occurrence on your days off. You smile thinking of the hours spent laughing hysterically with Yixing, making silly faces for Sungmin. Your heart tugs thinking of his excitement when he brought out the lollipop he’d made especially for the boy on his birthday last week.

Your attention is drawn again to the wonderful present Yixing got you for Valentine’s Day, the vintage art case perfect for storing all of your supplies. His excellent taste and attention to the people he cares about just one on a long list of reasons you’re completely absorbed in him.

His boundless creativity. His warm, humble smile, dimples showing, when someone compliments his work. His hands, his mouth, his body. Everything about him appeals to you.

But he’d been keeping you at arm’s length.

Because you were his employee or because of something else, you didn’t know. You loved the mall, and the people in it, but staying and being near Yixing; close, so very close, but not fully his, would be a torture you couldn’t endure.

You laugh to yourself, the future uncertain, once again. Now that Mother’s Day had come and gone, how long would you be working there? He hadn’t mentioned anything about commitment, in either the relationship sense or the employment sense. Had the past few months been an escape from reality? Or the creation of a new one? You wonder to yourself, turning the options over.

You bite your nail distractedly, torn as to what you should do. Twisting your wrist to look at your watch you see it’s 7:37 and you decide to confront a situation head on for once in your life. Your best friend had the bravery a few days ago to speak the words in her heart and now she and Minseok were making everyone in the mall jealous with how in love they are. You think to yourself that you can muster up a shred of that courage at least, and ask him directly.

If you hurry you can just catch Yixing as he’s leaving. You throw a sweatshirt over your tank top, slide on your sandals, grab your keys and dash out the door. Driving through the rain, internally cursing every red light, every car that’s going too slowly for your desperate pace.

You don’t even know what you’re racing toward. Are you hoping he’ll have no reaction to your job offer, giving you the push to make a clean break for a new life? Or are you hoping that he’ll decide you’re worth the risk? Either way it lands, at least you’ll have your answer and you can stop dancing on the edge of whatever has been happening between you. You have no idea what you’re going to say, you just know that tonight feels… important. That for whatever reason, you need to be looking him in the face when you tell him the news.

As you pull up to the mall the clock flashes 7:54. You whip into a parking spot and yank up on the emergency break. You jam the gear shift into park, pull out your keys from the car and start running, slamming the door behind you. You sprint across the parking lot and through the main entrance, sandals slapping the floor behind you as you come up to the store.

You skid to a stop out front of the entrance, warmed all over again by the crisp white walls and artful displays. It feels as though it’s been weeks since you last stepped inside instead of less than a day. Just yesterday you and Yixing had started loosely tossing around some designs to compliment the holiday line of chocolates he was working up.

He’s blessedly alone in the store, going through the closing duties on this slow evening. At your approach he rises from cleaning the case, resting his palms against the glass, giving you a smile so warm and open it makes you want to jump over the counter to beg him to be yours.

“Well this is an unexpected pleasure, what’s the occasion?” he asks, wiping his hands off and coming around to stand in front of you.

You’re so on edge you just blurt out what’s on your mind, holding the letter out in front of you. “I got a job offer,” you say in a rush of breath. “It’s an artist-in-residence opening, at Zion National Park. It’s in Utah, and it starts in three weeks,” you say, gauging his reaction.

He meets your eyes briefly, his expression a war of emotions. He sets down his rag and turns abruptly, walking into the back room. You stand there for a moment, puzzled, before following. He’s leaning against the far counter, his arms folded as he regards you steadily. Nothing, for several seconds he doesn’t say a thing. You huff out a laugh, stunned that after the past few months he has no words.

“You don’t have anything to say? After all we’ve been through – nothing?” you say, incredulous, coming to lean against the opposite counter, mirroring his pose.

He breaks your gaze, looking down at the floor. His brow furrows in concentration, but when he looks back to you, your heart sinks. If you hadn’t been watching him closely these past few months you would have missed it. The slight tilt of his lips down, the sadness in his expression.

He’s letting you go. Either because he doesn’t care strongly enough to want you to stay or because he’s too set in his ways to take a chance on you.

You throw up your hands and move to leave, giving one last look back at him as you move to the doorway. “Fine,” you scoff. “Consider this my two weeks notice. It’s been fun Yixing,” you say, willing your expression to stone, knowing that the hurt you feel is seeping into your face.

“Wait,” he says urgently, his voice thick with emotion. “Stay, please.”

You whip your head around in shock. You know he doesn’t just mean tonight. He swallows harshly, eyes burning into yours. Pushing off the counter he comes over to you, agitation clear on his face. He comes to stand inches from you, his hands impatiently darting out to hold your waist.

“When I see something I want I go for it, I don’t wait. The day I knew I wanted to open this shop I drove around to three different malls until I found the perfect spot. I went into the real estate office in the mall that same day. When I have a new idea for something here I don’t pause, I just… start making it.”

His lips twist in a smile. “That’s how it was with you. When I saw you, fighting against the cold, I practically leapt across the parking lot to get to you so I could grab your folder. Before I lost the excuse to talk to you,” he grins to himself at the memory.

“When I realized you were coming to my store, to see me… I’ve wanted a lot of things in life, but I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I wanted – as I want you,” he clarifies emphatically.

“I didn’t want to say anything, to try and lay a claim on you. For lots of reasons, all of which seem silly in hindsight. And now you have this amazing opportunity and I should let you go. I should say thank you for the fantastic job you’ve done, for the incredibly successful collaboration, for the time we spent together.”

“But I can’t let you go without telling you that I care about you, deeply. If you stay, I’d love to bring you on permanently. Peggy’s been bugging me for months about choosing a time for her to finally retire for real. Or if you want to work somewhere else I’ll support you a hundred percent,” he says and leans his forehead against yours.

“Or if you want to go, I’ll of course support you in that too.” His expression turns bashful. “I’ve been meaning to give these to you, but I hadn’t found a good time yet,” he says and you wrinkle your brow in confusion. He reaches up behind you into one of the cabinets and pulls out a box.

“I named them after you,” he says, taking off the lid.

A light dusting of chocolate is settled on top of the truffles, a small purple flower bud resting in the center of each. You grab one and take a bite. It’s delicious. You roll the flavors around on your tongue, eyes going wide as you realize what the special ingredient is.

“What’s in this?” you ask softly, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it from him.

“Lavender,” he says with a smile. “Your favorite.” The look on his face is so raw and open, it’s pulling at your heart. How did you not see it before? How much he means to you, and how much he cares about you in return.

“Do you mean it? You want to give this a real go, you and me?” you ask, waving your hand between you, needing to be explicitly clear before you let your reckless imagination run away with you.

“Yes, darling. If you’ll have me, I’m yours,” he says with a grin. “I decided to give up on fighting what I feel for you that day at the park with Junmyeon. I never found to the words to say to you, so I made these instead. I’m ready to try if you are.”

You launch yourself fully into his arms, grabbing his face with your hands and pulling him to you. He chuckles and wraps an arm around your waist, setting the box down on the counter behind you. His lips hungrily work against yours, holding you against the counter with his hard body. You open your eyes and look at the clock on the wall. Eight o’clock on the dot. You smirk against his lips and then pull back, breathing heavily.

“Want to get out of here?” you ask, beaming.

He looks at the clock and then back to you with a grin. “Absolutely.”

You pull into your parking spot on the curb and he pulls up behind you. A feeling of nervous excitement rises in your stomach and you hold a hand there, savoring the realization that he’s actually here, wanting to be yours. He comes over and opens the door for you, helping you out. You run up the steps to your apartment together, and he playfully smacks you in the butt. Laughing, you do the same to him before unlocking the door to your apartment.

You practically fall inside together, pulling him into the apartment and leaning him against the door. His lips meet yours in a hurry, kissing all over your face. The corners of your mouth, the top of your lip, the tip of your nose, your chin. It’s like now that he’s able to he wants to kiss every inch of you. You giggle and fist your hand in his shirt, pressing into him fully and drawing his lower lip in gently with your teeth.

He groans and you release his lip, sliding your tongue into his mouth. His hands slip up under your sweatshirt and you grin, remembering your dream all those months ago. You break the kiss for a moment to help him slide the fabric up and over your head. He shrugs out of his coat and quickly grabs the edges of his shirt, pulling it off, throwing it to the floor.

You stare appreciatively at his lean body, thinking to yourself that you can’t wait to kiss your way down it. But before you get a chance he comes up to you, hands gently holding your face to kiss you again, walking you backward in the direction of the bedroom.

You kick off your sandals as you walk and he kicks his off using his heels. He stops in the hallway, grabbing the edges of your tank top and easing it off you, followed quickly by your bra. Breathing rapidly, you each remove your pants in a rush, joining together again and moaning at the feeling of bare skin meeting bare skin.

Clad in only underwear you reach the bed and he sprawls out, sliding under the covers and pulling you on top of him, a leg on either side of his thighs. You look down at him through the curtain of your hair, breath catching in your throat as his fingers trace your naked skin, trailing up your sides to caress your breasts. The sight of him is glorious, you think; in your bed, hands on your skin in the faint light coming through the window.

He eases you down against him and kisses you gently. Resting his forehead against yours, he closes his eyes and asks, “Will you let me just hold you tonight? I’m not good at waiting, but - now that we’re here, I want to take my time.”

You nod, touched by his sweetness, and spread a hand across his chest, leaning over to rest against his side, nuzzling into his shoulder. You take a deep breath and sigh. Wrapped up in his warmth, you fall asleep listening to his heart beating in his chest.

June 2nd, 1997

A car starting on the street wakes him at dawn, soft light coming through your curtains. His arm rests around your waist and he bites his lip, trying to smother a grin at the memory of yesterday, at the fact that you chose him. Leaning over he takes in your sleeping face, relaxed and peaceful. He brushes a hand over your forehead, sweeping back the messy fall of your hair to place a light kiss on your neck.

You stir, blinking and opening your eyes. He gives you a lazy smile, running his hand up and down your hip, his leg coming to rest between yours under the covers. You pull his hand up to your lips and plant a kiss on his palm. It feels like a dream, but with him here in front of you, so real and present, you know it’s even better.

He moves his hand to cup your face, his thumb tracing along your jaw, with a wistful smile. Your gaze is drawn down to his mouth and then back to his eyes, and suddenly the air in the room changes. His eyes widen in arousal and his smile turns seductive. After months of waiting, you both know it’s time. You turn around to face him, swinging a leg over his hips.

With a deep breath he draws himself to you, sliding his lips along yours. Your hand grabs at his waist, needy and impatient. He laughs and slides his leg higher to rub along your sensitive core. You moan into his mouth and turn, pulling him on top of you. His lips pull away from yours and start trailing down your throat.

He slides down the bed, pushing the covers aside, his mouth stopping to pay attention to your breasts. You wind your hands in his hair as he laps at first one nipple, and then the other, teasing them to sensitive peaks.

Too soon, or not soon enough, he moves on, heading downward, eyes meeting yours as his tongue leaves a slick trail down your stomach. Stopping at your underwear his gaze turns dark, pupils dilating as he smells the arousal pooling in your core.

He hooks two fingers under each side and pulls your panties off in a rush, his rough hands pressing your legs apart and into the mattress. You give him a wry grin and tilt your head as if to challenge him to do his worst. He raises his eyebrows at you a few times suggestively and you giggle. Bending down he hovers his mouth over you for several agonizing seconds and just when you feel you’re about to scream he dips his head and runs his tongue along your slit.

A strangled cry leaves your mouth and you wildly grab for the sheets. With an appreciative noise he says, “The most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.” You throw your head back against the pillow with a laugh. The sound turns desperate as he repeats the motion, teasingly skirting around where you need him the most.

You jolt when he finally draws his tongue around your clit, in slow circles that reduce you to a writhing mess. He draws the bud between his lips and flattens his tongue, running over it directly. You buck your hips at that, your whines turning insistent.

“Yixing, please. I need you, I’m not going to hold out much longer,” you cry.

After another agonizing few licks he relents, releasing you and moving his body back on top of yours, his erection hard between you. He holds up a finger and leaps out of the bed, finding his pants where he left them in the hallway. Triumphantly he pulls out his wallet and holds up a condom. With a sarcastic turn of your head you stare pointedly at it.

“I’ve been hoping this might happen,” he says with a smug smile. You watch as he peels off his boxer-briefs and tears open the package, sheathing himself. He joins you back in the bed, holding himself up on his arms as he bends down to press a quick kiss to your lips.

You smile up at him. “So, in your hoping did you have a position in mind?” you tease.

His gaze darkens and a smirks comes to his lips. “You know, I did,” he replies, and he turns and sits on the bed, his back resting against the headboard. He motions for you to sit on his lap. You spread your legs and rest one on either side of him, hovering on top of his erection. His firm hands grip your hips and he slowly guides you down onto him. You moan and grip the headboard with both hands as he fills you, stretching you fully.

He drops his head against the headboard and lets out a groan of pleasure. “When you come I want to be able to watch that beautiful face of yours, feel every inch of your body against me,” he says desperately, lifting you up an inch and then thrusting his hips back up into you.

You can’t manage any words to reply, so instead you arch into him, capturing his lips with yours as you rock your hips in time with his thrusts. Neither of you can wait for long, both moaning into each other’s mouth between hurried, frenzied kisses. He knows you’re close as your whimpers become higher, desperate. He reaches a hand around and frantically rubs his thumb around your clit.

Seconds later your orgasm crashes into you, his name falling from your lips over and over, like a wild prayer. His eyes burn into yours as he reaches his completion right behind, the clenching of your walls pushing him to the breaking point. Drawing you in for a long, lazy kiss, he holds you tightly to him as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He slides down, holding you on top of him. After disposing of the condom he tucks you both back under the covers and you fall back asleep, content and tangled up in each other as the sun finally comes up over the horizon.

November 13, 1997

You convinced Vera to switch days off this week so you and Yixing could have the day off together. She agreed without hesitation, saying she’d appreciate the day to boss around the two temps Yixing had hired for the holiday season. She’s enjoying her new position of supervisor after Peggy’s retirement a few months ago, or as she jokes ‘her final retirement.’ Both of them had congratulated you happily when you’d broken the news the week after you finally got together.

After a long Saturday spent in bed together you finally smack him lightly on the ass, taunting, telling him it’s time to get ready. He groans, pulling you back against his chest, sleepily nuzzling your neck. “Mm, remind me why we have to do this again? As beautiful as I’m sure you’ll look, I’d much rather have you naked in my bed,” he says, nipping at your neck with his teeth.

Your friend at Barada had come up with the idea. Something about helping Kyungsoo “reclaim his lost youth” or something else dramatic, as was her style. She’d come up with the idea on one of your girl’s nights.

“Oh my god, I have the perfect idea! Let’s have a mall prom!” she’d said excitedly, slamming her hands on the table, looking around.

It had taken very little convincing to get everyone in your group of friends on board. Jongin had reserved KOKO’s largest exercise room. Baekhyun and Hitchcock invited everyone in the mall they could find. Yixing and Chanyeol took care of the food and desserts. Your efficient and organized best friend had taken care of renting the tables and chairs and her boyfriend, Minseok, had of course handled the music. You and your friend from the jewelry shop made the decorations. You’d spent a hilarious afternoon last week making cheesy crepe paper designs and glittery signs for the photo booth.

You pull him in for a kiss. “Because they’re our friends and it will be fun. Now, move it or lose it buddy,” you say and twist out of his arms as he tries to grab you again.

The dress you picked, a short pink number with a laughably poofy tulle skirt, hangs in your side of the closet. You head into the bathroom to do your hair and make up. A month or so ago he’d offered you a key to his place, and your heart soared when you’d seen the space he’d made in his apartment for you.

You already kept tons of things at each other’s places, but the key signaled something permanent. That these months together weren’t a fling, the temporary whims of two dreamy and artistic people, but something real.

When you come out of the bathroom, finally ready, he’s leaning against the wall. Just when you thought he couldn’t look any better, there he is, looking like James Bond in his tux and dress shoes. His hair artfully slicked back, obeying him for once. He gives you a whistle and you twirl for him.

He holds out his hand to you, eyes dancing in delight. “Ready partner?”

You grab his hand and squeeze. “Ready.”

#yixing x reader #lay x reader #yixing scenario #yixing smut #exo #fanfic #exo au #yixing imagine #lay imagine #lay scenario #exo smut #exodus mall

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reprisedpiece · 7 years

Text

Drop Your Pants

Pairing: Ben Platt x ArtMajor!Reader

Warning: swear words, sexual implications

Request: “i would DIE if u did an art student reader x ben platt !!!!!!”

Word Count: 1815

Note: THIS STARTED OUT REAL FLUFFY ((and the entire thing is)) but the ending,,,, i just had to, im sorry. who knows i might even make part 2 ;---) as always, feedbacks are appreciated!

MASTERLIST

Without a doubt, Ben found it absolutely beautiful when he found out you were an art student. He always had a knack for art, never really having the opportunities to talk about it as he didn’t have anyone to share the common interest with.

He admits that dating you entailed a lot of cheesy yet exquisite moments. Not that he was complaining. He always got the same giddy feeling whenever you mindlessly drew landscapes on his forearm, asking him to let you paint portraits on his back, and when he catches that glint in your eyes as you pull out your sketch journal whenever you see something worth drawing.

Heck, there were even moments where he’d catch you staring at him for nearly an hour and you’d present him with a breathtaking sketch. Even if it was a loose drawing, he’d still find it stunning.

He just absolutely loved how you were able to catch every single beautiful thing in your line of vision and interpret them into something even more beautiful through your pieces.

Whenever the two of you hung out and decided to stay in, he’d always persist that it would be in your place.

Sure, your small apartment was a tad bit messy but it represented your personality quite well. It was colourful, abstract, original, vibrant. Just like you, he thought.

He never forgets to bring flowers to when he visits you. They’re not always in bouquets. Sometimes, he brings you a single flower with a small ribbon tied around its stem and it was enough to make you smile for the entire dy.

You’d put the flower/s in a vase near your other pieces as he looks around, marveling at its beauty. His gaze would switch from the easel, to the untouched canvases and sketch pads, to the paint-stained cloths near the stairwell, then eventually to you.

He’d always see you either with charcoal markings on the side of your left hand or with a touch of paint across your cheek. You were a masterpiece in Ben’s eyes and he felt privileged to be able to even just watch you.

But of course, he also knew that your relationship would bring out of the ordinary moments.

There would be times where he’d be watching something and you’d suddenly ask him to hold his hand up near the light with a certain pose so you can sketch it. There were also time wherein you’d find him by a window, the light hitting his face just right, and you’d ask him to stay completely still.

Nonetheless, Ben didn’t mind all those things for you. He knew it was for your work. If anything, he found your dedication for your artistry simply fascinating.

Though today might be an exception.

“Babe, I need you to drop your pants.” You said with no hesitation.

He slowly looked up from the book he was reading when he heard you say those words from across the bed.

“I need to what?”

You blew the piece of hair hanging in front of your face. You had charcoal marking over your hands so you couldn’t exactly move it away. “You heard me. Drop your pants.”

“Uhm,” He started, putting his book down. “ Look Y/N, we just ate. I think we should wait until-”

You quickly felt your cheeks heat up as you started to feel flustered. “Oh my fucking god, Ben! No, I’m not referring to that!” You said quickly, wiping your hands with a piece of cloth before smoothing out your sundress.

You were suppose to eat out that afternoon but the two of you got lazy and just decided to order in. Since then, you haven’t changed.

He simply cocked an eyebrow, smiling at you with amusement. “Okay, so why do you want me to drop my pants?”

“I need a nude model,” You started to explain. “I’m trying to sketch some poses and it would be easier for me to visualize it if someone actually did the poses.”

Ben just stared at you, still determining if you were actually serious. This was definitely something new. Out of all the things you had him do for you, this had to be the most unconventional yet.

"We’re talking about full-on nude?”

Just like colors, you could be very bold. You simply nodded. “Yeah.”

Ben hesitated but started removing his clothes slowly nonetheless. He started with his shirt and his socks. His actions became slower when he started unbuttoning his jeans. You caught a glimpse of his face. You can tell from his expression that he felt nervous.

“Oh, c’mon. I’ve seen it all, Ben.” You reassured him, kissing him on the cheek before walking to the sofa where you expected him to pose.

He reluctantly agreed as he began walking to the red sofa that was placed across your easel. He began laying on his, side facing you.

“Paint me like one of your french girls.” He tried lightening up the tension in the room, voice wavering ever-so slightly. He had a nervous grin on his face as you told him which pose to imitate.

You chuckled at his statement. He always said that, even when you asked him to do simple hand poses. You made him put the weight of his head against his hand, laying the other on his stomach. You placed a white sheet over his lower body, your hand accidentally brushing over his groin area.

He shifted, clearing his throat. You shot him a look. “Don’t even think about it.” He pouted at you.

“The things I do for you, I swear.” He mumbled.

You gave him a smooch on the lips. “I know you love me.” You say with a cheeky smile, walking back to your easel.

“Unfortunately, I do.” He said back, biting his lip as he tried to keep himself from smiling.

“Just so you know, I’m sketching you.” You tell him, peaking your head from behind the easel.

“Yeah, can you make sure that my face is covered?” He asked nervously, trying to ignore the itch forming behind his leg. He knew the drill. When you asked him to pose, he had to stay completely still.

“Or just tweak it a bit so it doesn’t look exactly like me. It would feel weird if I had a nude portrait of me hanging somewhere.”

You hummed in response. "Sure, babe. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Ben observed you as you sketched, watching as your eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Nearly an hour into sketching, you unconsciously stuck out you tongue a bit as you focused on the shading. He couldn’t help but smile as he admired you.

It was when you couldn't find your eraser when things got, well, hard. So to speak.

Your eyes were still focused on the paper as you blindly fumbled around to your side. You continued patting around, looking for your eraser.

You groaned with annoyance when you still couldn’t find it. You were forced to tear your eyes away from your work.

You stared at the top tier of your organizer.

“Why the fuck do my erasers keep on disappearing?” You muttered to yourself, scrambling the items in search for the damn eraser. It was the third time you lost it in two weeks.

“Damn it. I hope I still have some left,” You whispered to yourself as you dropped to your knees. You bent down, searching for a spare eraser in the bottom tier of your organizer.

Ben’s breathing hitched. Your dress was short so with you bending down, Ben couldn’t help but stare. His eyes shifted to your ass, catching a glimpse of the black lace underneath your dress.

His gaze lingered as you fidgeted around in search for the eraser. It was taking you an awful lot of time but Ben wasn’t complaining. He took in a sharp breath when the skirt of the dress rode higher.

“Aha! I got it!” You exclaim, sitting back on your calves. You scrambled to get up back on your feet as Ben cleared his throat, quickly straightening his body once more.

You went back to your piece, erasing and fixing the wavy line you accidentally made. When you finished with that area, you glanced at Ben as you started to draw his lower body. Doing so just made you laugh.

"Benjamin Platt!” You fake scolded, stifling a chuckle from slipping past your lips.

He stiffened his pose. “I’m sorry! My back started to ache so I just had to straighten my back.” He quickly defended himself as he though you were referring to his shift in pose.

You were giggling at this point. You couldn’t even form words so you shook your head at him, signalling that you weren’t talking about that.

He gave you a confused look.

You cleared your throat, simply pointing a little bit to your right. Ben’s eyes followed your finger. He almost immediately realized that you were pointing to his groin area where a small tent was formed.

He felt his face red up a bit, trying to be still as possible. “You were wearing the black lace. You know I couldn’t help it.” He whines.

“So you got a boner in like ten seconds?” You questioned him as you looked at him with amusement.

“Just so you know, you were bent over for over five minutes.” He started defending himself again. “And besides, what can I do? You turn me on.”

You looked back at your sketch before looking back at him. “Though I am flattered, your boner changed the way the cloth falls. It doesn’t match the sketch anymore.” You say with a pout on your face.

Ben smirks. “I mean, there’s really only one way to bring it back to the way it was.” He said expectantly. “And you know, you’re the only one who can help with that.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him a cheeky grin. “Nice try, babe. Unfortunately, the answer is no.” You say, his smirk falling.

“Wait, wha-”

“I’m going to move to another area and I will just skip that part for now,” You say as you pointed to his groin area, giving him a wink. “I’ll let it limp down by itself.”

His jaw nearly hit the ground. “So you’re telling me you’re going to leave me here? With a boner? Flustered and all?” He said slowly.

You nodded with a smile on your face. “Exactly my point.” You reply, going back to your sketch.

“I-” He started, eventually closing his mouth as he didn’t know what to say.

You giggle at his expression. “My apologies but you know art comes first.”

He just nodded slowly, obviously upset as his eyes were set on the floor.

“Hey,” You called out. He lifted his gaze to your face.

You gave him a smirk. “Rest assured, I’ll make it up to you later.”

| part 2 here |

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michaelmotorcycle2 · 4 years

Text

My solution for my variation of OCD. Revised 11/2. Part 1 & 2

A narrated version can be found here:

https://youtu.be/oKpu-UlktW8

My Solution for my variation of OCD Oct, 2019 last rev 11/2/19

Part I

When I have had OCD bother me the sensation is like having a 150 decibel siren sounding next to my ear. I can't tolerate the feeling nor can I tolerate letting it eventually attenuate on its own like an oscillator that is not given feedback, but otherwise keeps running. Nor can I tolerate placing resistance in the path to lower the amplitude of the siren. I actually don't feel like living at its worst. On the other hand when I am free from OCD's effects; I love living and engaging in all that interests me. For me to survive well I need to have sent the signal that powers the siren to ground much like the method used by an electronics engineer to change a memory location from 1 to zero.

When I was at the university I found that for certain there are others like me and on some occasions I highly suspected a few were stronger than I; its hard to say because strength can be realized as speed like a high speed drill or torque as seen in the power of the tractor. Regardless all my mates were more or less very adept with respect to using the tools of formal logic, critical thinking as well as detecting hard to see but significant differences such as converging point wise compared to convergence in measure or convergence in probability.

A sketchy illustration of a line that converges point wise can be seen by visualizing one yard-stick moving towards another fixed yard-stick until it rests upon the fixed yard-stick after some nth movement. Convergence in measure has the same two yard-sticks, but after some jth movement all but a finite set of points, which can be countable infinite in size but still a finite and measure zero set, are resting on the fixed yard-stick. However, which points are not resting on the fixed yard-stick are not necessarily the same for each subsequent step beyond the jth movement. Were you to watch the two examples unfold in a computer simulation you would in a sense need to use an electron microscope to see the difference because they appear without high resolution to be identical. The difference may at first glance seem to invoke 'why bother' to even classify or make note of the difference. However, there is a significant need to note the difference and many of the mathematical tools and theorems you rely on or engineers rely on would be absent without the distinction.

I related the preceding two paragraphs because I know there are others like me and that some almost surely have the same issue with respect to OCD that I have. The OCD issue is due to subtle but important differences that our common language makes no real attempt to distinguish; hence, in general language has served as my trigger. If we multiply the relative frequency of each attribute I am sure the size of the population having both attributes pertaining to me is very small. Some might even say it is not worth investing the money in finding a solution for the siren activator. I don't say that, and it is those like me that I am writing this for.

For the longest time I sensed the trigger like I sense something in a song that triggers dislike without being able to actually verbalize the issue itself in everyday language. At times I had tried to ascertain exactly what the issues were, but through the act of examination I triggered the siren and did not get far. Roughly two years ago by using the tool of abstraction and letting harmless symbols stand in for disturbing concepts I was able to start making headway. Given my field is pure mathematics this was more than a comfortable fit for me. I looked at everything involved with the same depth I would use while looking at the Complex numbers and all its subsets such as the Real numbers... and all the different classes of functions that would transform one set of numbers into another set in the setting of formal logic and deductive proof. As time went on the more I began to realize in simple terminology, what I had. Indeed this was a job that must have hundreds of hours associated with it and I am very thankful for the tools I acquired while at the university for they made the endeavor possible, for it could not be achieved without.

I will not share in this essay every thing but primarily the triggers are taking or envisioning the subjective as being objective which is easy to be mislead into thinking given our common language that is very poorly well-defined in many cases. Often in spite of only a few generalized meanings there are countless specific meanings that a phrase can mean where not every meaning is accurate or without being, for me, disturbing. I realize that, if one can not see they have a flat tire then they don't feel the need for having a jack in their hand, nor are they uncomfortable without having the jack. I also realize people tend to behave like a CD player that has human emotions in that since it does not see the data on the disc and returns a blank disc message, then the DVD player which returns a message indicating the disc is full must be broken or delusional or just nutty. You can think of the preceding metaphors as a warning that suggests the language issues that disturb me very well may be unseen by the reader.

The first thing and biggest issue that triggered my OCD was resolved when I showed that attributes presented as objective properties of the object that is being addressed, as in the Islamic fundamentalist saying, "Americans are worthless infidels worthy only of a long suffering death", are not objective. Apparently, it seems evolution thought the animal with minimal of anything else would more likely survive to copy if they viewed subjective attributes associated with the object as objective. Evolution seems to have given us this trait much like the green of grass that most people will swear is a constituent part of the grass as opposed to an internal attribute added to their model of external reality. Showing my self this was as another said, pure gold. Why? Because I could stop trying to prove what was un-provable and only accepted as true through essentially want-to-believe such as seen in those that continue to see emotive attitudes as somehow being objective attributes of the referenced object. Why could I stop? Because when a state does not exist, neither does the complement of the state where in the complement the state is real, thus, both the state and not-state are imaginary just like the unicorn and not-unicorn. For example one will never find a unicorn for anything to be outside of; hence, it is in fact the imaginary not-a-unicorn. If you falsely believe a state and its complement are real and use analysis better than 'I-feel-it-is' to show validity then you can never form a conclusion, never, never ever!

OK, that was wonderful to find and show, it helped a great deal, but I still had the language issue. What do I mean? There are two symbols that are very problematic for me because they are not well defined at all. One is the symbol 'is' where it has four general meanings one of which happens to be seen in, "The sheet of paper is rectangular". Here (is) is indicating the paper has the state of being rectangular as a constituent part of the object that = the sheet of paper. However, "The painting is good." has the identical sentence structure, but the meaning in reality is: whoever made the statement has the emotive attitude good regarding the painting or another way of indicating reality is that he or she has the emotive attitude or emotion good directed at or associated with the painting.

Identical sentence structure is seen in each sentence shown above, but the realty pertaining to each is neither identical nor isomorphic. They are as close to the same as Bug's Bunny and your neighbor. What had happened for me and manifested as OCD is the following: When ever I heard a similar sentence that suggested an emotive attribute as being an objective property; when the suggestion resonated negatively with me the 150 decibel siren began to sound. Until I had showed with rigor that these were emotive attitudes as opposed to objective properties of the object being referenced I had tried with unrelenting effort to show they were false in a manner that was consistent with objective attributes. To let the reader have a feeling for how intrusive this was to my emotive well being ask your self the following: If something was extremely critical to you; enough, so as to actually go to war with the threat, then how long could you stay awake so as to carry on the fight if the situation continued to persist? Would you fight without sleep for your child's life if needed? I would, and with respect to specific issues I was equally determined.

I conjecture that we interpret language indicating emotive attitudes differently than language indicating or suggesting an objective attribute or property. The emotive attitude we see/interpret like a sketch a kid may draw of ourselves and therefore we are not bothered by the offering. When the language suggests or purposely indicates property of an object we then often interpret this like we are being offered a photograph of the object as opposed to a rendering of an others subjective view. In general everything is an emotive attitude in spite of our speech patterns and even when we are dealing with strictly the objective our speech that represents an internal model that then represents reality is without doubt lossy.

How lossy? What is the poorest resolution digital image you have seen? What is the highest resolution digital image you have seen? Reality has more detail than the highest resolution you have seen and our concepts or internal models contain less information than the poorest digital image you have seen. Therefore, lossy is a bit of an understatement.

In my exploration the past few years I found the following, A & B, interesting and later built a mathematical model to explore the concept which I will shortly introduce:

A: On the one hand the trait of viewing reality through our emotive lens as though it was objective reality as indicated by our speech patterns assists in more likely to survive to copy; but, it also assists in more likely to not survive. How does the latter manifest itself? There is a young man on his way to prison and perhaps the electric chair because he interpreted the emotive attitude seen on the face of another regarding himself as indicating or reflecting an objective view of himself as opposed to an emotive attitude regarding himself. This young man then got out of his vehicle, dragged the other out of his vehicle and beat him to death.

B: How many verbal or physical fights began by 'you are' that would have been avoided by "my feeling regarding you is"? A good example is the riot that resulted when several hundred recruits from the backwoods of Virginia were insulted with jeers and phrases such as "you are worthless" as they joined the Continental Army's encampment. Washington had to physically intervene. Had Washington not been so pig headed, like myself, he would have quit. This might have been avoided simply by either recognizing that "worthless" is just an emotive attitude that is tolerable when it is not being dressed in misleading language suggesting "worthless" is a constituent part of what is being referenced. In this particular case: "You are worthless" started a fight & "I do not have the emotive attitude represented by 'value' associated with your presence" would have probably lead to, "and why do I care; for, what is important to me is how I feel regarding what I offer."

Before I carry on with my specific issue, I would like the audience to share in an interesting concept. Do you think the world would be a safer place if animals and humans in particular stopped being assembled to view emotive views as objective models of external reality? I do, but for the same reason fearing all snakes is a good scheme when the animal can not process identification quickly enough to actually save itself when the snake is poisonous; so is the emotive/objective scheme, because not all animals would be intellectually suitable for the alternative methodology.

In pursuit of understanding related to this concept I created a mathematical model involving traits being passed from generation to generation and assumed some givens so as to create the model. I then programmed a computer to execute the model although one needs not extend too many generations to see the pattern emerge and could do with out the computer simulation. Regardless, I was a bit astonished to see that if reality and evolution matched my model then in a group of like creatures evolution will favor a protecting-trait, with respect to survival, even when the protective scheme is actually needed by very few. Why? It's just due to the attributes of probability. You have to realize my model did make assumptions, but it gave a darn good reason why we still continue to have vestiges of organs that are no longer needed in our current configuration. Simply stated these essentially no longer useful traits are just hard to remove from the genetic pool because nothing is killing them off. In a very real sense what I found was an oh-wow moment for me, but I can't say for sure my model was entirely what coincides with reality which surely always is in a state of flux.

Back on topic and asking what do I do? I don't try to desensitize my self to the notion of (the emotive attribute presented as objective) is indeed an objective property of the object and then in the words of some, "get over it." Why should I desensitize myself to what is not real? Not only that, but I want to desensitize myself to the trigger as much as you want to desensitize your self to having a sex change. I'll tell you what I do after I identify the other symbol that is even less well defined.

The symbol 'not' is horribly absent of being well defined. It is like 'number' where number has a general meaning and zillions of specific meanings, since number can stand in for any number from the set of all numbers. The issue with 'not' is that while it has a general meaning of 'outside of' it acquires a specific meaning from the space it is used relative to. Thus not-state can have many meanings where real or not depends on the space not-state is respect to. Its absolutely crazy that common language put in place such a word for its as poor a choice as using 'stuff' for everything associated with sports or the arts.... An example of 'not' being spread too thin by its ubiquitous use is seen by using 'not' with respect to the Natural numbers such that you have even and not-even and then ask, what is Pi? Here what you need to do so as to maintain understanding is create another logical operator for the new space that includes the Natural numbers and the the Rationals and Irrationals where Pi is somewhere within found. Thus you can say Pi is not-bar even and not-bar not-even while preserving "not" with respect to the Natural numbers.

Another example is seen with the rock and emotions. With strict respect to the rock, emotions do not exist. Like unicorn where unicorn is real and not-unicorn where in not-unicorn, unicorn is real; each of (sad, not-sad) is imaginary with strict respect to the rock. To be clear one should really be saying he is not the imaginary unicorn nor the imaginary not-unicorn. Here with strict respect to the rock, both the rock feels sad and the rock not feels sad are imaginary. It is not until you expand the space that sad is relative to so as to include all existence that, "The rock not feels sad." has some valid meaning or is it too lossy and misleading to even be considered meaningful as a valid meaning? For now it is suffice to say the trouble is, "The rock not feels sad" suggests the other meaning equaling (the rock not-feels sad, where sad is a real possibility for the rock), is valid as opposed to imaginary.

Our use of 'not' is in general very poorly defined. Often its meaning is very lossy in meaning or concept much like a 1 mega-pixel photograph is lossy as compared to a 20 mega-pixel photograph. Given the phrase "The rock not feels sad" were to mean "The rock is not realized as the possibility that is imaginary for rocks and only real for other elements of reality, where this possibility is the emotive sad" then its meaning would be fairly loss-less. However, the phrase directly or indirectly standing in for the state shown above has so many meanings it may as well just be saying "stuff." I doubt that the meaning I just gave the phrase is often thought of and that more likely if the phrase's meaning is thought of one will say the phrase means, "The rock is not what is real somewhere in existence." Compare the two meanings and my meaning contains like a high definition photograph information such as the attribute is not real for rocks that the other meaning lacks. Again, one meaning is lossy and the other is far less lossy.

Before I continue, I think what we all need to make note of or remember is seen in this comparison: I am tone death. I can't tell a middle C from the note immediately above or below middle C. I would never be able to recognize middle C was being played flat or sharp. A good musician listening to what appears to me as a perfect rendering of a song could be disturbed by what I don't even notice. On the other hand I sense or hear what are to me disturbances created by the use of poorly defined language as easily as the musician detects the sour notes. Compared to the musician I am the CD player; compared to others with respect to the language issue I am discussing, I am the DVD player and others are the CD player. When I say we all need to make note of... I am not suggesting that any of us patronize the characteristics of the other any more than I would suggest to the hunter to become a vegetarian nor would I suggest to the deer for it to make itself easier to be killed. I am actually suggesting that often there is not a universal solution, and we should all at least be aware that these differences are real.

Part II

Before we continue things to note are:

1:Symbols/words/phrases are subjective in that they are not objective properties of either the concept or the object they stand in for. OK, we can always disassociate symbols/words/phrases from objects and concepts. The same holds true for the meanings equaling internal concepts that the symbols/words/phrases often reference. These concepts are like photographs that attempt to model reality where some are better than others. Using any is a matter of subjective choice and none are actually reality itself, rather, they model for us reality to some degree of accuracy.

2: Symbols and phrases don't refer to nothing when used, rather they refer to some object/concept/model by acting as essentially a name for the object as in "I am Mike" or as a verbal representation for an internal model of external reality as in "raining four days in a row."

Sad, even,... etc are symbols that represent or stand in for concepts where the concept is the internalized notion of a state that in the big space of existence is real as either a possibility for some elements of reality or as a realization for some objects in reality. When we say, "The rock not feels sad." This sentence stands in for an internalized concept and the concept then stands in for reality. I already indicated concepts are not always high definition in that they are often minimal in the information they convey. Not only this, but if you think of the concept as being isomorphic to a photograph where the photograph/concept stands in for reality; as previously stated, that they stand in for reality is subjective. OK, we can disassociate lossy concepts too, why not, do you want the five year old's sketch of you to be your Facebook mug shot?

3: If concept then real, is in general true; but, If real then concept, is not true. This second implication being false tells us concept is not needed for reality and the first implication is telling us reality is needed to have concept. OK, the universe does not fall apart if we not only disassociate concepts that are lossy and trigger the siren in my head, but also the universe does not fall apart if nobody was dumb enough to use lossy concepts that are misleading; so essentially they can go in my trash bin and yours too should you elect to do so.

To answer, what do I do with our poorly defined phrases, misleading representations, and lossy concepts that trigger the siren in my head? My answer is that I disassociate meanings where applicable, I disassociate concepts that are lossy or misleading such as subjective views being projected as objective traits. All these things that I disassociate I place in the trash bin of does not exist either from my perspective or with respect to reality. For those who emotively object to my means I reply, were god shown to be non-existent with precise deductive logic that left no doubt there are many that would still choose to believe in a god that suited their emotions. I can't blame them because it makes the world tolerable for them and without they would simply not function as well. Likewise, my doing as indicated makes, for me, the world an honest rendering, bearable and allows me to be productive.

So, if need be, by taking a page from Martin Luther and invoking a belief as strong as faith: I may in a sense just choose to believe that everyone can only be smart enough not to create misleading and poorly defined symbols, lossy phrases and lossy internal models at all and rather than just for me, they exist nowhere. Why? Because, I'd rather live without the siren that causes me to feel death is a better option than live with it and have to wait until I forgot about the trigger that keyed the siren. Who would not? Not only the preceding, I don't want to desensitize myself to the emotively disturbing trigger anymore than those that believe in god want to desensitize their self to the concept of a reality without. Incidentally, my method is essentially the same structure as the device the engineer created that changes the memory value at an address by sending the signal to ground such that it never reaches the memory address. It is a beautiful methodology in its elegant simplicity and is much like diverting a river instead of building a dam to restrain or attenuate it during periods of heavy rain. I am not an engineer, but I think I'll send them a thank you card with very warmest regards for the idea.

#ocd #pure ocd #ocd recovery #living with ocd #ocd problems

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