#you know the kind i mean. their hands are diligent with the pen. they say that i'm an angel and i'm right and i decide | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lizhly-writes · 6 months

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cnovel shenanigans: a different kind of twins au. had this in my giant wip document in a while, decided to polish it up to take a break on what i'm supposed to be working on. surprise! it's yang haoshu and yang haoran (og).

Yang Haoshu glanced at the door that linked her room to her brother’s. At the ever-auspicious hour of four in the morning, there was still light seeping out from under it. Maybe Yang Haoran was passed out on his desk with the lamp still on, like he’d been prone to when they were younger; maybe he was still obediently, diligently hard at work.

There was really only one way to find out. Delicately, Yang Haoshu twisted the doorknob and stepped inside.

Yes, he was clearly awake, squinting at his desktop monitors, one hand tapping at his keyboard and the other scribbling in a notebook. He didn’t notice her as she stepped in, didn’t notice her as she got closer, didn’t notice her as she hovered a hand over his shoulder.

He very much noticed when she slapped her hand down.

It was a little like watching a bomb go off – body going tense, whirling around with sharp, furious, motion, ready to bite off the head of anyone who even looked at him wrong –

“Hi, it’s me, your sister!” Yang Haoshu said.

She did so in a cheerful, innocently oblivious voice, the kind that heightened mild annoyance into pure rage. It always worked well enough on Jiang Mingxi.

It didn’t have any real effect on Yang Haoran, desensitized by long-term exposure. He simply sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “Haoshu. What are you doing up.”

“I just woke up,” Yang Haoshu said. “Because unlike you, I went to bed at a regular time. Don’t you know that staying up after midnight is bad for your skin? What will happen to your pretty face then, huh?”

Said pretty face twisted in distaste. “Don’t start that again, is it so important to you that I care about how I look –”

“It seems like such a shame to finally win the looks competition just because you don’t care. This is the sort of sentiment that’ll make you old before your time, you know? You’ll look forty at age twenty–”

“Haoshu,” Yang Haoran said forcefully. “What do you want.” He was twitching faintly. If it was because of irritation, no harm done. If it was sleep deprivation, though…

When was the last time her darling brother got a full night’s sleep, anyway?

“Nothing, really,” Yang Haoshu said, instead of straightforwardly asking this question. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.” She leaned forward, peering at the neatly arranged windows on his monitor. “You’re trying to get up-to-date with company info? What a good, dutiful son you are, hmm?”

Yang Haoran bristled preemptively. “Don’t start that again.”

“What am I starting? I thought you liked being told you were such a good boy.”

“Why do you have to make me sound like a dog.”

“But aren’t you, though? I mean–” Yang Haoshu gestured at his notebook for emphasis – “look at you! Diligently learning what needs to be learned! Unwaveringly doing whatever your owners want! Did Mother or Father even tell you do this? I don’t think they did! You’re jumping to heel without even being told! How well-trained! What a good prize hound! If they enter you in a competition, you’re award-winning for sure!”

“Did you only come in here because you wanted to call me a dog first thing in the morning?” Yang Haoran said, hackles raising, his pen stabbing into – no, through – the notebook by the strength of pure irritation. Well done, gege! “You couldn’t have even waited until breakfast? Did you just want to be certain this was the first thing I heard all day? Are you really this bored? You really don’t have anything better to do? Here’s a suggestion: sleep. Didn’t you just say staying up after midnight is bad for your skin?”

“Now, isn’t that hypocritical, A-Ran? After all, you’re still awake, killing yourself trying to be as good as Da-jie, aren’t you?”

Yang Haoran narrowed his eyes. If she had been a stranger, he probably would tried to kill her (subtly!) for saying this kind of thing, but Yang Haoshu had the advantage of being the only sibling he liked. Instead of going for the throat, he only said, “Get out.”

“Really? You could at least let me finish.”

“You give me the same lecture every time. It gets old, I don’t need a refresher.”

“You always need a refresher, because you never understand my point.”

“Your point is that I should give up,” Yang Haoran said flatly. “What’s to understand?”

“You make it sound so bad. It’s good advice, I’ll have you know.”

Yang Haoran wasn’t the only one who had tried living up to their parents’ expectations, after all. Yang Haoshu had done the same; it was just that, unlike him, she had realized that there was absolutely nothing she could do that could ever compare to what Yang Haoli had done before the both of them.

Grades, talent, skill, intelligence, pure fucking luck – Yang Haoli would always beat them both. When it came to their parents’ attention, Yang Haoran and Yang Haoshu would always lose.

The only way to win was not to play.

“What, you’re saying I should be like you?” Yang Haoran said derisively, who had never been convinced of this line of thought. “Accomplishing nothing of any importance, failing at the very start just because I can’t be bothered to try for a higher standard? Just because you can do it doesn’t mean I can do the same.”

Ouch, gege. If Yang Haoshu was anyone else, she might be – y’know – hurt.

“That’s a pretty uncharitable way of looking at it,” Yang Haoshu said. “You sound just like Ming-jie. She says this sort of thing about me, too. You know, about how I’m irresponsible and taking my privilege for granted and how I’m wasting all my time on frivolous things.”

His expression twisted, obviously dissatisfied. Wasn’t this what he just said, in different words? But ah, it was only gege who was allowed to insult his very cute meimei, huh? Even his fiancee wasn’t allowed! One could even say that especially his fiancee wasn’t allowed!

There weren’t very many people Yang Haoran hated more than Jiang Mingxi, after all.

“But then again, maybe I should expect this from you,” Yang Haoshu said. “You’ve been getting along much better with Ming-jie lately, so maybe it’s not so much of a surprise that husband and wife are speaking with the same mouth. All those ‘training spars’ alone – ”

“What exactly are you trying to say here,” Yang Haoran said, scowling heavily, which was disappointing, she was honestly hoping to get a more telling reaction out of him.

“What, me? Am I trying to say anything? Who’s trying to say anything? I’m straightforwardly implying you two fucked, but that’s just a guess on my–”

“Do you want to die, is that it? I can help you with that.”

“So touchy, A-Ran. Picking up habits from Ming-jie, aren’t you? She’s such a bad influence, I should tell her to stop infecting my brother with her delicate sensibilities. It’s no good to be so…” Yang Haoshu clicked her tongue. “Emotional.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile. But it wasn’t not a smile. Yang Haoshu had finally steered the conversation into territory they both liked: making fun of Jiang Mingxi. “If you tell her that,” he drawled, “you really will die. Calling her delicate and emotional – do you have a death wish?”

Yang Haoshu blinked innocently. “But gege will defend me though?”

Now that was a smile – a little too sharp to be presentable, but a smile, nonetheless. “Defend you? How do you know I won’t help her? You keep saying that we’re getting along so well lately, after all.”

Ah, A-Ran was always so happy when he got to be mean.

“That would be such a betrayal,” she pouts. “How could you? And when I’m always on your side when Ming-jie attacks you–”

“You’re on my side because you think it’s fun.”

Well. That wasn’t wrong. It was incredibly fun antagonizing Jiang Mingxi, which was why Yang Haoshu did it so often.

Still, Yang Haoshu pressed a hand over her heart, mock-hurt. “How could you say that, can’t it just be that I care?”

He scoffed, like he always did at the thought of anyone doing something as plebeian as caring about him.

Yang Haoshu was really so tired.

“And because I care so much–” she patted his shoulder. “I’m telling you to go to sleep, A-Ran.”

“Haoshu. I have things to do.”

“You’re really driving yourself to an early grave, you know,” Yang Haoshu said, and, because she knew that Yang Haoran had never really been afraid of dying young, she added, “Anyway, do you think you do good work when you’re sleep-deprived?”

Yang Haoran paused. Yes, she had him there – he didn’t give a shit about his health, but when it came to his work quality, that was something he cared very much about.

“It’s fine,” he said. To anyone else, he would have sounded really rather sure of himself. To Yang Haoshu?

He did very well with sleep deprivation, she knew. Much better than the average person, just like Yang Haoshu, and like-but-not-quite-like Yang Haoli. But even he had his limits, and while those limits were very high –

“When was the last time my darling brother got a full night’s sleep, anyway?”

Yang Haoshu didn’t know the answer. She was betting neither did Yang Haoran.

“It’s fine,” he repeated, as if saying it with enough force would be enough to make it true.

“Is it? Oh, but what do I know. It’s not like I’m used to looking at this.” She tapped the row of numbers on the screen – revenue, profit, expense, debt. Quarterly reports for the family company and quarterly reports for every single other competitor they had.

All meaningless garbage.

“Gege is so accomplished,” Yang Haoshu said. “So sure you haven’t, ah… misplaced a number somewhere?”

If Yang Haoshu had wanted to be mean, she would’ve added something about Yang Haoli – how reliable their jiejie was, a machine that never needed to shut down for maintenance, no sleep no food no drink necessary for perfect work. It would have even been true. Their older sister, inhumanly perfect, impossible to live up to, worthless to try against.

But that would really do nothing but start a fight.

It was 4AM. Yang Haoshu really had better things to do – sleep, for one.

“Go to bed, A-Ran. I promise you’ll be much more efficient in… well, I’d say in the morning, but we’re already there, aren’t we?”

#transmigrated as the female lead's villain fiance #my writing #yang haoshu #in this au jiang mingxi really has a terrible time ahahaha

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cellarfulofnose · 1 year

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Heart of the Country

Well, life on the farm is kinda laid-back...

(submitted by my lovely muse @adreadfulcantata. happy birthday ^3^)

Paul's milking the goat when the melody comes to him. He mumbles a line, and it almost shapes itself (really, there's only so many places the chord changes can go), but then Tina tosses her head and he realizes he's stopped in his work. He resumes diligently, raising his head to call out over Tina's back.

"Lin?" His breath fogs out into a pale cloud in the cold of the baby-blue morning. Swish, swish, sings the pail, ringing with each jet of milk.

"What?" Linda stands where she'd been squatting next to the chicken coop. There's only a small handful of eggs in her basket, and they're covered in hay and feathers and chicken shit but they're all lovely, the shells varying from blue to green to brown.

Paul blinks, because she's perfect and he doesn't have his camera. He hums the line again. "What d'you think?"

"What's that?"

"For the--second song." He hums it again, and taps his foot too. It's bluesy like that; a gut bass wouldn't go amiss.

Linda hums it back, nodding thoughtfully to the beat, then raises her eyebrows in acknowledgement. "I like it. It swings."

Paul gives a little wiggle, shoulders and hips, as well as he can for kneeling on the ground. Tina's all done; she walks off in search of her kid. He and Linda throw the tune back and forth a few times until it's got legs. On the walk back to the house, he starts to ad-lib, scatting a few bars, just until he can get his hand around a pen and start writing words. But it's a pan-handle that ends up in his hand instead, once they cross the threshold into the kitchen--omelets really can't wait. Linda compromises, lets him drag out a tape recorder to catch their little breakfast demo. As longs as he keeps cooking.

"What's that, Delta blues?" she asks, pouring tea.

"Mm, not quite. Little more country-western." A Texas drawl bleeds through to tug at his vowels, harden his r's. He adds diced peppers, tomatoes, and a handful of spinach to the beaten eggs. As they sizzle on the skillet, he whistles. Linda dances, shoulders shimmying. He laughs.

"This is nice, isn't it?" He's not planning to say it, but. Jesus, the sun coming through the window, the wind chimes on the porch. Somebody's got to.

"It smells great," Linda agrees--means to.

Paul chuckles. "No, the--"

"Oh, the song? Yeah, it's a good one."

"I just meant..." He gestures as well as he can with a spatula in one hand and a pan at the other. Shrugs at the room. "Just this."

"Hmm." There's a clink as she sets down the teacups, then her hands slide into his pockets from behind, and she kisses his shoulder. He curls against her, still too busy fending off burnt eggs to give much of anything back. But she's there for a breath, a side-to-side sway, then she's gathering plates.

"The country tune, it's not bad, though," Paul says a bit later, omelets plated and toast buttered.

"No. I like it."

He hesitates a moment, then, "John would hate it."

"Well," Linda says with exaggerated shock, "then." Might as well scrap the whole thing, hadn't we?

"I mean, I don't really mind, though. It's such a high, isn't it? Writing together?"

"It's kind of an ego trip," she admits, "making something ex nihilo. I don't know how you two kept your heads on." She raises the teacup to her lips. "Don't know how you stayed so ridiculously humble." Her eyes widen, then crinkle with a smile as she drinks.

Paul flips his hair over his shoulder, preening for her. He'll play the prima donna, because it's funny and she's right. He fancied himself a god among men once and, well, forgive him, but they were creating life out of nothing.

All right, not out of nothing. Thesis-antithesis, synthesis. Not genesis. It was part of them put together that grew into something as alive as a song, as self-sufficient as an album. Like...like childbirth.

Paul thinks of all the young songs toddling about out there, hyphenated to bear his last name, some old enough now to be starting primary school. He finishes his toast.

A few mouthfuls of bread doesn't push it down all the way, though. As they clean up, he starts talking again; not necessarily saying anything, mind you. "I think, with me and John, it was sort of..."

Linda pauses, giving him ample time to spit out the word he's looking for. He doesn't. "Give me a hint."

Paul shakes his head and hands her a dish to dry. "Not like exercise, you know, not a chore, like we were forced to, but we sort of...had to. Had to get it out, you know?" He gestures too broadly, wrist-deep in suds, and splashes his shirt.

"Cathartic?"

It clicks nicely. "Yeah," he says, because he's not going to find a better match than that. Purifying release. Yet it feels too...clean, somehow. Too pretty.

"Do you miss him?"

Paul doesn't like the feeling that floods his chest. The specific brand of defense that used to keep his blood pumping whenever they'd sit for American journalists. It's self-preservation--keeps him from blurting, Why the hell would you ask me that? Besides, he's not angry at her. She's not going to print it in the papers. She just wants to know.

He takes a breath. "Course I do, yeah. I mean. Shouldn't I?"

"What do you miss most about him?"

All right, that's...he's still not angry with her. He allows himself a laugh that's really a sigh. "Lin."

"Or is it the songwriting that you miss?"

"No. I don't--I just--" Linda motions for Paul to give her the next dish, and he rinses it and hands it over. "I mean, he's my best friend, I just. Miss him." She's quiet, so he continues. "I miss havin' him around."

"To do what?"

"Not to do anything, to just be there. Just be around each other." Paul shrugs. "I miss that."

Linda leans against the counter and smiles. "Great. Say that."

Paul blinks at her. "What, I just miss--"

"Not to me. Goober." She swats him with the dish towel. "Pick up the telephone. And say it to John."

"Oh." Paul huffs, taking great care not to roll his eyes as he reaches across the counter for an aubergine. "Right, let me just--"

"Go--down--the road." She punctuates each beat with another gentle whack from the dish towel and sets the last plate up in the cupboard.

Paul opens his mouth to protest, but it sort of dissolves. "Okay." Even now, this path is giving him uneasy footing. It's too simple. If it were that easy, he would've already just...wouldn't he? He dries his hands and rolls his sleeves back down. They're cold; he couldn't stop them getting wet. What harm is there in humoring her, though?

He must look like he's taking his sweet time, because Linda asks if he needs tuppence for the phone. As a matter of fact, he can manage, thank you, so he starts to hike down the road. The sun's coming up now. Just after six; Heather won't be up for half an hour yet. The driveway's all but dry now. After the last month's heavy rains, Paul was sure they'd be wading knee-deep in mud the rest of their lives, and yet. Slender green shoots will be daffodils soon, and then it'll be summer.

Paul's halfway to the phone box when he remembers the tape recorder. What a coda for the only demo of their country song--I miss him, I miss him, boo-hoo-hoo. Bleeding Christ. He's going to have to cut that tape. He picks up his pace, partly just to keep up with the way his lungs have kicked into fourth gear, but it's a bad idea. All of this. Right, he'll pick up the phone and call John, who he last spoke to through a lawyer, and tell him...tell him what, exactly? No, he can forget about the whole thing. He's not doing it. At least the trip isn't a total waste--he's getting a nice hike out of it.

He picks up the phone. He doesn't know why, but there's no harm in it, really. He could call Ringo, while he's here. His dad. Either of those would be reasonable options.

He dials John.

After six rings and no answer, Paul's stomach churns with the possibility that John just won't pick up. It should be a relief, infinitely preferable to what's absolutely going to happen instead (John will answer, and at the first note of Paul's voice, he'll slam it back down on the hook), but it's about to make him sick.

"Hello?"

It's not John. It's a woman's voice, but not Yoko, either. Paul almost stops breathing, certain he's got the wrong number, but it must be their staff, he realizes.

"Um." He can already hear himself putting on a BBC accent, and he hates it, but he's not sure what he would say if he didn't. "Hello, is John there, please, I'd like to speak with him."

For some reason, the woman doesn't ask who he is or why he wants to talk to John, just tells him to please wait a moment. Frankly, Paul's not impressed. Why bother with staff if they won't even screen your calls? It could be anyone on the other end of that line. He could be some kind of madman, some crazy ex-lover or--

"Hullo?"

At the sound of John's voice, Paul's not quite sure where he is for a moment. Not here, at least, not now. It doesn't seem plausible. He closes his eyes and says, "Hiya, John."

There's a silence so long that Paul bites his lip and starts to take another breath to repeat himself, but finally, "...Paul?"

"Hey," he breathes, staccato. His heart is racing like this is a matter of survival. There's no reason for it to be. It is, after all, a telephone call. He clears his throat. "Listen, I'm...are-are you doing anything right now?"

There's a sound like scoffing, as if John's too bewildered to string together a whole word. Then, "...Yes."

"Oh." Paul's throat tries to close, hot and aching. He forces a careful breath and continues. "I can just--"

"What do you want, exactly?"

Million-pound fucking question, there, thinks Paul. It's one he can't answer, so he gives John the next-best. "I miss you, mate."

He gnaws his thumb through another brick-load of a silence, before filling it with, "Just thought I'd...ring you and tell you."

"Oh you did, did you?" John says, with no pause this time, because it's a reflex, easier than speaking. It's a double-edged sword, not only lambasting this stupid bloody idea but insinuating that maybe it wasn't even Paul's to begin with; oh, YOU did, did you? "And that'd change, what?"

"No. I, I know. I just...look, it's the truth, I-- And I don't like that we've grown apart, you know."

There's a scratch of static, like John is moving the phone. "Do you hear yourself, man?"

More than either of us would like, Paul grouses to himself. But like he's always done, he keeps going. "No, listen, I know I-... I know what I did to push you, and I'm sorry. I am. I just can't stand it bein' like this, you know, we're not meant to be goin' at each other, or not speaking to each other, I--" He sighs. "Don't you miss it?"

"Miss what?"

Paul rubs his eyes. At some point, they'd closed again. "Be nice if you came out here, is all. Saw the farm."

"Nice. Yeah. What, so I can see how nice and bloody perfect your life is now? Without--without--is that it? You and Little Bo Peep?"

"I really, I really just thought you'd like to see it up here, and it's not, you know, John, it really isn't." Paul laughs a bit, only enough to make his breath shake, enough to wind him. "Without you. It's really not."

There's a huff, then another, heavier breath. "All right," John says, slowly. He doesn't sound happy.

Paul rakes his hand through his hair a few times, trying to weigh how lost a cause this is. "I'm writing a song. We are, Linda and me. You'd, oh, you'd hate it."

It's enough of a non sequitur that John actually laughs, a quick burst of disbelief before quieting again. "Yeah, I bet," he says after a while.

"No, it's Woody Guthrie doing musical chairs, it's really..." They're both laughing now, long enough that Paul can actually catch his breath. "I meant it, you know. You should come up here."

John doesn't laugh. "Paul."

"Not now, obviously--"

"But I can't just--"

Something kicks in Paul's chest. An unwise flicker of hope. John's arguing logistics with him now, not morals, not justification. "No, no, I know," he quickly says, "just sometime--"

"I..." John sighs. Struggles with something. "I'd have to...I'll, um. I'll call you back, all right?"

"...Yeah." Paul's heart doesn't just drop. He's pretty sure he can feel it split on impact, like a sack of flour. "Sure, yeah." Distantly, he remembers that this is a public phone box and he hasn't left John any number, and knows there won't be a call back. But it's all right. He got further than he expected. Hell, at least he got the bloody words out. Take that, Linda. That's what this was about. She hadn't said to invite him up here; probably would flip her wig if she knew he'd tried. Tell him what you told me. Those were her instructions. Check, done.

"Wait, hang on," John says. "Wait. Don't hang up, all right? I've--hang on."

"Okay," Paul breathes, automatic as if someone's just put a coin in him, and waits. And waits. There was a rough noise earlier like John put the phone down, but now there's nothing; no background chatter, no hold music.

Paul watches a lady beetle crawl up a stalk of grass. He follows the wispy trail of an airplane. He waits and thinks and stews and worries and just as he's about to ask if anyone's still there, John's voice comes through the line.

"Paul? You there?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm here."

"There's a flight, um..." John sounds a little out of breath. "Just got one of the last ones, actually, so I can, um. Tomorrow. Is--can I? Is that all right?"

Tomorrow.

Paul's vision swims. He feels like he's in a car, driven by someone who's pressing down the brake and the gas as hard as they can simultaneously. He could sing. He's going to die. "Yeah," he says. "Great."

"All right, then."

Paul swallows. "Good. Yeah."

They say good-bye, John hangs up. It is, after all, just a phone call.

Paul makes the seven-minute hike back up to the farmhouse in about ten seconds. He's never felt this full-to-bursting with conflicting energy. He wants John to come, but every time he thinks about it, his stomach lurches with a feeling remarkably like dread. Tomorrow? He's got a day, if that, to get the place ready. Never mind selling the idea to the girls. Surely it's not too late to call the whole thing off.

Heather's finishing breakfast when he returns. Linda doesn't ask how it went--she might have done, but he tells her everything before she's got the chance to. It's just Paul's luck that she needs only a few minutes of convincing to get on board with the idea. She could've vetoed it outright, saved them all a lot of trouble. But, funny enough, she says, she's been promising Heather a trip back to London, and they've an open invitation from Yoko if they should ever need a place to stay.

"You can manage the place all by yourself, right?" she asks with a smile. Before Paul can actually blow a fuse, she drops the act and kisses him, beckons him to join her in the chores that need to be done before tomorrow. Everyone's fed. Everyone who needs it and will stand still is washed. Everything that's started to dry up, or to rot, is cut and shoveled away, replaced with fresh and new.

It's not even noon.

Paul takes a quick dip in the washtub and cleans the house. All of the softening fruit from the kitchen goes into the trough with the table scraps. Flat surfaces are wiped down and swept. He's ready to organize the clothes in the wardrobe, but Linda and Heather are packing--striped pants everywhere--so he bins that idea. A spliff outside the bathroom window doesn't calm him, but it slows him down. He straightens the shoe rack. Finally, he sits down to write.

I look high / I look low / I'm lookin' everywhere I go / Looking for

Paul stares at the paper, twiddling his pen back and forth. Looking for what? There's the million-pound question again. The longer he glares at the mostly-blank page, the more he wants to feed it to the goats. So much for creation ex nihilo, he thinks. Three lines his eight-year-old daughter could've written, and no closer to knowing what it is he's looking for.

Eventually, he remembers to eat. He plays make-believe horses with Heather, bathes her, reads her a story. Sings to her. As soon as she's in bed, he can't keep his hands off Linda, for some reason. They kiss, share whispery breaths, and he kneels on the kitchen floor, lifting her patchwork skirt to bury his nose in corn-silk hair and eat her out against the sink. He's too wired, and too exhausted, for anything else.

---

The next day's not much easier.

"Give her my love, yeah?" Paul says as he kisses Linda a final time, and throws in a wink; you know I don't envy you. Heather waves and they're gone.

The problem is, John didn't say what time he'd come, and the pesky thing about tomorrow is that it consists of twenty-four circles of hell called hours, during any of which he might decide to turn up. Paul does all of the chores again, twice, just to be safe. When he starts feeling like he needs to run rings around the farmhouse, he picks up his guitar and writes. Looking for does not get a partner. But he gets the middle eight down, and it's not bad, either. The scatting can stand on its own; no need to conjure actual lyrics.

A distant, rolling crunch of gravel in the drive. John's here.

Paul darts to the window. A sleek black car, ridiculously out of place in the rugged landscape, is chugging along the dirt road, raising a terrible cloud of dust. It's John, all right--overdressed. On his way to the door, Paul ducks into the bedroom to fuss with his hair in the mirror--there, that's enough.

He hears a car door creak open and slam shut. Boot-heels crunch their way to the front step. Paul's heart leaps into his throat.

He opens the door.

John looks up, like he'd been studying the welcome mat. He's freshly shorn, a shorter haircut than Paul's seen on him in twenty years. His glasses are tinted yellow. He's wearing a smart jacket over an expensive-looking shirt, a fucking scarf, and even sharper slacks. His black boots gleam.

Paul laughs, and it doesn't even sound nervous. "Did you bring any other clothes?"

John raises his eyebrows and tightens his lips. "Left my gunnysack at home, actually." He can't keep his smile hidden.

In a fit of boldness that surprises even him, Paul throws his arms around John, knocking their chests together almost painfully. He holds on tight even as it makes it harder to breathe. John stalls for a second, winded and caught unawares, but he embraces Paul back. Wraps him in his long, long arms and pulls them together.

"Hey." Paul can barely get enough air out to shape the word. The hug is squeezing his lungs like a bagpipe. Any more pressure on his windpipe and he'd cough--his throat already itches like hell from his second time mucking out the stalls that morning.

John doesn't seem to notice. "Hi," he says, smoothly, with evident room enough to breathe.

They break apart before Paul suffocates. He blames the sudden dizzy feeling on a lack of oxygen. "Want to come in?"

John unwraps his scarf as he crosses the threshold, like there's any meaningful temperature difference between inside and outside. Like the flimsy thing was doing anything to keep him warm, anyhow. "Should I take me shoes off?"

"Doesn't matter. Our floors will probably deal more damage to your shoes than you can to do them."

John toes off his boots. Paul's eyes flit around the entrance, the main room, and the kitchen, looking for anything he might've missed. "How was the drive?" he asks.

"Un-fucking-believable. Do you know people keep sheep out here? Look out the left-hand side, sheep. Right-hand side, sheep. Crossin' the road in front of you for half an hour, sheep on sheep on fuckin' sheep. About did me fucking head in. You don't have any of them, do you?"

"Oh, no," Paul says, mock-serious, with a curt shake of his head. The guttural baaa of a ram can be heard just outside the kitchen window.

"Good. Be too bloody soon, if I never saw another one." John turns as he speaks, taking in the sights of the farm cottage. The herbs hung to dry, the hand-hewn table, the quilt on the sofa. Paul considers them from an outsider's point of view, and he feels at once self-conscious and proud. It's kitsch, but it's, well, home. "This is cozy," John remarks, which doesn't clarify whether he appreciates it or hates it.

"Keeps us dry when it rains," Paul says, and does his best not to press.

John turns back to Paul. "What's there to do around here?"

"Have you eaten?"

John shakes his head. "Starving."

Paul spins around with a smile. As he makes his way to the fridge, John adds, "Why? Gonna kill the fatted calf?"

"We don't keep cows." Paul emerges from the fridge with the picnic hamper and a naked grin. It's so well-packed that the bottles of milk don't even clink as he lifts the basket, his eyebrows high with hope.

"Oh, do let's," John twitters, airy and delicate like a fine lady, tossing his head and batting his lashes with a dead expression. The mockery arrives a bit flat when his head-toss nearly launches his glasses off his nose, and he has to quickly push them back up.

Paul doesn't back down from the dig, either. If John wants to be an Edwardian gentle lady, he'll hear no complaints from Paul. He crooks his elbow, offering it out to John. John takes it--in those boots, he's almost-almost a little bit taller--and they stroll out the Dutch door.

They don't get to play Mary Poppins for long. A few steps out, Paul concedes that he needs both hands to support the basket. John storms off ahead, pretending great offense that Paul doesn't want to hold his hand anymore. It's minutes later before John realizes he might not be the best candidate to walk in front, as he doesn't know where they're going.

"It's not far," Paul says. "You can see the meadow, just ahead."

John manages not to get lost, but their journey is delayed several times when he needs to stop and pick something out of his sock. The spear-head seeds of the wild grasses lodge themselves in his expensive clothes, adorn his pant legs, fill his shoes.

"Ow!--God damn it," John snaps. For the ninth time, he stands on one foot and wobbles dangerously as he attempts to rid the other one of stickers.

"Just wait until we get there and get them all out then," says Paul. "You're only going to get more anyway. It's just over this hill."

He's underselling it a bit. The hill in question is deceptively steep; it might be the highest point on the otherwise uniform moors. John gripes about the trek and the burrs, Paul smugly advises him to dress for the environment next time, but soon, they're both panting too hard to jeer at each other.

It's starting to worry Paul, actually, how hard he's breathing. Not just the reminder that he's no spring chicken and should probably smoke less than he does, but now every lungful is starting to burn. Every inhale makes his head feel thick and fuzzy with a deep, flowery itch. This isn't good. He thought--he wanted to be certain that it was too early in the year for everything to be germinating, but alas, it is. The air is earthy and sweet with pollen, and fuck if John isn't kicking up more and more with every stomp, just in time for Paul to walk through its wake.

This isn't fair, Paul thinks. He's usually got more warning than this. Enough to plan around it. The hay didn't bother him at all this morning, not even on the second pass through the stalls, when the dust made his throat sting. Apparently, that doesn't mean he's in the clear. Though alfalfa hay isn't always the best litmus test--sometimes it gets to him, sometimes it doesn't. The wild grasses, on the other hand? Always. Just not this bloody early in the season, he thinks as his eyes start to water.

He could walk ahead of John, he supposes, get less of it kicked up his nose. But back here, he's got the distinct advantage of discretion. He can paw and scrub at his twitching nose all he wants (and then some more, when the itch immediately returns) without attracting attention. It's a pain, a real Sisyphean drag, but it's not more than he can manage.

Paul feels the first sneeze coming a mile away. A tingling that starts in the back of his nose and creeps up, spreads out, little by little. It feels too small, at first, for anything to come of it (Paul wonders if it'll be one of those that just teases him for a few hours), but it builds until it's bigger than his head. Before he can gasp in too much air, he seals his lips, holds his breath...but it doesn't matter, he can't stop it--

"hdt--!"

He has to clamp a thumb and finger around his nose to hold it in, squelch it down to nothing. The awful pounding feeling in his sinuses that results is almost enough to make him regret it, but what's the alternative? John's attention should be on the landscape, not on...shit, there's another one... "hdt--mph!" It feels like he's imploding, but he shakes his head free and tries to catch his breath. One sniffle against his sleeve, then he should be all right for a while.

Paul's so preoccupied and bleary-eyed, he nearly bowls into John, who's stopped at the top of the hill.

"Woodie Guthrie, eh?" John asks, hands on his hips, gazing out at the land, and Paul has to admit, it does look like the American prairie.

"Mm," Paul nods, blinking, pursing his lips together, just in case.

It's only a few steps down to the meadow, where it's flat enough to lay out the-- "Shit!" Paul suddenly spits, so quick and percussive it almost scratches the itch for a moment. Just fucking typical.

"What?"

"I've forgotten the picnic blanket." Paul hears, as soon as he says it, that he sounds like an A. A. Milne character; Oh, bother. But what are they meant to do--sit in the grass?

Without a second thought, John does just that, stretching out on his back like it's carpet (and not, for example, a blanket of weeds that practically trembles to cover them both in seeds and pollen). "The water's warm," he offers, swirling his arms and making the grasses ripple.

Paul tries not to shiver as he sits cross-legged on the ground. At least he remembered the picnic lunch; he spent half the morning cobbling it together. Cheese, berries, honey, cucumber sandwiches, tomato sandwiches, scones with jam. Milk and a small flagon of wine. (A lovely set of checkered napkins, too--Paul sequesters one away in his pocket, just in case worst should come to worst.)

"Is that your place?" John points at the valley below them.

Paul squints, then nods. "Yeah." His farmhouse is storybook-sized from where they're sitting. They've come a long way.

"How many acres is it?"

"We've--" Paul's about to answer, but his eyes flood and his breath skips. It comes up on him so fast down here, at nose level with the grass, that he scarcely has time to duck sideways against his wrist and catch two more sneezes he can't quite suppress. "Two hundred," he quickly breathes, before he's quite out of the grip of the second one. His face burns--some of it's allergic flush, some of it's the hike, but either way, he doesn't look at John.

"Bless you."

Paul doesn't know why it's so unexpected. But the shock of hearing John say it is enough to scare off a third sneeze that's fighting its way out. So casual, unconcerned. Paul rubs his nose, trying to soothe the burning, pulsing ache left behind when the sneeze retreated. John, mercifully, leaves it at that, and they eat.

"I just don't get it."

It's John who breaks the silence, which Paul is grateful for, but it strikes him dumb. He casts a puzzled look at John, who clarifies, "Why would you want to live out here?"

"What?" Paul knows he's talking on borrowed time, so he gets to the point. "It's beautiful. What d'you mean, why?"

"To look at, sure, but..." John takes off his glasses and folds them in the basket. "What do you do, day by day, month after month?"

"I..." Paul has to press a fist under his nose just to keep the breath in his lungs. It's a temporary fix, a finger in the dam, but as soon as he's able, he huffs, "There's a lot that goes into running a farm, you know."

"But why do it? What for? What was the point of getting rich and famous if you're just gonna live like it's the bloody nineteenth century--"

"Is that why you did it?" Paul coughs. Sniffs. "To get rich and famous?"

"That's why we did it. Or at least, that's what you told me, every day for ten years. If I'd known this was what you meant by 'the toppermost of the--'"

"I did-...Sorry..." Paul can't get two words of his interruption out before the need to sneeze nearly blinds him, and he has to twist away and grab his nose. He pitches forward three times, small and sharp, too quick in succession to breathe in between. As he straightens, catching his breath at last, he considers that he could probably keep it down to one at a time if he didn't try to hold them in. But really, there's only so much humiliation he can take. "God," he rasps, shaking his head. "That's...sorry."

"Bless you," says John, plowing right through the threshold. "You all right?"

"Fine. I just..." Paul closes his eyes briefly. He runs the edge of a finger under his nose, a quick swipe to keep it dry. "Well, I did it because I loved writing songs. I couldn't do anything else."

John doesn't push back on that--how could he? It's as true for him as it is for Paul, so it's back to knocking the farm. "There's nothing out here," he says.

"My family's out here."

"Your family's all over." John's voice drops slightly, like he's started to check out of the conversation. Only occasionally does he look at Paul. "There's real life happening out there, you know, in cities. Art and culture. There's a war on, as well, right now."

Paul's skin crawls. It's sweat from the heat of the day, it's everything John's saying, but this godforsaken grass... He rubs at his wrists, his neck, trying not to dig his nails in. He itches.

John doesn't notice, or he doesn't care. "But it's happening out there, not here. Sure, raise your family, raise a couple of goats. Raise a giraffe for all I care. But at what point do you pull your head out of the sand--"

"This was supposed to be perfect." Paul spits it out, half-laughing. This is just too absurd. It's too stupid. "I had it all planned out. Can you believe that?" John's gone quiet, but Paul can't seem to shut up. "I was going to bring you out here, and I wouldn't have to explain anything, you'd just...you'd just--" Paul gasps like he's drowning and lets out a shuddering sneeze into his fist. It's so unsatisfying he could cry. The first of many to come, and doesn't that just fucking figure? Bloody perfect. He might as well keep babbling and make a proper ass of himself. "You'd just see it, and you'd get it, I don't know, the--hh'chhew!" Across the back of his hand.

"Paul."

"The house, the animals..." Paul's trying to talk through the wrist he's jammed over his top lip, which is starting to feel like it's for nothing. "The land, th--hh-!...'Ttchhoo! God, the fresh fucking air..." He rises clumsily to his feet, trying to put a little distance between his head and the fresh air in question, just in time to whip around and muffle a violent sneeze with the cuff of his sleeve. With an exasperated huff, Paul goes digging for the checked napkin. He has to laugh once more as he folds it over his nose. It's just...sad. "Sorry. Bloody hell. This was going to be nice."

"I don't mind," John says earnestly. Paul makes a noise of dismissal, so John appends, "Paul, look at me."

Over the tent of red-and-white cloth, Paul looks.

John's face is soft and open. At the edges, maybe a bit pink from the hike and the sun. There's not a hint of derision. "I don't mind. I don't."

Paul casts his eyes down and turns away. "Thanks," he mutters, before drawing a tentative breath and blowing his nose. Straight away, a cool rush of relief--but only temporary, he knows. As soon as he starts to breathe again, the time bomb begins to tick.

John waits patiently for Paul to turn back around before he asks, "Hayfever?"

"...Yeah." Paul's cheeks lift as he tries to squash a mortified smile. "Well, but it's. Not hay that does it." Usually.

"Bloody well hope not. You might be in the wrong line for that, mate." John plucks a wildflower from the grass, tall and straight with a stiff violet plume. "What about them?"

"Um. Not too bad." Bit by bit, Paul's smile twists into something resembling laughter. "It's mostly the grass, I think. The weeds."

"Hmm." John brings it close and sniffs, blinks curiously, then leans in for another sniff. His face is solemn as stone.

For a moment, Paul feels bold. "Not givin' you any trouble, is it?"

John shakes his head. "I don't get hayfever anymore. 'M cured."

"What?"

"I get a jab once a month." John taps his left shoulder. "Yoko knows a fella, a doctor. Used to be every week, at first, could hardly stand it. But it's done wonders for me voice." John gives the wildflower one more sniff and shrugs, raises his eyebrows. Nada.

Paul gives a snorting scoff, and pays for it with a short spell of coughing. "Sounds nice. I'll take your word for it."

"Nah. I miss it." To Paul's heart-stopping surprise, John inverts the flower, pokes the end of the stem into his nostril, and swirls it around.

Paul's eyes widen. "What're you--"

"ahhh..." John's mouth lolls open, drinking air. His head tips back, his nose wrinkles, and he sneezes, hard enough to shake his whole body. "hh'ESCHhiew!"

Even with ample warning, Paul jumps very slightly. How pathetic is it that his heart's thumping double-time now? Only, he supposes, it's been a while. He wants to say something--call him an idiot, give him the full rites of the Catholic Church. All he can do is laugh.

John groans lightly. Once he's recovered enough to acknowledge his audience, he throws Paul a wink. "For auld lang syne." He tosses the flower, and it disappears into the grass.

Paul's not sure if that's quite what Rabbie Burns had in mind. He opens his mouth to tell John as much (in a Scots accent, to boot), but what comes out is: "I've missed you." His eyes itch and fill with tears--it's the pollen.

"Yeah, I heard." John's face stiffens as he hears himself say it, like he didn't mean to be so flippant. By way of an apology, he offers Paul a sandwich, saving him from sitting down again, and Paul accepts it. "I wish...It's silly, but I wish we could...All right, there?"

The itch that's been toying with Paul finally blossoms, and he jolts into the hand that's not holding a sandwich. "hh'nkxtch!"

John chuckles softly, in the most non-derisive way possible, blesses him, and announces that they're heading back now. Paul can only snuffle and gather up the basket.

---

"That head-in-the-sand bit, I didn't mean that."

John starts rehashing the argument when they've made it back to the farmhouse in once piece--which was no guarantee. Paul doesn't slow down, never mind stop sneezing until he's had a wash, changed his clothes, and flushed out his head with warm water. John did, in fact, bring different clothes, each outfit more extravagant and ill-suited to farm life than the last. But he changes too, resolves to burn his sticker-laden socks. It's only once tea is served that he revisits the matter of Paul's farm.

"I don't think you're hiding," he says, "whatever this is. But I don't know why you're so married to this place, if that's not true."

"Why do you care?" Paul sets his cup down. "It's not your life, is it?"

"Evidently not." There's a little venom to it.

"John." Paul does the opposite, drops his voice to his head register, retracts his claws. "Why are we doing this? I can't come back to London."

John looks down with a tight, joyless smile. "I can kid myself, can't I?"

"Look, it's--" Paul lifts up his hands. "Think what you want of me, but my home's here."

John's quiet. It tears Paul up, but there's a sense of relief that comes with it, too; if he were going to say something biting, something really unforgivable, it would've slipped out without a pause. He's quick like that. Paul doesn't know how he ever endured it. He can't see how he'll live without it.

"I miss it, too," John says.

Paul feels caught. Struck. They're having two different conversations and still managed to run into one another, in a clatter of heads and a tangle of limbs. It's a dead end. A corner.

This isn't what Paul invited him for.

Paul swigs his tea and marches into the bedroom. He returns with a cotton shirt, a pair of dungarees, and a battered pair of socks. "Put these on," Paul orders before John can ask, and dumps the bundle of clothes on his lap.

"Are you kicking me out?" John calls over his shoulder, but Paul's already in the bathroom. He returns with an antihistamine pill--pink, horse-sized, the kind that may as well be a sedative--and swallows it with the rest of his tea.

"In half an hour, this'll kick in," Paul explains. "And then I'm going to teach you how to ride a horse." He turns around as John's face is morphing from puzzlement to glee, hoping he'll change his clothes if given the privacy of the living room.

"Can you show me that song?" John pipes. The one you said I'd hate.

Paul bites his lip and goes off in search of his guitar.

#yoko and linda are sucking each other silly as this retreat is happening. btw

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peachysamu · 3 years

Text

Combustion Reaction

Summary: Hanma knows exactly how to push people’s buttons and make them combust, but somehow, your reaction did not produce the same result

Word count: 1.4k

Genre: fluff; college! au; barista! Hanma Shuji; enemies to lovers? (to lab partners?); one suggestive joke on Hanma’s part; Hanma being a menace

A/n: dedicated to Tee @shujisbaby ; I hope I did your man justice but low key, I’m kind of in love with writing this version of him.

Hanma’s favorite pastime is being a menace. Call him a little shit, and while most people would be offended, he’d give you a snarky little grin and say, “Thanks ♡.” He likes to push the edge in everything he does. How many times can he show up late to his literature class with a half-empty iced coffee in one hand and a sandwich in the other until his professor explodes? Last lecture, he stuck his tongue out with a sardonic smile as he passed through the door and he swore his teacher turned red.

And when he says everything he does, he truly means everything. How shitty of a barista can he be until he gets fired? How many times can he laugh at a customer’s face and walk away when they tell him he made their drink wrong?

His psychology class tells him it stems from his upbringing and the lack of attention he received as a child. Maybe they’re right since his parents were never home and there’s only so many games he can play until he’s bored, but that’s besides the point.

Because now that Hanma’s older, he knows how to have fun and you, you’re his favorite game to play.

“Hey sweetheart,” Hanma drawls, leaning over the register and smirking when you roll your eyes.

You’re such a perfectionist. He’s watched the way you take notes in chemistry class, with your pens lined up and your hand cramping as you try and write every single word the professor says. You’re always diligently studying and focused solely on academics and Hanma wonders exactly what it’ll take for you to unravel. How far does he have to push for you to lose your composure, to just, break? What a sight that would be, huh? He loves breaking things just for the hell of it, and well, he wants to break you too just for the hell of it.

Psych class also tells him that this is a reflection of himself and how he refuses to be the only broken thing in this world, but fuck that. What if he wants to do things for shits and giggles? There doesn’t have to be an explanation for everything.

“Can I have a caramel ribbon crunch frappuccino?” Amusement is all Hanma feels when you choose to ignore his salutations. Oh no, sweetie. If you want him to stop chasing you, ignoring him is not the way to go. It only forces him to try even harder.

“How about I give you my number instead?”

There’s a twitch in your nose. You must think he’s so annoying and he basks in that glory.

“No.” Is all you say.

“You sure?” He asks, “I can keep you up better than that frappuccino can.”

Before you even get a chance to retort, Hanma’s scolded by his manager and you’re able to get your desired drink on the house after a series of apologies. Hanma’s a menace to society, a combustion reaction ready to set the world ablaze. Logic tells you that getting involved with him will only have you burned, but unfortunately, you lack the same rationality in your heart. Every time time you see his stupid face, your heart flutters like a moth attracted to the flame of his cocky grins.

It’s the reason why, even though you know he’s bad news, you still show up every day at your campus coffee shop to order your frappuccino; but the world knows you’re acting a fool and decides to hand you a lesson when you get paired up with him for a lab report. You stall until the end of lecture but by the time that you turn around and ask to begrudgingly exchange contact numbers, Hanma’s already zipped out the door. At one point he was inescapable, and now it seems that he’s the one avoiding you. You can’t even catch him at work because the moment he sees you walking through the entrance, he’s running off to the back regardless of whatever he’s doing. What makes you even more angry is that you know he’s doing this on purpose.

You could do this assignment on your own, but there’s no way you could keep up with the rest of your school work if you do. You’ve got essays, practicals, exams, and this lab report is at least ten hours of work so as much as you don’t want to work with him, he’s the loose pin to your grenade. If he doesn’t help you out, there’s a guarantee that you will be need to set an alarm for a daily scheduled breakdown in the library from all the stress toppling over.

You’re angry and restless, leg bouncing and pen twirling because you could have never foreseen this. You’re waiting on Hanma to get off his shift and just the thought brings bile to your throat and butterflies in your stomach. He’s so bad for you that you want him just as desperately.

Hanma cannot contain his grin when he spots you at a table near the exit after clocking out.

“Waiting for me, sweetheart?” He saunters over with his long legs with minimal steps before taking a seat opposite of you. “I won’t deny it, but I am quite surprised.”

“I don’t want to play your games,” You get straight to the point. He quirks an interested eyebrow at you - an interested and handsome eyebrow. “Give me your number so we can figure out how to work on this lab report.”

“Oh ho, you already had your chance.” Hanma places an elbow on the table and perches his chin on his palm. He leans forward so he can get a closer look at every twitch and every minute reaction you give, obsessed with it. “My number’s not for sale anymore.”

You glare. He glares back.

“Hanma.”

“That’s my name ♡.”

His cheeks start to hurt at how wide he’s grinning but you look so adorable with your frowny face that you think is intimidating. It’s not but it’s a good effort.

“This is 35% of our grade.” You try and reason with him.

“Do I look like someone who cares about my grades?”

Hanma’s at the edge of his seat. What are you going to do? Are you going to lash out? Kick and scream? He licks his lips in anticipation, but you surprise him once more at the wet sound of your voice.

“Please,” you whisper, eyes trained on the table between the two of you. “I can’t fail this class.”

Hanma feels guilt for the first time in a long time at the sight of you so fragile and small. He feels even worse knowing that he’s the source of your pain. The way that you look like you’re on the verge of tears, fingers wobbling like a newborn deer on ice, he can’t help but concede. He thought he’d get the usual thrill of seeing you break, but only guilt douses him in gasoline and your tears are the matchstick to this blaze. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this way, but Hanma decides he fucking hates it. He’d rather never make you cry ever again if his heart has to tear itself out of his chest.

“Fine,” he says, remorse lacing his breath but incapable of apologizing. He hopes you realize the gravity of that one word, what him relenting actually means. “Let’s work on this report.”

Just like that, you perk up. A sneaky smile on your lips, you wipe the tears that have barely begun to fall and give one quick sniff.

“Great!” You chirp, “We’re going to be doing this my way, by the way. I’m clearly the smarter one here so just do as I say.”

“Were those? Did you?” He’s shocked at the mood swing but all you do is blink those beautiful eyes of yours up at him. Glossy and innocent to the point that it’s malicious, Hanma pieces everything together and he can’t help but flash you a grin. “Oh you’re going to be so hard to handle.” He bares his canines, absolutely excited. “I won’t fall for those crocodile tears again.”

You shrug and match his grin with your own, “We’ll see.”

And you get up without another word, expecting Hanma to follow. Of course he does, because how else will he be entertained?

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dreamerstreamer · 3 years

Text

A Terrible Tutor

Pairing: Dream / Clay x gn!reader

Summary: [High School!AU] He’s cocky, annoying, a total tease, has a laugh loud enough to shake the stars, and you hate him. But as luck would have it, he’s also your tutor.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: minor cursing

A/N: this is based on a classmate i had way back! (we did not fall in love. he was awful.) i’ve also never taken physics, but i tried something a bit new for the reader’s personality. i hope you enjoy :) <3

You glared down at your physics textbook, the open pages staring back up at you with beady eyes made of diagrams and labels. Off to the side, your notebook was strewn across your desk, a list of questions scribbled across the top line in a hurried rush. The handwriting was messier than you would have liked, but the thought didn’t irritate you.

What did irritate you was that it was nearly half past four, and your so-called tutor still hadn’t shown up.

You could still envision the concerned look on Mr. Craftson’s face as he held you back a moment after class, watching as the rest of your classmates poured out of the door with an anxious look. He had offered you a kind smile before pulling out your test from the week before, and you winced at the numerous red marks scattered across the front page alone.

“I know you’ve been struggling in this class,” he said, gazing at you almost pitifully.

You tried not to glower at the sight of his apologetic eyes trained on you, instead nodding your head slowly. “It’s been… hard,” you said slowly.

He leaned an arm on his chair, pushing your test toward you. “You ask questions in class,” he hummed, “and from what I’ve seen, you complete your homework diligently.” His smile fell. “Yet here you are me, with the lowest mark in my class.”

You wanted to shrivel up into a ball. Maybe he didn’t have to say it like that, but he wasn’t wrong, either.

At your silence, he prodded at you. “Is there anything going on at home that might be hindering you, or…?”

You whipped your head up, your eyes wide. “No! Things are—things are great. It’s just…”

You swallowed, then sighed, fidgeting your fingers on your lap. “I guess,” you murmured, trying to quell the shame flaring up inside you, “I’ve just been really struggling with the material, and none of it’s really been clicking.”

Mr. Craftson’s face softened in an instant. “That’s alright. Thank you for being honest with me. If my teaching hasn’t been working out with you…”

He paused, rubbing at the blond stubble on his chin for a moment. Then, his face lit up and he leaned forward. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ve got a great student who I think might be able to explain things to you in a way you might be able to grasp a little better. He’s got the best marks in this class.”

Your eyes widened. The best in the class? He had to be a genius.

“I have a good feeling he can meet you tomorrow at four after school to help you out,” he continued, leaning against the arm rest of his office chair. “What do you say?”

You blinked, a thoughtful look passing over your face. Lord knew you needed the help—you were practically failing the class—but an uneasy stone settled into the pit of your stomach. You’ve never needed tis much help to pass a class before. The thought made you want to gag. Slowly, you opened your mouth.

“Do I have to…” You gestured vaguely. “Pay him or something?”

His cerulean eyes blinked at you for a second, then he laughed—the kind of deep-belly laugh only teachers seemed to be able to have. “No, no,” he said, waving his hand at you, “not at all. He’s a good kid. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

You bobbed your head, your insides crumbling. You didn’t want to accept, you really didn’t. Part of you guys wanted to believe that you could just work harder, study by yourself even more. You were a dedicated student, and you were doing just fine in all your other classes. Surely the content couldn’t get that much harder, right?

But as your gaze lowered to the red ink staining your test once more, you felt yourself swallowing the lump in your throat. Straightening your back, you let your stubborn pride seep out of your shoulders and onto the floor.

It looked like this was a sacrifice you were simply going to have to make.

“Thank you so much for the offer,” you said, letting your lips curl up into a genuine, grateful smile. “It—it really means a lot.”

Mr. Craftson grinned at you, an easygoing flint shining in his eyes. “Of course. You’re a bright student. Sometimes we all just need a little push.”

You could still remember shaking his hand in thanks before bundling your stuff in your arms and shuffling into the hall, tucking your feet between the pages of your textbook. That had been yesterday, and now, the same one was sitting on your desk, open to a new page full of jumbled words you could hardly decipher.

The chair across from you was distinctly empty.

He—whoever he was—was late.

You distantly wondered to yourself who your tutor even was, your gaze drifting down to your textbook. Mr. Craftson had said he was the best student taking the class. Would it be George? He always seemed like he knew what was going on, and he never really asked questions. But sometimes, he looked like he was just zoning out. Maybe it was Technoblade. He was smart. You paused, then shook your head. No, everyone knew he was one of those English kids.

The thought made you furrow your brows, wracking your head even more. The words on the page grew muddled and fuzzy as you thought even more. Just who was it?

Just then, you heard the classroom door swing open with the same loud creak every door in the school seemed to have. The sound of heavy breaths and panting filled the air, then a haggard voice spoke up.

“Hey, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

You didn’t look up from your page, letting a sigh escape your lips as you lifted your head. Plastering a polite smile to your face, you let your gaze travel toward your tutor. “Hi, it’s nice to me—”

Suddenly, your voice died in your throat as your eyes locked onto the figure standing in the doorway. Towering over the desks with a duffel bag resting against his hip, his dirty blond locks were damp and matted against his forehead, his emerald eyes blinking at you. Something bitter and warm twisted in your gut at the sight, and the smile dropped off your face and into a scowl.

“Oh,” you said flatly. “It’s you.”

The smile he offered you was easygoing, but you didn’t miss the strain in his gaze. “It’s me.”

You bit on the inside of your cheek, your heart practically revolting against your rib cage with the way it was hammering. A million questions were darting around the inside of your skull, only making your blood boil even more with each passing second.

Of all the people you had expected to show up, Clay was easily the last.

The two of you had first met back in freshman year in your first science class—he had sat behind you and had the loudest laugh on the planet, or so you were convinced. You were quieter back then, but just as stubborn and snappish as now. Soon enough, one thing led to another, and you swore the two of you were suddenly enemies for life.

Although you couldn’t remember what had caused your little feud, you knew that he was the one who started it. He was loud and kicked your chair, he just loved to borrow your pens and never return them, and you could never figure out just why he loved to tease you so much. You don’t think you learned a single thing in that class, always distracted by the presence staring a hole into your back, and you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

Naturally, that meant your teacher assigned him to sit behind you for the rest of the year. To this day, you were convinced she hated you, and you still avoided her in the halls.

To say that science class was your least favourite would be an understatement, and soon enough, everybody was in on your hatred for each other. Clay never seemed to stop pestering you no matter how hard you tried to ignore him, and you would never forget the day you finally snapped at him, whipping around to glare at him with your cheeks on fire.

“Will you please shut up?”

The shocked look on his face was still burned into your memory as it melted into a wide, proud grin.

“Only if you make me.”

Even years later, he always seemed to find a way to worm himself back into your life, and you hated it. You hated him, simple as that.

So, seeing him standing in front of you like this, it took every ounce of your strength to keep your voice as neutral as possible.

“What took you so long?”

He patted his duffel bag before slipping it off his shoulder and setting it on the ground. “I just finished football practice. Coach ran a little long and I figured it would be polite to take a shower before so I didn’t smell all sweaty when I tutored you.”

You blinked, your mouth falling open. That explained his wet hair, you guessed. While you were vaguely flattered, you were distracted by something else. “You knew that you would be tutoring me?”

Clay nodded, pulling back the chair in front of you. “Yeah. Phil asked me.”

You gaped. “You call Mr. Craftson by his first name?”

His smile was a touch too smug for your liking, and you wanted to wipe it off his face. “Maybe. I was surprised when he asked, though.” He wrinkled his nose and shot you a teasing smirk as he sat down. “I didn’t think you would be failing this class.”

You glowered, that same bitter feeling bubbling up in your chest, again. “I’m not failing,” you snapped. “I’m just…” You paused, your cheeks growing hot. “…not passing.”

He gave you a deadpan look, then laughed. “That’s the same thing.”

You sent him a gesture that your teacher most certainly would have scolded you for if he was here, and he laughed even harder. You were suddenly reminded of just how damn loud his laugh was, sounding like fireworks in your ears. Slumping over, you hung your head in your hands.

“Ugh. I can’t believe you knew you were going to be tutoring me of all people.” You paused, then added, “I can’t believe you agreed.”

He tilted his head at you, brushing his damp hair out of his face. “Did you not know I was gonna be your tutor?”

“No.” You frowned. “If I did, I wouldn’t have shown up.”

His eyes flickered with mirth as a smile stretched across his face. “Aw, am I really that disagreeable?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, your gaze as sharp as a blade. “Without a doubt. A hundred percent. I didn’t even have to think about it.”

He whistled, feigning a wince. “Harsh.”

Wryly, you said, “You deserve it.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I wasn’t that bad as a freshman, was I?”

You gave him a hard, callous stare. “Do you really think I’m the one you should be asking that question?”

He thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “Okay, point taken.”

You dragged a hand over your face, then pointed at your textbook. “Are you going to teach me now or what? We’re already behind.”

He winced for real this time, and you almost felt bad for him. Almost. “Sorry, again.”

“Seriously,” you muttered under your breath, reaching into your back to grab your pencil case, “and to think that you have the highest grades in this class.”

“Hey,” he shot back, “I’m brains and brawn.”

You shot him a look that was nothing short of disgusted. He cringed a little at the sight.

“Okay, that was cheesy, but I’m not wrong. Besides, coach says I have to keep my grades up or else I’m off the team.” He leaned closer to you, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his hot breath fanning over your skin. “You know I can’t let everyone down like that.”

You looked unconvinced. “Uh huh. Totally.” Whipping out a pencil, you tapped at the bottom of the page you had open. “Can you explain this to me, now? The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave.”

He quietly chuckled, and you hated how soft it sounded. Leaning closer to the textbook to read, his lips mouthed the problem silently. You tried not to stare at his mouth as it moved, your gaze tracing over the soft dip of his lips as his viridian eyes flashed with recognition. A moment later, he sat back and cocked his head at you.

“So, what exactly do you not understand?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Everything.”

He blinked, disbelief colouring his features. “Everything? Like, the whole thing?”

You scowled. “I thought that was obvious. All that stuff about velocity and the funny diagrams—” You shook your head. “—none of it makes sense.”

He raised a brow at you. “I thought you were paying attention in class. You really don’t understand a single thing?”

You bit back the urge to scream. “It’s not like you’re much smarter.”

Clay snorted derisively. “I am. That’s kind of the whole point.”

You groaned, letting your voice ring out in the quiet of the empty classroom. You caught a glimpse of his amused smile in front of you, and it only made you groan louder.

“You’re the one who ruined science for me, you know? I hated going to that class, and look at me now.” You gestured to yourself, using your finger to draw a ring in the air. “It all comes full circle.”

There was a brief second of silence. “I’m the reason why you hate science?”

You didn’t budge. “I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy knowing I was going to be stuck in a class with someone who never gave me my stuff back and kicked my chair.”

Another wave of silence washed over the two of you, but this one was tense—heavy. He swallowed, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob.

��You…” His eyes swirled with something sad and honest. “You really hate me that much?”

He suddenly looked a lot like a kicked puppy, and a pang of guilt shot through your chest like a bullet. With a panicked gaze, your voice grew shaky as you spoke. “I—I don’t hate you. I just… I had a grudge, I guess.”

Your tone grew soft, and you lowered your gaze to your lap. “I… I really didn’t like you back then, but things have changed.” You offered him a small smile, but it felt shy. “We’re not exactly fourteen, anymore.”

He returned your smile with one of his own. Just like yours, it was small and tender, and it sent something stirring in the depths of your belly. “No,” he murmured, “we’re not.”

“I,” you breathed, gulping down the last dredges of your grudge, “was stubborn back then.” You raised a shoulder. “In a way, I still am. I have too much pride for my own good too, but I don’t hate you.” The look you sent him had a spark of mischief, and his breath hitched. “Strongly dislike, at best.”

Clay blinked at you, looking half-surprised and half-awed at you. You squirmed under his gaze before he snapped out of his stupor, almost bashfully ducking his head. “I’m… It’s definitely too late for me to say this now when I really should have said it all those years ago, but I’m sorry. Really. I was a dick.”

You snorted under your breath, fondly mumbling, “Yeah, you were.”

His face perked up at the sound of your bitten back laugh. “I really shouldn’t have teased you so much. My reasons were… dumb.”

You cocked a brow at him, almost as if to say, Oh? Do elaborate.

But instead, you watched as his ears burned crimson red and he flashed you a pair of bright, pleading eyes. “Forgive me? Please.”

Your heart leapt into your throat, something new and warm bursting along the seams of your lungs. You couldn’t possibly say no to a face like that. Even the toughest person on the planet would crack under a look as sincere as that, you tried to reason, ultimately letting out a sigh with a stammer.

“O-Only if you actually can get me to understand this unit.” Pushing down the heat creeping up your neck, you pointed at him with an accusatory look. “Until then, you’re on thin ice.”

The grin he sent you was beyond dazzling—you couldn’t have brought yourself to look away even if you wanted to.

(And you didn’t.)

“Gotcha.”

Clay finished scribbling a diagram onto the new page of your notebook, flicking his thumb back to reveal the hordes of previous pages you had filled with other practice problems. If you were being honest, you were a little envious of just how neat his drawings were. No one should be able to draw a line as straight as that without a ruler, yet here he was, doing exactly that.

What a show-off.

Feeling your eyes on him, Clay lifted his head to catch your gaze, turning the notebook to face you. You tried to pretend the stumbling of your heart wasn’t because of him—not at all. “Do you get it?” he breathed.

You glanced back and forth between him and your page, your grip on your pencil falling slack. “I think so,” you said slowly. “Mostly, at least.”

He hummed for a moment, then flipped your notebook around until it was facing him again and holding an expectant, open hand toward you. Without even thinking, you dropped your pencil into his palm, a spark running up your fingers at the slight brush of his skin against yours. Carefully, he wrote a string of words on a new line, circling the sentence when he was done.

“Here,” he said gently, pushing the pencil back between your fingers, “try this question. This was one of the harder ones from my test.”

Gingerly, you peered down at the page, and your mouth fell open at the sight. This question was far more complicated than anything you had been solving in the textbook before this. What was he thinking?

“If you get it right,” he said suddenly, casting you out of your thoughts, “you should be all set.” His lips curved up into a taunting, knowing grin. “But it’s okay if you don’t get it—it is difficult, after all.”

You stared for a second longer, then grumbled under your breath. How could he read your mind like that? You were going to prove him wrong, even if only to knock that smug look off his face.

Leaning down, you tackled the problem head on, your pencil flying across the page as you spelled out formulas and equations, doodling a diagram when you had to and pausing to think every other breath. Before you, you didn’t see Clay watching you with a soft, tender gaze, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted against your pencil when you stopped and how you chewed on your mouth when you got nervous.

You really were more endearing than you could ever know.

Suddenly, you let your pencil clatter against the table as you pushed your notebook toward him, eyeing your pencil scratches with a wary look. “Done.”

His viridian eyes gleamed with excitement. “Alright,” he said, plucking the paper from your desk with a practiced ease, “let’s take a look.”

His gaze scanned your work intently, his lips pressed together in focus. You folded your hands onto your lap, trying to focus on his analysis of you work. But the longer you looked, the more you felt your gaze trailing up to graze his cheeks. Did he always have so many freckles? You didn’t remember seeing him with this many as a freshman, but you also spent more time glaring at him than staring at him back then.

In a way, he was kind of... pretty. Handsome, even. Not that you would ever say it out loud.

You suddenly had a strong urge to reach up and trace feather-light lines between each of his freckles, but before you could even take another breath, Clay’s eyes were on yours again. Unlike earlier, the look on his face was grave, and a small grimace overtook his features.

“I have bad news,” he said dryly.

Your heart fell.

Of course you got something wrong. You were a fool to think that things would change just because Clay would be teaching you instead.

But then, his grimace curled up at the corners, and your jaw dropped.

“I have nothing left to teach you in this unit.”

Your eyes widened.

“I got it right?”

He turned the notebook back to face you. A large check mark had been scribbled in pencil along the side of the page, a tiny smiley face decorating the corner next to it.

“Perfectly.”

The gasp you let out sent you barrelling for your feet, and you nearly started jumping for joy in the middle of your seat. “Yes!” you cried, pumping a hand up in the air. Suddenly, you whirled to point at Clay, a pout forming on your lips. “Oh my god, you scared the crap out of me! Don’t do that.”

He chuckled, leaning back with his hands up defensively. “Sorry, sorry. I saw the opportunity and just had to take it.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you stuck your tongue out at him. “You’re terrible.”

His eyes softened—sincere and sweet. “I know.”

Ignoring the sudden burst of warmth rushing through your veins, you huffed at him. “Well, at least I have two pieces of good news for you. First,” you said, sliding your notebook off your desk, “we can both go home, now.”

“And the second?” he prompted, looking at you inquisitively.

You folded your notebook shut, boring a hole into your backpack with the intensity of your stare. You couldn’t look at him right now, you just couldn’t.

“Second,” you nearly whispered, “I accept your apology.”

Slipping your textbook into your bag, you heard him take a sharp intake of breath. “Really?”

You reached for your pencil case, fumbling with the zipper. “Yes.”

There was another breath, but this one was gentler, less harsh. You peeked up at him from your bag, and your heart stuttered at the ecstatic look on his face.

“This,” he said, “is the greatest day of my life.”

You blinked wildly at him, zipping your backpack up all the way before slinging it onto the desk. “That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, his smile never once faltering. “Are you kidding? I thought you were going to hate my guts forever!”

You shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I might have.” You paused. “Actually, I probably would have. But luckily for you—” You shot him a sincere look. “—not anymore.”

His grin grew impossibly wider, yet it somehow still looked natural on him. Deep down, a part of you wanted to bottle up his expression and remember it for as long as you lived.

“Like I said, greatest day of my life.”

You giggled, rolling your eyes. “Weirdo.”

Pushing in your chair and gesturing for him to stand, you jutted your head toward the door. Clay didn’t need to be queued twice before he was rising to his feet, pushing the chair back to its rightful spot before heaving his duffel bag off the floor and onto his side. As the two of you headed out towards the door, a bought suddenly flickered across your head, and your lips began moving before you could even begin to think.

“One of these days, you need to tell me why you liked to pick on me so much. Like, seriously, why me?” You gestured to yourself as the two of you stepped outside into the school hallway. “I’m not exactly special.”

You hadn’t been looking at him in that moment, focused on closing the door behind you, but when he didn’t respond for a moment, you looked up and felt your lungs tighten. You had never seen Clay look so bashful in his life, with his ears flaring crimson red and a faint rosy tint dusting the panes of his cheeks. His freckles were only more noticeable with the pink background, and you nearly blurted something you knew you would regret.

“Maybe I’ll—” He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a smile. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

Before you could even ask what he meant by that, he was firing off once more. “In the meantime, if you still need help, I don’t mind coming in again next week or something.”

You nearly took a double take. Next week? He wanted to help you, again?

“Don’t you have more important things to do?” you asked, scanning him with wide, curious eyes. “Like studying your own stuff.”

“You’re important,” he said abruptly.

You choked on your spit, and by the way he went absolutely stock still in front of you, you had a feeling he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Oh,” you whispered.

That warm, fuzzy feeling from earlier was rising between your lungs again, only this time it sent your heart racing around your chest. Sucking in a deep breath, you nodded your head once, twice.

“Sure,” you managed to say as calmly as you could. “The, um, the next unit looks a little confusing, so I might need some help.”

Clay’s face suddenly brightened at your soft request for assistance, and you caught his shoulders slumping with relief as he smiled. “Awesome.” He paused, then waved his hand. “Not the part about you needing help, I mean.”

You laughed a little at that, your nerves calming a bit more. “I would hope not.”

He smiled back at you. “So,” he said, drawing out the syllable, “I’ll be back same time next week?”

You couldn’t help but reach over to elbow him a little playfully. “Try to be on time though, yeah?”

He flushed a bit, but cracked a crooked grin nonetheless. “I’ll try my best.” He glanced over his shoulder down the hall, and you suddenly realized you would be heading in the opposite direction.

“I’ll see you around?” he murmured gently, brushing away his now dry hair from his forehead.

One of your hands tightened around the straps of your bag while the other waved back at him. “See you.”

With one last grin at you, you watched as he turned on his heel, striding down the hall with his duffel bag bouncing against the side of his hip. Just then, your eyes grew wide, and you cupped your hands around your mouth to call after him.

“One last thing, Clay!” you shouted, your voice echoing down the empty corridor.

At the sound of his name, he whipped around again, his brows knitted together. Breathing in deeply, you screwed your eyes shut and called out once more.

“Thank you!”

When you opened your eyes again, his emerald green eyes were blinking at you with wild abandon, his lips parted in what could only be described as a look of pure wonder. Your heart skipped a beat, and you wondered why he was looking at you of all people like that.

Swallowing, he sent you a lopsided, earnest smile and cupped his own hands around his mouth to shout back at you.

“Anytime!”

You kept waving at him even after he let his arms drop back to his sides and he vanished around the corner of the hall. Almost immediately, you bent over to bury your head into your knees, letting out a soft, muffled yell.

Why did your chest feel so warm when he looked at you like that? Why did you want to count his freckles so badly when he smiled? Was he always so nice, so helpful and kind? Why did he look so cute when his face flushed all pink like the way it did before? When did he become so endearing instead of annoying?

Did you like him?

You let out another muffled cry into your hands, feeling heat flood every part of your body like a tidal wave crashing into your system. You could hear your heart ringing in your ears like a bell that wouldn’t ever stop, and your toes curled into your shoes.

You had so, so many questions, none of which you knew how to solve.

Hopefully Clay could help you figure out the answers.

610 notes · View notes

tsukishumai · 3 years

Text

pairing: miya osamu x gn!reader genre: fluff, strangers to lovers, slow burn word count: 3.2k summary: In which Osamu finds that the stranger lurking outside his store window has a connection to his restaurant that he could have never expected.

Osamu remembers every single face that has walked through the doors of Onigiri Miya since the day they’ve opened. He has yet to hire another worker, manning all stations of his business himself. The rush hours always provided him with a bit of a heavy work load, but Osamu has learned a lot about diligence and patience. Business had been good enough; traffic was steady throughout the day, and he had his fair share of regulars whose orders he had already memorized.

The stuffy, salt-and-pepper haired man in the pressed three-piece suit always ordered two umeboshi onigiri and a medium iced green tea. The kind old woman that ran the shop across the street would come in for his salted salmon, and if he had extra, Osamu would throw in an extra tuna mayo. She’d always smile and give him a pat on the shoulder, her eyes crinkling in a way that reminded Osamu of his grandmother.

It was when the shopkeeper had slowly walked out of his establishment and back to her own that Osamu noticed you standing a few feet away from his storefront. You had been wearing a face mask, but Osamu could see that you were staring at his sign. Your eyes squinted at the block letters that looked down at you, before they trailed down to land directly on Osamu. You seemed a little startled at the fact that his eyes were already staring at you, but you were standing outside his restaurant, weren’t you?

Before he could lift a hand to wave you in, you quickly turned and walked away.

Every few days, either during the dinner or lunch rush, Osamu would catch a glimpse of you outside of his restaurant. You’d stare at his sign for a few seconds; maybe glance at the menu board that stood a few feet away from his entrance, or look at the pictures of his full menu taped to the restaurant window. he would see the way you studied each item, yet you always walked the opposite direction.

It bothered Osamu. Why didn’t you want to come in? Did his menu look boring? Was his sign uninviting? Is his decoration too traditional? Should he have made it look a little more modern? He grumbled to himself about it each time you peeked in, and walked away. Why do you bother coming so often if you didn’t want to try his food? Osamu huffed.

It wasn’t until four weeks later, when Osamu had posted three brand new flavors on his menu board that you finally deemed his restaurant worthy enough to step in.

You had stopped by a little bit later than usual today, the dinner rush had come and gone, and the only ones left in the restaurant were you and Osamu. He stood patiently waiting behind his counter, desperately trying to look busy and as if he hasn’t been waiting for this moment for weeks.

He waited until you were close enough to his counter to say his greetings. You nodded at him in acknowledgment, taking a seat at the bar in front of him. He handed you a menu, and your eyes roved over the words as if they hadn’t done so dozens of times prior.

“Can I get ya anything to drink?” He asked, and you took off the baseball cap you had been wearing, setting it down on the counter beside you. Your finger hooks along the ear loop of your face mask and Osamu realizes he’s seeing your face for the first time. You place the piece of cloth in your pocket, and Osamu fights the heat across his cheeks.

“Just water,” you said, and Osamu was quick to set a fresh glass down in front of you.

“What’ll it be?” He asked after a few moments, adjusting the bill of his hat and settling his hand on his hip.

You hum a little, tapping your finger against your lips before you reply. “I’ll have the combo #2 with the gyoza.”

Osamu nodded, “What two flavors onigiri would you like?”

“For the first one, I’ll have your most popular flavor,” you say, before closing the menu and handing it back to him, “I’ll let you choose the second one.”

Osamu raised an eyebrow at your odd request, but nods anyway, putting the menu away and walking back to give his hands a quick wash.

He begins to gather his ingredients when he noticed you take out a notepad and a pen from your bag, placing it on the counter in front of your water.

“So,” he says, starting the process of making his number one seller (salted salmon), “What was it?”

“Excuse me?” You asked, pausing the drink that was half way to your lips. “What was what?”

“Well, ya stood outside for weeks, so I gotta know,” Osamu said, placing the delicate filling into the ball of rice he was kneading in his palm, “What made ya decide to finally come in?”

You tightened your lips, awkwardly setting the cup back down on the counter and placing a palm on your forehead.

“I was that obvious?”

“Were ya trying not to be?” He laughed, looking at you expectantly.

“It was the flavors on your board,” you finally replied, leaning back in your seat, “There was one that my grandfather used to make.”

Osamu smiled to himself, wrapping his first finished onigiri in the seaweed he had roasted earlier that day, placing it gently on a serving platter and moving over to make the next rice ball.

“That’s a coincidence,” Osamu said, “Your grandfather must have had great taste.”

“He used to own a restaurant,” you blurted out, and Osamu hummed.

“You’re kidding,” he said, “Whereabouts?”

You nibbled on your bottom lip, shifting your eyes side to side as if debating on whether you wanted to divulge him in your greatest secret. Eventually, you leaned forward, resting your elbow on the counter and placing your chin in your palm. “Actually, it was this one.”

Osamu’s fingers froze. “Ya don’t mean—?”

You nodded excitedly. Osamu lets out a scoff. “Now you’re just messin’ with me.”

“No, I swear!” A bright smile erupted across your cheeks as you jumped a little in your seat, “My grandparents used to own this restaurant.”

“I thought this was a boutique before I bought it?” Osamu questioned, putting his final touches on the second rice ball.

“It was,” you agreed, taking a sip from your water, “They owned this place until I was in high school, and sold it before they retired somewhere in the mountains. It’s been a few different stores since, but this is the first time it’s become a restaurant again. I was pretty surprised when I first saw it.”

Osamu felt an odd sensation of pride began to brew in his chest, shown in the way he sprinkled his sesame seeds a little extra forcefully.

“Well,” he said, placing the plate of two perfect onigiri right on the counter in front of you, “I hope I do this place some justice.”

You smiled, and Osamu found himself smiling with you. He pointed out the shake on the left, and the surprise flavor on the right. You nodded, intrigued, picking up the onigiri lying on the left side.

Osamu makes the gyoza while you take your first bite, nearly pumping his fist in victory when he sees you close your eyes in satisfaction, the tension he didn’t even know you carried slowly melting from your shoulders. He sees you quickly jot down comments on the notepad next to you, and Osamu tries to peek at what you wrote when he gives you the gyoza.

“Ya jottin’ down comments about my food?” He joked, and you jumped a little at his voice, “Got any suggestions, then?”

You smile sheepishly, “It’s just a little hobby of mine.”

He nods, grabbing a towel and wiping down the counter that he had just used. “Well, ya let me know if ya need anything else.”

“It’s just you working tonight?” You ask, grabbing your chopsticks and picking up a piece of gyoza.

“It’s just me every night,” he chuckled.

Your eyes widened as you chewed on your food, swallowing with a loud gulp.

“Doesn’t that get exhausting?” You ask, quickly jotting down your notes before diverting your attention back to him.

Osamu just shrugged. “I poured my everything into something I didn’t love half as much as cooking. This is just how I know how to do things.”

You tilted your head to the side, “What did you do before this?”

Osamu takes a deep breath as he lifts his hat up a little bit to ruffle his fingers through his hair. He flips the cap around and puts it on backwards, his vision no longer half covered by the bill of his hat and he can now look at you fully. He almost wants to laugh because no one has ever asked him that version of this question before. It was always, ‘What are you going to be doing after volleyball?’

He hated the fact that any answer other than ‘I’m going to play professionally’ was deemed a shame, or a waste. For Osamu, he didn’t want to waste another second not pursuing his passion.

So it was refreshing to tell you about volleyball as if it was just a footnote in his food journey; something that he had done prior to finally recognizing his actual potential.

You gawked at him in disbelief, “Volleyball? Were you even any good?”

Osamu actually recoiled in offense, “I’ll have ya know I was on a team that went to nationals three years in a row.”

You raised your eyebrows appreciatively, and Osamu straightened a little.

“So why food?” You question him again, and Osamu wonders if you’re always this inquisitive. He’s answered this question hundreds of times, swore up and down that he would shoot the next person that even dared to say ‘Why food?’ in front of him. Yet for some reason, he felt more than happy to divulge you.

“Because food is more than just something ya eat when you’re hungry. It’s coming back from a long trip, and it’s the warmth that spreads through your body when ya eat your mom’s cooking for the first time. That taste of victory that spreads across your tongue when ya go out for a meal with your pals after a game. The sensation of closing your eyes in satisfaction when ya take a bite out of a fresh onigiri after a long day,” you pause your scribbles at that moment, looking up to shoot him a playful glare. Osamu chuckled and continued, “It’s laughter shared around the table, and memories made over a plate that makes food more than just nourishment for our body, but also for our soul.”

Osamu feels his cheeks heat up as he finishes his speech, embarrassment beginning to sink in at the end of his long tangent. You looked at him with a soft look on your face as you finished the last bite of your first onigiri, and dusted your fingers from any stray grains of rice.

“Words to live by,” you commented, lifting your glass of water up in agreement before tilting it back for a drink.

He let out a breath of relief that lasted only a second when he saw you reach over to pick up the onigiri with toppings he picked out for you. He held his breath as you took a bite, not expecting to see your eyes widen so fast, snapping your head down to the innocent rice ball that now sported a bite mark.

“Shio kombu cheese?” you say hurriedly, holding the onigiri closer to your face.

Osamu steps forward, “Do ya like it?”

You take another bite, chewing slowly, savoring the flavors as they melded in your mouth, and your eyes nearly begin to water.

“I never thought someone other than my grandfather would be weird enough to come up with this,” you laughed, scarfing down the rice ball in less than two seconds. “Yet here it is.”

“It’s not weird,” he defended, “It’s refined.”

You laugh as you dive into a story from your childhood spent sitting in this exact restaurant. Osamu listens intently as you recount how many different failed recipes your grandfather had forced you to ty and review, helping him decide what to put on the menu, or which combinations would bring in the businessmen that always seemed to just walk passed the restaurant.

He tells you of the tantrum his brother threw when he told him he was quitting volleyball, but still, Atsumu was his first sale. You pester him about his secret ingredient, and give him an incredulous look when he says it’s the rice. (“My old volleyball captain is a rice farmer.” “… what an interesting volleyball team.”)

The furniture was different, and the lay out was unfamiliar, but the atmosphere around Osamu’s counter had brought you right back into your childhood, reminding you of all the reasons why you loved what you did in the first place.

Long after your plates had been emptied, and the hour hand on the clock had extended way passed closing time, you finally paid for your meal, stood up from your seat and prepared to take your leave.

“Thank you for the meal, and the conversation,” you lean forward to read his name tag, “Miya-san.”

“Osamu,” he corrects, and raises an eyebrow at you.

You tell him your name, and Osamu repeats it in his mind over and over again.

“Come back soon,” he calls out his usual greeting as you walked out the door, but it felt different when he said it to you.

“I will,” you smile, waving a hand before stepping into the night, leaving Osamu with a dizzy head and fluttering stomach.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

In the following weeks since his late night encounter with you, Onigiri Miya had ceased to be a simple stop along someone’s route to work, or an afterthought on the way home.

One could imagine Osamu’s surprise when he arrived an hour and half before he was due to open, and already a line began to form down the sidewalk. He thought, perhaps it was a fluke, or maybe there was some sort of business convention in town nearby – something to explain the sudden spike in popularity.

Yet day after day, the crowds of people came to him by the dozens, climbing over each other to get a taste of his cooking. He couldn’t stop to wonder how long this was going to last, barely having the time to stop and give himself a break.

He finally realizes it’s not merely coincidence when the lines get longer, yet the faces he sees stay the same. Osamu remembers every single face that walks through the doors of Onigiri Miya, and it’s the ones that he sees over and over that truly give his restaurant its meaning.

The last customer of the dinner rush left thirty minutes ago when Osamu’s phone rang.

“‘llo,” he greets, sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder as he sweeps the floor, thinking about how he needed to start looking for someone to hire.

“Hey, asshole,” the voice of his twin comes through loud and clear, “When were ya gonna tell me ya invited that food blogger to your restaurant? And how the hell did ya get them to like your garbage cooking?”

Osamu stops in confusion, grabbing the phone and holding it up himself. “Did ya finally get hit in the head a little too hard at practice? What the hell are ya talking about?”

Atsumu curses at Osamu, telling him to hold on a second as he sends him the link.

Osamu pulls the phone away from his ear for a second, quickly pressing on the blue url that popped up from Atsumu’s chat bubble.

It took a second for it to load, but when it did, Osamu’s jaw dropped

ONIGIRI MIYA IS AN ONIGIRI MUST HAVE by L/N Y/N

Beneath the obnoxious title was a photo of his sign, shining brightly against the wooden panels of his building, looking very much like a beacon for those searching for the perfect plate.

“Your shop is all over the internet and I had to find out about it on my news feed?! What the hell kinda brother are ya...”

Atsumu’s voice faded into the background as Osamu read the flattering words you had written about his restaurant. You complimented the decoration he had been insecure about, and he chuckled at the way you had described the fluffiness of his rice. He was captivated by your use of prose, painting the perfect picture of exactly everything he wanted his food to convey.

It wasn’t until he got to the last paragraph when he felt his breath hitch in his throat.

Though the years have passed, and the season have changed, the sentimentality of this particular shop had never lost its meaning for me. For the first time in years, I felt the soul of my grandfather, the curator of my inspiration and passion, all around the atmosphere of what is now Onigiri Miya. I have every faith that the new owner has already done him justice.

“Excuse me, are you still open?”

Osamu tore his eyes away from the screen, the very author of the only review that will ever matter to him stood a mere few feet away from his counter.

“Call you later, Tsumu,” he said hurriedly.

“Hey, wh—“

Osamu slips his phone back into his pocket, turning his attention back to you. You had a cheeky smile on your face as you waited patiently.

“Welcome to Onigiri Miya,” he says dryly, and you laugh at his tone.

“Should you be on your phone while you’re on the clock?” You joke as you settle in the same seat you occupied the last time you paid him a visit.

“I don’t know,” Osamu crosses his arms, “Should ya be writing articles about people without telling em?”

You winced a little at his words, holding your hands up in surrender. “You saw it then?”

Osamu nodded.

You looked to the side, rubbing the side of your arm. “Did you like what I wrote?”

Osamu smiled, uncrossing his arms and walking to the back to wash his hands. You watch him curiously as he walked back to you, and pointed to a spot on the wall directly to your right.

“That’s where I’m gonna put it,” he said, “when I print it out and frame it.”

You laughed at the seriousness of his face, and he smirked in satisfaction.

You ordered the combo #2 with a side of gyoza, letting Osamu pick the two flavors. You mentioned how you tried to visit a couple of times, but the line was always so far out the door. He realizes that he has you to thank for that, and you blush deeply when he sincerely tells you so.

“So,” you say as you munch on the honey garlic pork onigiri he prepared, “Aren’t you glad you did this instead of boring, old volleyball?”

Osamu nearly chokes at the insult. “Volleyball is not boring.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, “Let me take you to a game some time. We can eat something other than rice balls.”

You look up from the half eaten onigiri at the chef who made it so carefully, looking so bashful and nervous you couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah. I would love that.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

thank you for reading! reblogs are highly appreciated <33

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miomio-san · 3 years

Text

“[name].”

“hm?”

“what are you doing?”

“what do you mean?”

lucifer sighs. “don’t play dumb. you know what I’m talking about.”

you look at him confused, and rightfully so. what the hell is he talking about? it’s not like lucifer ever makes sense when he’s like this. he probably thinks i did something again. you let out a sigh, raising your arms up as if to signify that you’ve given up.

“alright, alright. whatever i did this time i’m sorry. even though i literally don’t know what the hell i’m apologizing for.”

“why bother with an apology if you don’t know what you’ve done?”

you gave him a glare. “well, that’s what i’m tryna figure out! you always accuse me of something when half the time it isn’t even my fault. it’s your brothers who drag me into their plans!”

“but, you play along with their plans, don’t you? especially with mammon. he seems to always manage to get you to tag along with his schemes.” lucifer retorts, staring at you with a raised eyebrow. looking at you as if he one-uped you.

you open your mouth to say something but you couldn’t think of any clever jokes or a one liner to say so you clamp your mouth shut. you saw the satisfied look on his face and grumbled. i’m gonna wipe smug look on your stupidly attractive face.

you watch as he returns to his paperwork. you saw the way his pen gracefully slid from one side of the page to another, a speed at which your eyes couldn’t seem to keep up with. he pauses to reread the paper and then resumes once more. watching him work is so boring, but..

your gaze soften ever so slightly as you watched lucifer work diligently. you never not found yourself admiring the avator of pride when he was concentrating at the task at hand. you came to his office earlier and told him his younger brothers were bugging you when really you just wanted to be in his presence. not like you’ll ever tell him that. you’d rather die than to tell lucifer of all people that you enjoyed his company.

“you’re doing it again.”

you snap out of your thoughts and saw him stare at you with a look of displeasure. “huh?”

“you’re giving me that look. what is it? you look odd.”

you narrow your eyes, trying to figure out what kind of look is he talking about. all you did was stare at hi—oh.

“you mean this look?” you mimic your previous actions which made lucifer look at you weirdly.

“yes. that. what is that? and could you not?”

“jeez. for someone who lived for almost a millennia you sure are stupid.”

“what?”

yikes. shouldn’t have said that! you wave your hand in a dismissive manner. “now, now, dont get angry. it’s alright, it happens to the best of us! i’ll spell it out for you since you don’t seem to understand it.”

“are you trying to di—“

“o’ mighty lucifer, the ever bright and dazzling morning star, the once beautiful and beloved angel of the celestial realm and now the most feared? respected? i mean it’s not like you weren’t respected back in the clouds, since luke did say everyone loved you, but like—“

lucifer looked visibly irritated and you flinch, holding up your arms.

“alright, alright i’ll get to the point! what i’m saying is, my beloved luci, is that i find you so, so cute and can just stare at you all day. you’re so pretty. and so hard-working. you’re one of the most hard-working people I know. it’s okay to ask for help, y’know. and if you don’t wanna ask anyone that’s fine. but, i’m always here if you need me.”

it felt as if all the missing pieces of a puzzle had finally come together. lucifer gaped at the person before him and just stared at them, dumbfounded by their words.

they said i’m hard-working and asked me to tell them if I ever need their help? me? ask them for help? what a joke. as if I’d need help. no, I’m perfectly capable on my own. is what he wanted to say but he found himself chuckling instead.

you glance from side to side and watch as lucifer practically giggled up a storm. did you say too much? was this the end as you knew it? damn, you sure did live a boring life up until now.

“ah. i see. well, thank you for the offer. i trust that you won’t mind when i do ask.” lucifer says, a gracious smile on his face. “and thank you. you’re quite industrious yourself.”

“huh? what does that mean? is that another one of your fancy ways of insulting me without me knowing it?”

“it means hard-working and diligent, [name].”

“oh.”

lucifer scoffs, his lips curving into a slight smile as he shook his head. having nothing else to say, he went back to working. this time his heart a little lighter than before.

i do hope they don’t begin to realize the kind of effects they have on me.

#[ 📝 ] shh， mio’s writing.#obey me lucifer x reader #lucifer x reader #lucifer x mc #lucifer x gender neutral reader #obey me x reader #obey me imagines #obey me headcanons #obey me shall we date #wtf this was so cute #i love it 😩🥺🥺#my own writing made me love luci

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katzkinder · 3 years

Text

Little Drops of Water

Tetsu is his pride and joy.

It goes without saying, really, that his dear Eve is his greatest treasure in the world, and that the Item he has been given, one half of the set of four hairclips Tetsu used to keep his hair out of his face all throughout middle and highschool, are almost equally as dear to him as the boy himself. Long after Tetsu is gone, their shiny plastic, ocean blue, will last and Hugh will add them to his treasures. There they will remain alongside a young noble girl’s favored comb, a king and hero’s favorite embroidery (done by the steady and lovely hand of his wife), and… A peasant girl’s dress, carefully, lovingly preserved against the ravages of time, so delicate now that only the most trusted of his subclass are allowed to care for it.

Yes, Tetsu is his pride and joy, and yes, it goes without saying that Hugh holds him near and dear to his heart… But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t brag about him to whoever was fortunate enough to have to listen to him.

...Which is why the situation in front of him is so… Frustrating.

Now, call him a coward, call him a fool, call him a doddering old man… Perhaps he was all those things. But he was not so fool enough as to blindly praise working oneself into the ground, nor was he the type to give praise where it wasn’t due.

Tetsu was not the brightest.

He would admit this, albeit no longer to his Eve’s face. And while he would admit this, he would also much more readily sing Tetsu’s redeeming qualities. Tetsu was a hard worker. Tetsu was steadfast. Tetsu was loyal. Tetsu was a good listener.

Tetsu was all these things and more, but most of all, Tetsu was dedicated.

Which is how Hugh found himself acting as tutor, with his brilliant mind and sharp wit, while his dear Eve prepared for university entrance exams.

It was heartbreaking, though, how hard he worked. Not because Hugh believed he would fail, oh no, far from it. Tetsu might not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was fastidious, and really, Hugh thought, the thing that held him back the most was his lack of confidence in his own abilities, to which Hugh proudly thought he had been quite instrumental in rectifying, if he did say so himself.

It was heartbreaking because… Sometimes, it felt as if the only one who believed Tetsu would succeed was Tetsu himself.

And Hugh, of course.

Now, don’t get him wrong. He didn’t believe Tetsu’s family meant to discourage their son. Far from it, they wanted nothing more than for Tetsu to succeed, and they supported him fully in his university career endeavors. Except, well, Tetsu had told him that he wanted to go to university for one very simple, but very heartfelt reason.

He wanted to save their inn.

The inn which… Tetsu’s own parents felt had no future.

But Tetsu and his iron will, of course, thought otherwise, and he refused to give up on the family business, the place he had grown up and loved and worked so very hard to help run, even as far back as before he and Hugh had met. It was charming. It was lovely. It made Hugh want to fight for him, more than ever before.

The inn was something that, even more than a contract with Hugh, Tetsu took Pride in.

So Hugh, in order to nurture that pride, in order to care for his Eve, would do everything in his power to teach Tetsu everything he needed to know to make that dream of his come true. To make their home, because that’s what it is, this place. This little inn is Hugh’s home now, too. It’s no grand castle, no stone walls or towers or awe inspiring, imposing structures, but he loves it all the same, loves the people who make it such a warm, wonderful place.

He wonders how he could have ever considered letting this place die.

Hugh knows the answer, of course. It’s because he was a coward, a fool, and a doddering old man.

He refuses to be that way any longer.

***

“Hugh. Are you tired?”

The Servamp of Pride exaggerates his yawn further, rubs at one of his eyes with a tiny fist, and mumbles that he is fine, he can keep going, let them continue the lesson. Tetsu frowns at him, adjusts the reading glasses he now needs (and he’s grown into such a handsome young man, Hugh thinks, barely able to keep the smile off his face to continue his ruse), and sets the heavy prep book aside.

“No, it’s late. What time is it?”

“Check your phone, my boy… It’s almost a quarter to eleven,” Hugh informs him, just as Tetsu makes a startled noise when he confirms as such with his own eyes.

“It really is that late… Hugh, that’s amazing. You never need to check a clock or anything.” He shakes his head, willing the distraction away. “Sorry. I should have kept a better eye on the time. Let’s stop for the night. I didn’t notice, but… I’m kind of tired, too.”

And just like that, Tetsu starts tidying his space, placing his glasses back in their case and his books back in his bag while Hugh goes to fetch their pajamas. His Eve pats his head when he returns, murmuring a quiet thanks while Hugh soaks up the attention in a way very few people who aren’t big brother are able to earn from him, and after that, it’s the rest of their bedtime routine as normal. Getting changed, brushing their teeth, rolling out the futon, and climbing in together, Hugh always forever tiny against Tetsu’s larger frame, forever his Eve’s favorite teddy bear.

It suits him just fine, and he chitters softly, contently, when he’s snuggled close, tucks his head up under Tetsu’s chin and inhales the scent of pine he finds there, that wafts from Tetsu himself and his futon each. It’s soothing. It’s home.

Hugh cannot allow himself to fall asleep yet, no matter how tempting it is.

He lies there, being held, being loved, and waits for Tetsu’s breaths to slow, waits for his arms to go slack, just a bit, because once Tetsu is asleep… His real work begins.

It’s easy to slip away. A bat in the night, easing the door to Tetsu’s room open and swooping out into the halls, a wandering pet no one will see in the dark and no one will hear, silent as the beat of his wings are. He pauses, only briefly, when passing by the front desk where the lovely spouse of Tetsu’s elder sister still diligently works, greeting Miyako with a swoop and a cheep. She smiles at him, bids him safe journey.

“I’ll leave the lamp on for you. Take care, Hugh~”

A charming young lady, and she treats Tetsu well. Hugh can’t say he disapproves of her, even if her family is one he could do without. Of course, he never says as much, neither to her face nor to Tetsu’s.

That would be rude.

...To All of Love, however, he will gladly complain.

***

Hugh does not return until hours later, when the moon has passed its highest point in the sky and is on its journey back down to the horizon, chased by creatures neither he nor humanity can see, and yet, if you had asked him once, he would proclaim for certain that they were there.

Now, though, science tells otherwise, and he mourns the loss of that mysticism of the past at the same time he celebrates the inventions of the future, because it is only through the inventions of the future that he is able to monitor what needs to be monitored, and complete the tasks that need to be completed.

Such as keeping up with the local subclass, not all of which are his.

It is… Exhausting work.

Tokyo is a large place, and even without the Melancholy vampires to look after, knock on wood that it stays that way, even without Lust subclass, godspeed to All of Love, the number of them in Tokyo is staggering. Most of them are his, yes, and he does not regret granting them new life, no, never, not one bit, but… Well. Some of them need more assistance than others, and between tending the inn alongside Tetsu, studying, and this, his schedule is just… Completely packed full.

He wouldn’t trade this mind numbing feeling for the world. Not after they worked so hard to achieve what is still, unfortunately, an unsteady peace, but it’s an unsteady peace that has allowed his siblings and his subclass to prosper. To be happy, and healthy, and it leaves him puffing out his chest, tired but proud. Tired but happy.

Hugh would do even more if it were asked of him, he thinks as he sits to start putting together more flashcards and mnemonics and memory games, pens and books and note cards spread out in front of him while he lies on his stomach and gets to work. He would do even more, do whatever he could, if only to secure Tetsu’s future even more surely than the rising of the sun.

Because Tetsu is his pride and joy.

And as his pride and joy… Hugh would make certain that his Eve could rest without a single ounce of guilt.

Sleep well, my dear. The future is yours.

#kat's katerwauling #servamp #tetsu sendagaya #hugh the dark algernon iii #pride pair #pawprints #servamp fic #where my pride stans at

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

Text

Open Me Carefully

summary: spencer reid and reader are best friends, but don’t realize that they both love each other.

author’s note: crappy summary, but this one is loosely based on gold rush

warnings: none

Open Me Carefully

Maybe it’s the fact that I have a propensity to keep rereading historical romances, or maybe it’s the fact that I just listen to “Lover” way too much for a single person. Or maybe, I’m actually in love with him, my best friend and the only person in this world who I think truly knows me.

I mean, how could I not be completely in love with him. Spencer Reid is the closest thing to perfection. He is kind, brilliant, and unbelievably handsome. It almost hurts me how wonderful he is. But daydreaming about Spencer’s hair falling in his eyes, or his hands grazing across the map spread out on the table, or even his wide smile that slips out when he lets his guard down is not productive to solving crimes.

Unsubs, Y/N. Unsubs. Stop thinking about his hands. And start focusing.

“Y/N/L!” Calls Hotch from across the room. He’s assigned me to locate the birth mother of the potential unsub. He was given up for adoption as an infant, but bounced around from foster home to foster home, never finding a home, and now obsessed with finding his roots.

“Yes, sir, here’s the name from Garcia. Susan Lee gave up her baby for adoption in 1981, she was a just 16 years old, so that would make her-”

“44 years old” Spencer injected.

Hotch gave me a short nod of approval and I cocked my head towards Spencer’s direction, who tried to pull off an innocent look.

“It’s math, Y/N. I can’t help myself,” he explains.

“It’s fine, Spence. Math is like your religion,” I tell him, but what I’m really thinking is it’s you, Spence, and you can get away with anything with me.

“Math, in its purest form, is a beauty known nowhere else” he remarks.

“Who’s that Nietzsche?” I ask him as he beams down at me, twirling a blue permanent mark between his very distracting fingers.

“No, Spencer Reid.” he says as he turns back to the map on the table before us.

Just as I give myself the smallest bit of a second to enjoy the playful banter that falls between us, JJ and Emily come walking in, leading a gruff looking detective with them.

“We think we know where Jacob is hiding out,” JJ starts with a grim look on her face. Emily and the detective walk past her to where Hotch and Derek explain the profile to the SWAT team waiting by.

“His old orphanage, right?” Spencer asks looking up from the map.

“Yeah, and we think he’s going to hold some of the other children hostage,” JJ tells us.

“We need to get there, JJ. But isn't it his mother he wants, not the other children. You’d think that with the profile we came up with, it would make more sense for him to want to save the children, not hold them hostage?” I reason.

“You’re right, Y/N,” Spencer says, coming to a dark realization “he thinks that he’s saving them. He’s Angel of Death” he finishes grimly.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sitting quietly in the jet after the chaos of de-escalating a hostage situation is a calm like no other. We all have routines for the ride home. A quiet ritual that we take the time to be thankful that we’re all here, in one piece, having made the world slightly more safe.

JJ, ever diligent, will work on paper with Hotch. Rossi will usually keep Hotch from overworking with a small, light conversation.

Emily spreads out on the couch, and the rest of us pretend to not see JJ glance over at her as she looks at Emily with eyes that crave her attention.

Derek will listen to music and I’ll close my eyes and strain my ears to make out the muffled tunes that escape his ears. I sit across from Derek and will share snacks that we grabbed from a dingy convenience store on the way to the tarmac.

Spencer, who always sits next to me, will usually write his mother a letter. He writes her a letter on every plane ride after a case. I think back to the time that I asked him why he prefers letters to phone calls. He told me that he finds letters a forever way to say ‘I love you’. Taking your love and turning it into pen and paper makes it tangible, is what he told me. Until that day, I never really pegged Spencer to be a poet, but he continues to amaze me everyday.

I think that he can feel me staring at him, because he suddenly stops writing and his eyes look up to meet mine.

“She’s not doing so well, Y/N” Spencer says, his voice but a whisper above the hum of the jet and music spilling from Morgan’s headset.

“Your mom?” I ask, my voice matching his.

Spencer, for perhaps the first time I’ve known him, is quietly defeated.

“All I ever wanted to do was to save her, Y/N. Sometimes I feel like I’m not doing everything I should be. I thought that by the time I was 30 I would have cured schizophrenia. It’s just that sometimes I feel like maybe I settled”

“Well, you know we really don’t hear about child genius when they are adults. And you have the same job and me, and I’m not where near as smart as you. So you feel like you’re letting the world down or even worse— yourself”

“You might not have the IQ points on a piece of paper, but you are nothing short of brilliant” Spencer says looking at me directly in my eyes. I hold his gaze for maybe a second and look down towards my lap in disbelief.

“Spence,” I say. “You have to say that, otherwise I’d stop making you chocolate donuts.”

“I don’t need your donuts to convince me that you are an amazing agent. I mean,” He pauses and holds my stare again.

“You’re so kind it hurts me sometimes. And watching you those kids today, you’d be a great mom, Y/N. You make everyone feel so comfortable just being around you, and I’d give up all the chocolate donuts and IQ points and bottomless coffee if it meant you’d stay in my life,” Spencer says looking at me. I rest my hand over his and we sit there in the silence and comfort of the other.

Spencer Reid is a man of many hats. But I think his way with words just may be my favorite. I don’t dare to respond to him. I don’t trust myself not to kiss his pink lips as he looks at me like he loves me. I don’t trust myself to not tell him all the wonderful and sinful things I think about him. I don’t trust myself to not tell him how I was watching him play with those orphans back at the police station.

“What’s a best friend for, Spence?” I say to him.

“Besides, ’d want nothing more than to be a mom one day,” I tell him. We never really talked about our futures. Maybe it was the nature of our jobs. Having a lethal job means that the future is more of an arbitrary idea than a definite possibility.

“But,” I start. “I'm twenty-seven years old, I've no money and no prospects. I'm already a burden to my parents and I'm frightened” I quote with a smirk on my face that covers my trepidation at talking about love and children and the future with Spencer.

“I’d never think that you’d be one to settle for a Mr. Collins, Y/N” Spencer tells me, a similar look on his face mirrors my own. “If anything, you’re a Lizzie and you deserve a Mr. Darcy”

“You really think that Spence, because I’m not too sure.”

“You never know, Y/N your Mr. Darcy can be anyone. Statistically speaking, you may have already met him or have mutual friends or he may even work in the Bureau.

Sometimes I think that luck and fate are mocking me. Dangling Spencer in front of me; so real yet so far that I’m jumping to remain close to him. Touching his hand to mine feels like I’m teasing myself, just getting a taste of how his warm, strong hands fit into mine is enough to set my heart on fire.

I let go of his hand and my palm is cold and lonely without his touching. My heart cools but there’s a yearning for him that’s so strong it’s like a magnetic field pulling me in.

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee, would you like some?” He asks me as he scoots out of the seat.

“I’ll take a green tea, coffee this late makes me anxious” And sitting here holding your hand talking about children and my Mr Darcy makes me even more anxious.

“Coming right up,” he says with a sad smile on his face that I try to convince myself is because of his mother’s illness and not because I dropped his hand.

Spencer returns to his spot beside me, sipping his coffee and making small notes in his letter. There’s a chill between us that can’t be quelled by even the hottest cup of tea. Spencer doesn’t talk to me again and even though it’s just a couple more hours, I miss his voice.

I have a routine for when I come home after cases, but that routine has been thrown out the window when I watched Spencer walk out of the bullpen without as much as a wave goodbye. We usually go to my apartment and make dinner together. My trip home is a lot more lonely without Spencer by my side. I try to stop my thoughts from going to him, but it’s impossible when he’s all I can think about.

My apartment is dark and quiet when I walk in. It was left in shambles, with clothes and books strewn all over the couch, desk and floor. I can’t even bother myself to care about the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. I convince myself that those dishes are a tomorrow problem.

I take out a small container of leftover fried rice and vegetables and pop into the microwave. Making my way into my bedroom I change out of my work clothes, that I’ve been in for nearly 30 hours. I don’t really think about what I’m putting on, as long as it does not smell it works with me at this point.

My microwave dings, altering me that my mediocre meal is finished. But, before I can even reach the kitchen a small envelope slips through my door and falls on the floor. A sudden rush of fear courses through me. I flit my eyes to the corner safe where my gun rests. In my mind, I try to calculate the risk of punching the code or if I should just find out who is behind my door. I guess curiosity wins out, because I’m walking towards the door where the mysterious envelope sits.

I reach down and instantly recognize the handwriting as Spencer’s. I can feel my heart pumping blood through my bodying as I think that some sadistic unsub is trying to toy with me by hurting Spencer.

I was not prepared for what I read. My fingers grazed over the messy penmanship. I don’t even let my mind wander as I pour over the words on the page, still fearing for the worse

Dear Y/N,

Part of me can’t believe that I’m actually doing this. But something that you mentioned on the plane sparked something in me. You’re not a Charlotte, or a Lizzie or even a Jane, even though you are the kindest and most beautiful person I know.

You are a Y/N. And I am wishing for anything to be your Mr. Darcy. Thinking about you, Y/N gets me thinking about love. How much I love when you look at me across from the table, or how your soft hands will brush against mine. It reminds me that I’m alive. Your gaze makes me blush and those small brushes make me forget to breathe. In your eyes I can see my future— our future. In your smile I can taste happiness. When I am with you the world moves in slow motion and time seems to move too fast.

I hope that this does not ruin things, Y/N. I could not bear to lose you. I hope that you won’t hate me but even if you do, I’d rather you hate me and be in your life than not be in your life.

I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still

Forever yours,

Spencer

I read the letter silently. Not sure if I can believe it, but I so desperately want to. I throw all sense to the wind when I fling the door open, my eyes hunting for Spencer. He sits on the steps leading up to the next level, fiddling with his shoe laces. I run over to where he sits, not caring that my neighbors might be looking or caring that I look like I’m about to mug him.

He makes me, cautious girl, a rebel.

“Hey, you,” I say approaching him. Spencer moves to stand up and I reach out to hold his hands in mine. Like a puzzle piece they hit perfectly. His hands are not too warm or clammy or too cold and boney. They’re perfect. He hesitates and rubs his thumb against the back of my palm, like he does on the plane.

“Hi, Y/N.” He starts nervously. “I guess you got the letter, and I just want to tell you-”

“What letter, Spence?” I say. I can’t help but to tease him. His face turns pale and green in the same breath.

“Uh-um, you didn’t just get something in your mail a couple minutes ago?” He asks me so nervously that I almost feel bad at teasing him. Almost, he’s kind of cute when he’s stumbling over his words and I like to be one that makes him this fluttery.

“I got your letter, Spencer,” I tell him. I think he half expects me to drop his hand and shatter his heart then and there. Maybe he came here and prepared himself for the worse. I think he’s done that his whole life, believing that he doesn’t deserve a chance at happiness. I’m kind of inclined to give him that happiness when it’s so intricately tied to mine.

“You did?”

“Yeah, who knew that you were quite the poet, Spencer.” I tell him as I brush his hair from his eyes. It’s gotten so long, but I like it. I’ve dreamt about threading my fingers threw it many times. It’s so soft and brown and frames his face.

“You deserve a poet, Y/N. And I could only dream of being that person for you.” He says. Against even his own wishes he leans in closer to my touch. His cheek is warm in my palm and I feel his long eyelashes flutter against the ball of my thumb.

“Luckily for you, Spence, I like scientists.” I say to him.

“You--”

“I love you back, Spencer.” I move to wipe the tears that flood down the bridge of his nose.

“It was a really beautiful letter that you wrote, Spencer. All the right things in there, Emily Dickinson and Mr. Darcy,” I tell him pressing my cheek into his chest.

“Well, I had to win you over, Y/N”

“Ha!, Spencer you’ve had me since I’ve met you”

He looks at me with a veil of disbelief.

“Spencer Reid, in his purest form, is a beauty known nowhere else”

“Is that what you think of me?” He asks me.

“Why don’t you come inside and let me show you what I think of you Spencer?” I say leading him inside to my apartment, that was no longer so dark and lonely.

#spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid deserved a happy ending #criminal minds fics #criminal minds fanfic

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theoswriting · 3 years

Text

lavender, honey and coconut (e.p. x fem!r)

summary: Penelope Garcia can sniff out secrets like a cute security dog can sniff out drugs. y/n had been amused but had brushed off the warning. That had been her first mistake.

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader

word count: 4k

a/n: okay, this is my first time writing for cm and emily prentiss, so I hope it isn’t too ooc! this is definitely a different vibe to the show lmao, i mostly wrote this to amuse myself, and then decided it might be worth sharing. I hope you’lll enjoy it xo (tell me if u do, i’m nervous)

warnings: some alcohol is consumed, light swearing

ao3

Penelope Garcia can sniff out secrets like a cute security dog can sniff out drugs.

It's a well-known fact that if you want to keep something hidden, one, you don't tell Garcia because she's incapable of keeping anything secret and two, don't breathe near her because she will be able to figure out that you're hiding something, and she will know which buttons to push to get you to spill everything.

Penelope likes to think that in another life, she would've made a great interrogator. In this life though, she uses her powers to get what she wants out of her friends.

This was one of the first things y/n found out when she joined the BAU. Derek spoke about the tech goddess' powers with reverence while the rest of them spoke of it with fear. Even Hotch seemed a little disconcerted by the whole thing.

y/n had been amused but had brushed off the warning.

That had been her first mistake.

***

Paperwork days were the worst.

y/n should probably love them more because if she's stuck behind her desk, it means that no one is out there getting brutally murdered. Still, it's a lot less exciting. It doesn't help that the bullpen is oddly quiet, everyone focused on their files. Spencer is going through his about a mile a minute, stopping from time to time to rewrite something or to look up some kind of information. Derek is slower and y/n can almost see the boredom oozing out of him. Yet, he doesn't look up when she looks over at him and keeps diligently going through his notes.

Finally, her eyes land on Emily. Her head is propped up on her left hand as she writes with the right. Occasionally, she will bite her nails as she focuses hard on part of her notes. y/n thinks she looks extra cute when she frowns, trying to understand her own writing. It makes y/n smile before refocusing on her own work.

y/n is almost done with one of her reports when she notices some missing information. She could easily look it up herself, but she's bored and this is the perfect excuse to get away from her desk for a bit. So she stands up, gathers her papers and walks to her favourite tech genius' lair.

y/n opens the door and sees Penelope's back turned to her. Before she can say anything, Garcia's voice rings out.

"Well if it isn't my favourite ray of sunshine, what can I do for you, y/n?"

y/n smiles at the blonde's greeting, as she sits down next to her, "Are you busy?"

"Not at all!"

"Great, I'm missing some information on this file, but most importantly, I'm in dire need of entertainment."

Garcia happily grabs the file from y/n and starts tapping away at her computer, putting up the information she needs on her screen in no time. She prints it all out and hands it to y/n with a flourish.

"Here's the info you need," She starts, but her eyes quickly turn regretful, "Sadly, I have no recent office gossip to entertain you with."

y/n pouts at that, "Damn, not even from Slutty David?"

Penelope shakes her head and opens her mouth to speak when she suddenly frowns at y/n. She pulls back slightly and y/n wonders if she'd forgotten to put on deodorant that morning. Penelope says nothing, just watches her.

"What?" y/n finally asks, unnerved by the staring.

"What are you not telling me?" Garcia asks simply and it's y/n's turn to frown. She can't think of anything that she might be hiding from her friend.

"Nothing?"

y/n is pretty sure that's the wrong answer and that Penelope is going to keep asking her questions until she confesses to something she didn't even know she was hiding. To her surprise though, Garcia only stares at her for a few more seconds before dropping it. As quick as it disappeared, her bright smile is back on her face and she goes back to telling a story.

It turns out that yes, she did have something to tell y/n about Slutty David.

y/n leaves Penelope about twenty minutes later with a refreshed brain, ready to get back to work. When she gets back to her desk, Emily looks up to give her a smile. y/n smiles back and winks at her as she sits down. Emily's smile broadens before she turns her focus back to the file in front of her.

y/n does the same, her smile staying even while going through an autopsy report. It's only hours later when y/n is almost done with paperwork that she freezes. She looks up at Emily and realizes.

That's what she's been hiding.

She frowns. There's no way Garcia knows that though, she and Emily have made sure, they've been careful.

Yeah, it was probably a fluke.

***

Mornings where she gets to wake up next to Emily are y/n's favourites. Even the early ones, when they get called in for a case, having Emily next to her makes it all easier.

That's what happens that morning, both of their phones going off at 5:45 am. Emily is the one to reach for her phone while y/n latches onto her and drops a kiss on her girlfriend's shoulder.

"It's JJ. We have to go in."

y/n nods and painstakingly opens her eyes. She drops another kiss on Emily's shoulder and turns away from her to get up, but before she can go too far, Emily reaches for her and kisses her. y/n scrunches up her nose even though she's smiling into the kiss.

"Morning breath. Gross," She manages to mutter against Emily's lips.

"Don't care."

y/n had wondered when they started dating if it would get to a point where it'd be too much to be together and then work together as well. Now, six months into their relationship, y/n knows she had worried over nothing. They have a system and boundaries. They keep the PDA to a minimum at work, which isn't a problem considering they had decided to keep their relationship a secret from the team. It's not that Prentiss and y/l/n don't trust their coworkers, it's more than they don't want to screw up the group's dynamics.

And it's also ridiculously funny to see how long it's taking a whole group of profilers to figure out that two members of their team are dating.

After getting dressed, y/n starts packing a new bag, taking clothes from the one drawer Emily had emptied out and gifted to her on their 2 months anniversary. Emily had a similar one at y/n's place. Considering their jobs and the amount of time they spent at each other's place, they figured it was smart to always have enough clothes at each other's place for instances like these.

Not even 10 minutes later, they're out of the door. They kiss one last time before Emily gets into her car and y/n gets into hers. As usual, y/n takes the long way to work, her place being famously further away than Emily's. So when she finally gets to the conference room, everyone is already there and waiting for Hotch.

y/n sits in between Derek and Spencer, "Good morning, my people!"

"It certainly is not," Hotch deadpans as he enters the room. y/n closes her mouth and nods to herself. She should've seen that one coming.

The others chuckle quietly, but the laughter quickly dies. Hotch was right. This is far from a good morning.

The murders are gruesome, the victims are all women which bear a striking resemblance to Emily. y/n doesn't bring attention to it, it wouldn't bring anything to the case except worry over a detail that isn't of much importance, at least not right now. Instead, she watches her girlfriend look at the pictures, and by the way her jaw clenches and unclenches repeatedly, she's come to the same realization.

"Alright everyone, wheels up in 20." Hotch dismisses them, and almost everyone rushes out of the room to get their bags. Garcia stays behind though, and so does Emily. y/n gathers her stuff slowly then, waiting for Garcia to leave the room so she can have a moment alone with her girlfriend.

Garcia doesn't leave, though.

She's staring at y/n ominously. She's missing a furry cat to be petting and she'd look like a supervillain from a cheesy action movie. y/n tries smiling at her, but the blonde doesn't respond in the slightest.

y/n leaves the room. She'll check up on Emily before take-off. She is big enough to admit that she was a little freaked out by Garcia.

She thinks nothing of it until hours later, when she's setting up their evidence board in a small town in buttfuck, Texas. JJ is standing next to her, writing the name of the second victim.

"Garcia has been asking about you."

It's such a weird thing to say that y/n is a bit taken aback. She pauses and slowly turns to look at JJ, "Uhm… Okay?"

JJ puts the cap on the pen and turns to y/n, her face probably too serious for whatever this is about.

"Remember when we told you about Garcia's weird ability to tell when someone is hiding something juicy?" y/n nods, still confused as to where this is going, "Well, she's smelt whatever it is that you're hiding."

y/n briefly wonders if no one is bothered by the constant comparison of Garcia to a literal hound dog, but apparently not. She lets out a small chuckle and nods at JJ, clearly not believing the warning tone the blonde had used, "Yeah, okay, I'll sleep with one eye open."

"y/n, I'm serious," JJ lowers her voice and looks around before confiding, "Penelope is the reason the whole team knows I had a one night stand with Slutty David."

"You had sex with Slutty David?"

JJ shudders, "Everybody makes mistakes."

***

y/n tells Emily about JJ's warning as they cuddle into bed that same night, exhausted from a day of leads getting them nowhere. To her surprise, Emily agrees with JJ.

"Garcia has a way of getting you to admit to things you thought you'd never say out loud."

The way she talks about it has y/n looking up from her very comfortable spot on Emily's shoulder to her girlfriend's face. She's staring off in the distance as if haunted by whatever it is that Garcia had dug up on her.

"What the hell did she find out about you?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

***

"So, are you seeing anyone?"

It's Saturday night and they're out at a club for a Girl's night. After the case they'd had, they deserved a night to unwind. They've chosen a bar where the music is loud, but not loud enough to drown out Penelope's question. JJ and Emily are gone, lost somewhere in the crowd fighting for the bartender's attention, in search of more drinks. As y/n's brain finally processes what Garcia has just asked, she fights the urge to smile and look for Emily.

y/n has drunk enough to be on the dumb side of gay.

"Why do you ask?"

"Answering a question with another question, very telling," Garcia smirks.

Penelope seems oddly composed for someone who is two cocktails and three shots deep into the party. Usually, a drunk Garcia means sloppy kisses on the cheek and getting her away from attractive strangers before she can say anything overtly sexual or inappropriate. So something doesn't add up. y/n squints her eyes at the blonde in front of her, like that will somehow help her see things clearer.

It doesn't. Everything looks fuzzy and she probably should stop drinking.

"I'm not."

The lie tastes gross in y/n's mouth and if there's one thing that could make her feel better, it would be kissing Emily. Before she can stop it, a smitten smile makes its way onto her face. Garcia slams a hand on the table, making y/n jump. She focuses her eyes on Penelope who's pointing an accusing finger at her.

"There! Who did you just think about?"

y/n sputters, racking her brain for a more convincing lie but she can't stop smiling so she gives in. Damn her inability to lie when she's drunk.

"Okay, fine" y/n amends, "I am seeing someone, but please keep it quiet."

Penelope obviously does not keep quiet. Instead, she squeals loud enough that she startles a few people passing by their table. Of course, that's also the moment JJ and Emily pick to come back.

So when Garcia basically yells, "I knew it!" for the whole bar to hear, there's no way y/n is getting out of this one.

"Knew what?" Emily asks with a smile as she puts down a drink in front of y/n. She immediately grabs it, thinking that maybe if she blacks out, this conversation will also be erased from the history of the universe.

"y/n is seeing someone!" Penelope happily informs the two recently arrived. JJ whips her head, excitement filling her eyes, about a million questions fighting to be asked first. Emily, for her part, chokes on her drink.

"Why haven't you told us anything?" JJ says, her blue eyes even more glassy than usual, "Who is it?"

y/n shrugs, going for a nonchalant vibe. She goes with something vague.

"You don't know her."

Penelope's smile widens, "Oh, so it's a her."

Shit. Not vague enough.

What follows are a series of questions that y/n refuses to answer and thankfully, with Emily there to mediate, they manage to change the subject. Seriously, y/n could kiss her right then and there. Instead, she takes a sip of her drink and glances towards Emily. They decide to leave less than an hour later. JJ is about one sip away from taking her top off while y/n is just about ready to throw caution to the wind and start making out with Emily. To hell with consequences.

Penelope is still suspiciously acting sane.

"Oh, Pen, be careful, someone dropped their drinks right behind your chair."

JJ's heads up makes y/n glare at Garcia who looks a little too guilty.

***

When they get back to Emily's place, y/n barely waits until the front door is closed before kissing Emily. Emily welcomes it, blindly throwing away the keys to wrap both hands around her girlfriend's neck. The kissing is sweet, the taste of their last drinks still sticking to their mouths. It's a little messy due to the fact they're both smiling like two goddamn idiots in love. When they stop, Emily grabs y/n by the hand and drags her to the kitchen so they can both drink water to make their hangovers hopefully less painful in the morning.

They're almost done when Emily speaks.

"We have a problem."

y/n stops moving. She should've known this moment would come.

"Listen, if this is about the burnt toaster, I've already ordered a new one."

"Garcia- What?" Emily turns around to look at the spot where her toaster usually rests, "What happened?"

Realizing her mistake, y/n puts her empty glass of water down and wraps her arms around Emily's waist, "Nothing you need to worry about," Emily looks back at her girlfriend who looks too innocent, "What were you going to say?"

"Garcia knows you're with someone."

y/n nods slowly, wondering where Emily is going with this. She doesn't see any problems. Sure, Penelope knows that she might be sort of taken by a woman, but that's it. Even in her drunken state, she'd managed to keep any other incriminating details to herself.

"Garcia has a way of finding things out, it's only a matter of time until she puts two and two together."

Emily looks genuinely fearful and y/n wonders again, what kind of dirt Penelope had gotten Emily to disclose. She thinks back to JJ's warning as well. y/n turns it over in her head, but in the end, she scoffs and leans up to kiss Emily.

"Don't worry, babe. I'll make up a fake break up or something and we'll be fine."

Thinking she could fool Penelope Garcia so easily was y/n's second mistake.

***

Derek is getting himself coffee when y/n swiftly approaches him from the side.

"What secret did Garcia get out of Emily?"

"Which time?"

"There's more than one?"

"Oh yeah."

***

The whole thing with Garcia does make y/n and Emily reconsider telling the team, or at the very least, Hotch and HR.

They hadn't at first because of team dynamics, but mostly because they themselves were figuring out how they worked as a couple. It turns out they worked great, and hiding each other from their coworkers and best friends was getting a bit much for the both of them.

They wanted to show up at Rossi's dinner parties together without worrying about what their friends would think. y/n wanted to hold Emily's hand after a rough case on the jet without it being questioned, just as much as Emily wanted to drive with y/n to work every morning and walk into the building together.

So the next morning, Emily and y/n get to work before anyone else and walk into Hotch's office.

He doesn't have much of a reaction, not that they were expecting anything more.

What does surprise them is that, after giving them the whole speech about professionalism and whatnot, he smiles at them and says, "I'm happy for you both."

Aaron Hotchner smiles at them and y/n feels like her relationship has just been blessed by the angels from above.

***

"Hey, Spence? Do you know what Garcia dug up on Emily?"

"Emily sprained her wrist a few years back and told us that it had happened at the range. It turns out that she'd sprained it falling from her skateboard."

"Her skate- What?"

***

When y/n had told Emily they'd be fine, she wasn't being cocky, but she just knew that there was no way Garcia would suspect something with how careful they had been.

They never showed up together at work. At first, they always timed their arrivals carefully, until it became second nature. They were never overly affectionate with each other. If they needed to be comforted during a particularly hard case, they'd wait to be behind the closed doors of the hotel room they shared on most trips. As much as y/n wanted to, she never showed up to work wearing one of her girlfriend's sweaters, no matter how warm and comfortable they were.

Bottom line was, there was no reason for Garcia to suspect anything when their teammates who were literal profilers hadn't caught onto anything.

No one except Hotch knew. And only because they'd told him, so.

y/n should've known though, from being a profiler herself, that being too confident meant she was bound to slip up and make a mistake sooner rather than later.

It all happens very quickly.

JJ asks y/n if she can grab a couple of files she had left with Garcia and bring them back to her because she was waiting for someone to call and she couldn't go too far. y/n, of course, accepts, always happy to get away from her desk and the paperwork begging for her attention. She quickly knocks on Garcia's door before entering and the tech doesn't turn around as she greets her.

"Bonjour, Emily, what brings you to Casa Garcia today?"

y/n chuckles at the blonde's eccentricities, "Sorry, but you got it wrong, it's me."

Penelope rolls her chair around to face her and she looks truly distraught to have gotten it wrong, "But I always get it right. I'm the all-knowing Penelope Garcia."

y/n gently pats her shoulder as she reaches past her to some files she sees on the desk, "Are these JJ's? She asked me to get them for her."

Garcia nods, but she still looks defeated at having failed to guess her visitor's identity, so y/n tells her she'll come by later with some coffee for a chat. Penelope nods and turns her attention back to her computer and so she leaves.

It's funny, y/n thinks, that of all the people Penelope could have confused her with, it was Emily. Maybe some of Emily's fears had planted themselves into her brain unbeknownst to her because y/n suddenly feels very uneasy. Why did Pen think it was Emily walking in? Had she unconsciously started walking like her girlfriend? No, no, that was ridiculous. Emily had a very distinctive gate that was very different from y/n's.

Still, something is off. y/n trusts her gut, it has never failed her, and her gut is telling her something is off.

She doesn't know what though. She had woken up with Emily that morning and they'd actually had time to enjoy a nice breakfast together and had plenty of time to get ready together. In fact, they had even gotten to enjoy a very pleasant shower together. y/n smiles at that particularly good memory until she realizes.

"Shit," she mutters, but not quietly enough. She's standing in the middle of the bullpen, her coworkers' eyes on her. Before she can tell herself that it's fine, that she was just paranoid and that there was no way Penelope had noticed, she hears a familiar but hurried clicking of heels approach the bullpen. y/n turns around to see Penelope standing on the other side of the glass window and one look at her is all y/n needs.

She knows.

Before Garcia can make her way inside the bullpen and bring mayhem with her, y/n hastily makes her way to her. She drops JJ's files on her desk haphazardly under Derek, Emily and Spencer's bewildered eyes. When she gets to Penelope, she gently grabs her by the arm and urgently leads her away.

"You smell like lavender!" Penelope exclaims with no preamble, "You usually don't smell like lavender, you smell of honey and coconut, but never lavender and that's why I got confused!"

y/n confidently nods in greeting at an agent passing by Garcia's office as y/n shoves her inside. He looks unsettled but only smiles in return, preferring to ignore whatever is going on. Smart man.

"That's why I thought you were Emily! Because Emily is the one who smells of lavender!" Penelope is pacing while y/n stands with her back to the door.

"Okay, Pen, I need you to breathe," She says when the techie is still going on about lavender, honey and coconut.

"Breathe? How can I breathe when you and Emily are dating."

y/n thinks that's a bit dramatic, but Garcia has finally stopped pacing and talking. y/n slowly steps towards the blonde and puts both of her hands on her shoulders. She debates for a few seconds, wonders if she'd get away with a lie but at this point, y/n's pretty sure the cat is out of the bag.

"Yeah, Emily and I are together."

y/n should've been prepared for it, but when Garcia lets out a high pitched squeal, it still gets her by surprise. Her pained grimace is quickly chased away by laughter when Penelope hugs her with all the strength and excitement caffeine was providing her.

"This is so great, I'm so happy for you two!" She lets you go long enough to see the smile that's made its way onto her face. It's the same smitten smile she always gets whenever she thinks about Emily and Garcia honest to god pinches her cheeks, "Aww, look at that smile!"

y/n laughs and tries to get her cheeks away from anymore pinching. That's when the door opens enough for Emily to sneak her head in, "Hey you two, is everything okay?"

She looks at Penelope first, but her eyes end on y/n. Before she can say anything though, Penelope smirks, "Why yes, lover, everything is just fine."

At that, Emily gets in and closes the door behind her. She looks at y/n for confirmation.

y/n just nods, "Yeah, she knows."

"You bet your sweet ass I know!"

And with no further warning, Penelope tackles Emily in a hug much as she'd done with y/n minutes prior. When she lets her go, Emily steps closer to y/n, and with a hand on her lower back, she says, "I told you she'd find out."

y/n ignores the I told you so her girlfriend apparently couldn't wait to give her, but yeah, she's not wrong.

It'll teach her to ever doubt the abilities of the all-knowing Penelope Garcia.

***

Months and months later, y/n meets up with Penelope for brunch on a Sunday morning. Before she can even greet her, the blonde fixes her with a stare that is both strange but oh so very familiar.

"What are you planning?"

This time, y/n grins and tells Garcia not to worry, that she'll know in due time. After all, she can only hide the little velvet box in her coat pocket and its content for so long.

***

#emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss imagine #reader x emily prentiss #cm imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x you #emily prentiss #criminal minds #mywritings

160 notes · View notes

warmau · 4 years

Text

slytherin!au san

*this post was commissioned | find other ateez aus here warnings: suggestive themes (no strings attached situation), hp themed au but we ignore jkrowling <3

something crawls across your desk

round and dark and you don’t have to look twice to know what it is

part of you wants to turn and look over your shoulder where you are painfully aware of the fact that san is eyeing you up

he’s always sat at the back of potions - while you sat diligently in the front and part of you suspects its a strategical ploy on his end

actually, you don’t expect, he has told you many times before that the view is just better from back there

it’s sleazy and you should scoff at the attempt of bad flirtation

but it’s hard for you to hate it as much as maybe the rest of your gryffindor housemates might

because

you like san

but

you aren’t about to let anyone in school know

so instead of looking behind you, you take your wand and flick the spider off the corner of your desk

it falls - disappearing in a little cloud of smoke midair

san’s always said he prefers them to snakes, he knows his whole houses deal with snakes slithers back to the ancestral wizards and bloodlines - but arachnids are so much cooler in his opinion

you don’t like bugs or snakes or anything that likes the cover of darkness

the only exception funny enough is ...... well......... san

“so did you get a date to the deathday party?”

you break from thought and turn to your friend

“huh - we don’t need a date for deathday parties. it’s just halloween basically.”

“but it’s so much more fun to have someone to cuddle up to while the ghosts do all their prancing around....like what if you get scared and your boyfriend just........”

she clasps her hands around herself

“holds you~”

you roll your eyes and close your textbook

you pull your worksheet out and get up to place it on the professors desk

they smile and wave their hand to let you know you’re free to go, you say bye to your friend who grumbles in response that you’re abandoning them

and as you walk down the rows of students - you reach the back of the room

you don’t pause when you reach out for the door, but you feel the same gaze that's been burning through you since san transferred here last year

you thought you’d be disgusted with it by now

but you’ve come to enjoy the slight, hot sting

“so, about that deathday party?”

you groan

you don’t want to talk about stupid trivial school events right now

with sans lips against your neck and your back against the cool walls of the greenery

instead of an answer you just tilt his head back up, gripping under his jaw and letting your mouth find his in an attempt to kiss him, of course, but to stop him from asking anymore questions

san kind of gets your point and his hands slip from under your robes lower

until they’re pressing into the skin of your hip and then

his teeth sink into your lower lip and you pull back

“hey - i said don’t do tha-”

“do you want to go to the deathday party with me?”

you give him a blank stare

you hope he gets the point of it too, but with the way he hasn’t gone back to touching you, it’s clear he’s waiting for an actual verbal response

“you know we can’t just show up to a party together.”

“why not?”

his hands leave your skin and your uniform falls back into place, he moves a little but still remains standing between your knees

the sudden retreat of full contact makes you upset and you hook your foot around his to tug him forward

instead of tipping over and into you, he puts a hand flat on your thigh

“seriously, why not? are you scared that people will be mad about it.”

“no - you know that isn’t the reason.”

“then what is?”

you sit up and want to tell him the real answer

the one that has been bubbling in the back of your mind these past couple of weeks

it had really just been for fun, a thrilling and almost wholly self-serving reason

when you let san, a slytherin who was barely managing to pass half his classes, and notoriously known for being quite uninterested in studies, magical morality, or any of the things you held so near and dear to your heart

corner you in the history section of the library

the books ruffling their pages on their own to hide the sound that came out of your mouth when he’d bit down into your skin for the first time

really you had just wanted to do something reckless

because you were well on your way to being perfectly clean cut in every other manner

but now - if you were to be completely truthful with him - you couldn’t just say

“the reason is because im just using you. you mean nothing to me.”

because through all the sneaking around in tight corners

using disappearing spells to hide from teaches and classmates

finding yourselves alone in that room of his

far down the twisting halls of the slytherin dungeon

you had fallen for all the charms of a person you had told yourself you should loathe

but san’s embarrassingly bad flirting, desperate manner of scratching to be as close as possible to you, loud and attention hungry attitude

had spun tight around you

because he was all those things, but through it all - through the bedroom eyes and lips on your thighs

he was one of the most gentle people who had ever laid hands on you

sure, you two could get caught up in a firestorm of young energy that would lead to both of you parting ways with evidence under the layers of your clothes that you’d admire in the mirror of your bathroom for days after

but that’s not what you meant when you described him as gentle

it was his soul, that was at the core, tender

little pretty whispers about your neck, your wrist, your eyes

sometimes when you were just talking there was the righteousness that people said he lacked laced through each, carefully chosen word

he could seem like a wreck of a person to everyone, even his own friends

but you’d somehow managed to catch the moments

of him that were most vulnerable

soft gaze that waits with manner to know if you are comfortable and safe with him, poetic words about the shadows of your bodies, there was even a mark of true faithfulness

when you two had almost gotten caught by a angry upperclassman

and san had let you escape before turning himself in and being slapped loud and hard and echoing

“who was with you?”

the angry voice had barked and san had stood with his hands clasped in each other, knuckles white

“no one. i was alone.”

so now when he asks you what the reason is that you don’t just want to let the world know

why you don’t want to make a statement

that this fling isn’t just that shallow pleasure seeking adventure you had intended it to start as and end as

but that it’s two people - that really fit each other like puzzle pieces

you can only think of the real answer

which is

“im scared. im scared that you don’t mean it as much as i do.”

you don’t mutter those words, you just keep quiet again instead and san finally slips completely away from you

he grabs his robe, hands curling around the green collar

“saying nothing is enough of an answer.”

you slide off the table and try to stop him

but your hand doesn’t leave your side and your knees are weak

and you’re worried that too much noise will make someone curious come looking

so you just watch him weave through the plants, until he’s gone.

he’s really gone.

the days seem to start going backwards ..... even though the dates get closer and closer to the end of the month

maybe its you that starts to function on some kind of made up timeline? because everywhere and everyone you look

is somehow san

the couples sitting in the courtyard sharing food, notes, kisses - they’re you and san

the solitary roaming owls circling the sky with letters in tow - all the letters you imagine rain down

and when you pick one up it says his name, written with the pen strokes that you’ve seen flipping through his textbooks

even the spells that leave your lips while you practice just turn to chants of his name

but he doesn’t .... come back like you wait for. he’s not in the classes you share. he’s not waiting in the secret corners you’ve both chosen.

he’s nowhere and yet everywhere for you.

the night of the deathday celebration - the entire school is buzzing

not only are the ghosts all out to chatter and reminisce about their time as the living

but the students are rushing up and down between the houses in costumes and masks

you shove your face into your pillow and snap your fingers, commanding the door to your room to shut

only to be knocked on a moment later

you shout your roommates name, telling them to get it

you’re in no mood to celebrate. you just want to fall deeper and deeper into your bed until you’ve completely disappeared from view

you hear the scurrying of footsteps, laughter, and conversation and then suddenly a hand grabs your shoulder and flips you over

“get up! we’re going to the party!”

your roommate gleams with a grin and you politely, but harshly refuse

“but your date will be so sad if you don’t show up!”

you spring up at the word date. a part of your stomach flips and you think - is there anyway it could be him?

your friend takes your shift in expression as a positive sign, whisking you up and out of bed - putting something that feels like a headband on your head - and pushing you toward the door

you haven’t seen san for a week

even though you feel as if the thought of him has more than tortured you every hour of every day

so even with the chances being slim, you feel your shoulders tense and a nervousness seep in through your veins

did he really come all the way to the gryffindor tower? is he finally coming back? did he tell my friends he-

but you look up when you get to the hall and instead of san you see

kim hongjoong

he’s standing beside mingi, who is twirling your roommate around and giggling in unison with them

“i-”

you start and hongjoong extends his hand

“your friend said you wanted to ask me to the party, but didn’t have the time. but ill gladly take you if you’d like.”

you stare at his palm

then back at him and the pretty prince’s costume he has on

he’s actually exactly what you should want

he’s in the top ten students of the ravenclaw house, he took OWLs early, he has been interning at the ministry of magic since he was a fourth year

he’s clean cut, gentlemanly, quiet spoken, and just - perfect

like you

but your stomach flips again, in a bad way, in a way that’s telling you

no you don’t want to go to this party with him, but to refuse him to his face is somehow even worse than just giving in

so you put your hand in his with a fabricated smile, that somehow is enough to convince everyone else.

until you hear mingi let out a sound of surprise, you turn and look at him - fully expecting him to read through your fake happiness

but instead he points the floor

“spider!”

you turn and see the spider

“sa-”

hongjoong crushes it with his shoe - hand still holding yours

“got it, should we head to the party?”

so you end up in a familiar place with an unfamiliar persons hands on your waist

dancing in the low light of the slytherin dungeons dorm

which has been transformed with pumpkin lighting and live music where every time the beat drops a bolt of electricity sparks from every corner

the ghosts, always fond of the cold and the dark, had chosen this as the venue for the deathday party

and although the headmaster and professors were looking grim about the prospect of the dorms being absolutely trashed

everyone else was having a blast

drinking spiked candy corn punch and pressing closer than mandated by the rules

prefects were running around casting spells to push people from each other, but they were just snapping back into each other like magnets

and in the shadows and heat of everyone else you can’t help but think about san again

you are looking at hongjoong, you are trying to focus on something he is saying about the music

but the wires of your mind are tangling and twisting and turning his hands on your waist into sans and his eyes into sans and his lips into sans-

it takes you a moment because you’re so dazed

to realize the lips you’re dreaming about aren’t kissing you, but hongjoong is

you pull back in horror and he mumbles an apology - but you turn, sensing something daunting

when you see - against the wall - staring right at you is the gaze that’s been on you for so long that you can never mistake it for another

“san!”

you gasp, and your hands drop from hongjoong’s shoulders, fast enough to watch san turn and disappear through the doors

“san?”

hongjoong repeats

“the slytherin? why are you-”

you rush toward him, pushing past the bodies that all seem to meld into one and other

the electricity zaps just as the door closes and it makes you jump and when you push it back open

the sound and the crowd shrinks

and you are looking down a dark, cold hall

you take your wand out and spark a small light from the tip - “san?” you call his name

legs shaking, voice a small tremble

there’s no answer

you keep going - subjecting yourself to the deeper parts of the dungeon until you think you’ve walked almost the entire hall and in front of you is a wall

something crawls up the side of your leg and you freeze

“san?”

you breathe again - but there’s no response and the feeling keeps coming up your skin, up your clothes, up and onto your neck and then

just as you think you can feel it begin to crawl up to your lips

it disappears and you turn because something like a flame starts to bloom from the center of your back

and when you do

it’s san

a spider crawls across his cheek, disappearing into smoke on him too

you don’t want to settle your breathing yet

you feel like you’ve been bounded to the spot you’re standing in

“you could have just told me there was someone else.”

“there isn’t.”

“i saw it - you can’t just -”

he starts, voice dropping until you think there’s only one thing you can say that would prove to him that it’s him

“i want to be with you.”

his eyes, long and overcasted with pain, widen

“being without you is like being without myself”

you stumble over the words - unfamiliar with this feeling of anxiety that has never grasped you so fully

“it’s stupid to be scared of you leaving me, but i am more terrified that i won’t have you at all to begin with.”

he is searing through you with the gaze

but the flame that used to burn hot with desire is now a cool, blue fire

that is scoping you out, weighing your words in his mind

until he presses his lips to yours and you lean back against the wall to let your hands find his neck

“i won’t leave you.”

he breathes into your skin

his scent floating around you and comforting you in the dark as you drop your wand and the only light you two had is gone

“you might even get sick of me and ask me too, but i won’t because i love you.”

you want to laugh at that

not because it is funny but because he must be insane

to think you’d ever get sick of him

even a week without him has left you suffering in withdrawl, for the first time it’s you who san can’t keep up with

as you kiss him back harder and lick into the roof of his mouth and pull your hands under his shirt

and he has to nearly stop you from undressing him there - because you just want to devour this moment over and over

until the taste of him is ingrained in your memory and you can recall what its like to have his pulse against your tongue even if a million miles separate you

san returns the sentiment, his hands itch too to find the places he adores most but even still

the entire school is a hallway away, so is the headmaster

so he lets you kiss him again, mark the side of his jawline and get your hands down to his belt before he mutters that he knows a shortcut to his room from here

you and san don’t return to the party

but the house ghosts saw you

and in the morning when san is walking down the gryffindor hall from your dorm

everyone knows very damn well why he’s there

the shock the questions the side eyes are all what you expected

but they don’t compare to the comfort that comes with having him beside you again

sitting with him at the top of the tower, legs swinging over the side, his smile in your neck

“i think its kinda cool that our anniversary is on halloween”

he comments one day as you’re sitting in his lap in slytherin commons

you turn to look at him

“wait, did you have a costume for the deathday part - what was it? i didn’t see.”

“oh you didn’t notice?”

you shake your head and san plays with your fingers before grinning up at you - long cheshire smile

“i was dressed as your boyfriend. fitting huh?”

you lean forward and he puckers his lips in anticipation, but then yelps when you flick his forehead

“i think you might have been right about that getting sick of you predication.”

#ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez au #san scenarios #san imagines #san au #ateez #suggestive themes #members: ateez #choi san imagines #choi san au #writing commissions #hp!au

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softomi · 3 years

Text

now accepting boyfriend applications: literature

synopsis: phone dead, laptop gone, guess it’s an old fashioned having to sit down and talk to the boys who apparently are interested in the position of being your boyfriend. first; you just have to make it to your literature class.

series: now accepting boyfriend applications

previous: now accepting boyfriend applications

next up: intro to business

series taglist: @kyomihann @chesley-cant-deal @bluearmufs @your-consulting-fangirl @itsmeaudrieee @winunk @aegiseterna @katelyns-stuff @mochipk @3rachachoo @kyuudere

*bold means I wasn’t able to tag you*

general taglist: @graykageyama @tsumue @thesorebae @micasaessakusa @alouphen @waitforitillwritemywayout

Your phone was still charging, it’s in your bag plugged into a power bank and you’re hoping it’ll charge enough soon. You’ve made it to campus with five minutes to spare, you can already see Akaashi through the windows of the class. He’s absolutely cute and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about what it would be like to date him, but you were so blissfully in love with your ex that you never took the chance to fully indulge yourself to fantasize.

And while he’s in class looking like he just walked right out of a manga in a university setting; you look exactly as it would sound like, as if you just woke up and ran to campus. Your hair is a mess, you tried running through campus attempting to put it up in a bun, it’s lopsided and you’re using the hood of your sweatshirt to try and cover up the mess of a mop it is. It doesn’t help that the only reason you’re wearing a sweatshirt is because you didn’t have time to put on a bra so yeah, you’re walking around campus with no bra on and the ugly sweatpants with wine stains on it doesn’t do you justice either. You’re even decked out with a pair of sandals.

Honestly, how were you going to walk into class, look at Akaashi in the face, and just act as if he didn’t send you a boyfriend application. When he sees you, he’ll definitely retract his resume.

There’s two minutes left and you’re awkwardly poking your head in. No one is giving you the time of day but it feels like all eyes are on you when you step in. Perhaps you shouldn’t be too ashamed of your looks as you’re nearing the end of the semester and most girls have switched out their cute skirts for tracksuit pants.

You’re slowly going towards your seat, Akaashi diligently writing in his notebook and he finally looks up. Through his glasses, he meets your gaze, his lips slowly part and he’s blinking as if wondering if you were really you. As you pull into your seat, he stares down at his notebook, he’s stopped writing and everything in you is just screaming at you to not scream out loud because there was no going back on this weird friendship type relationship that you two have developed.

Akaashi shuffles in his seat, his body is turned to face you and he’s so close to opening his mouth when the teacher’s voice makes his thoughts stop. He turns back to face the front, no words exchanged as you pull out your notebook, pencil, and charging cell phone that’s just reached fifteen percent. For the first time since the beginning of the semester, you’re going to take notes and listen intently to this hour and fifteen-minute long lecture.

Only ten minutes have passed and your professor has done nothing but decided to review on what the difference between a primary article and a secondary article is because some people just don’t understand why Wikipedia is not an official source. You peek a look over at Akaashi. He, too, seems incredibly bored but his hardworking nature has him at least trying to focus on the professor despite the pen in his hand drawing circles on his notepad.

When he looks over at you, a small smile on his lips, you’re quick to turn away with a blush on your cheeks.

At thirty minutes, your phone is dancing on the edge of thirty percent. It’s enough to get you to start looking through your phone and you find yourself once again clicking on Akaashi’s email. You lean your arm onto the desk, tilting your body just enough that you think he wouldn’t be able to see that you’re looking at his boyfriend application.

You’re skipping passed official details, instead ceasing the scrolling when you reach his skillset. It’s all very professional sounding despite him referring to relationship and dating. It makes you crack a smile, you want to laugh out loud and not because it’s funny but because it’s actually really cute.

One of my skillsets is my height, considering your shorter height, I will be able to provide assistance whenever needed. While I may once in a while enjoy your smaller stature, I will try not to bring it up repeatedly to spare you of your feelings.

You bite down on your lower lip, suppressing the immense grin that wants to grow on your face. Through the strands of your hair, you peek another glance at him. This time he’s removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes slowly, a small yawn falling through his lips.

My biggest weakness is my busy schedule. I spend most of my days working part-time at the campus library and studying. As a literature major, I have multiple readings, essays, and assignments which may hinder my time to have a steady relationship but I believe that this weakness will later play a role as a strength in how devoted I am to what I love.

Well, that just made your heart skip ten beats.

My future goals include working as an editor, but right now my shorter-term goal would be to graduate with my literature degree on time. Another short-term goal I had developed over the semester was to ask you out on a date.

Your stomach spirals, you’re internally groaning at how cute this actually was.

“There’s twenty minutes left of class, during this time I’d like you to discuss with your revision partner about your last draft.”

Shit. You’re screaming in your head because this was not happening. Now you had to talk to Akaashi. The voices of students have now taken over the classroom, when you turn to look at Akaashi, a meek smile on you as he’s staring with his head tilted.

“Are you alright?” He’s asking so nicely, his voice soft and genuine. It feels like forever since someone has been so sweet to you.

Your hand reaches to scratch the back of your neck, a weak curve on your lips, “It’s been a pretty hectic twenty-four hours.”

Akaashi leans on his desk, cheek pressed against his palm and he’s asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your lips fall into a small pout because he’s just so sincere. He’s always been. Maybe that was why you had just the teeniest of crush on him earlier in the semester because he remembered the small details. When he noticed you switched from coffee to tea, you ranted to him for five minutes about how your boyfriend was adamant on you changing your lifestyle by switching to healthier options. The next class time you had together, Akaashi brought you coffee because as long as your boyfriend didn’t know then it was alright.

“Are you sure you want to listen to me?” You quirk a brow at him, “Because I’ll talk for the rest of the time.”

Akaashi sits up straight, flipping his notebook, pen ready in hand, “I must have forgotten to list listening as one of my strengths.” Your face burns all of a sudden, he has the smallest smirk on his face when he turns back to you, “I’ll take notes, tell me what’s wrong.”

You’re not used to someone listening to you, you’re used to someone interrupting you. It felt awkward at first, just letting everything roll off your tongue, and your eyes keep darting to the way his pen moves against his notebook. Was he actually taking notes of your rant? When you finish, he’s smiling, there’s a warmth to his grin that has you internally groaning.

“What did you write down?” You’re leaning over now, trying to get a good look at his notebook and you don’t even notice that the embarrassment in you has lifted. You’re no longer plagued with awkwardness like you were an hour ago.

Akaashi tilts his notebook for you to clearly see his handwriting. A wide smile taking over your expression. She’s cute when she’s talking. He was indeed more straightforward than you had imagined, you pictured him as shy and cute, while he was definitely the latter, he came off boldly.

“If I have to be honest.” He states suddenly, “My friend threw together that application and then sent it to you and then messaged you.” Your expression falters but he’s adverting his eyes just slightly, “I was too shy to try and message to ask if you were alright and well, my friend tends to get a little out of hand.” He’s grinning once more, rubbing the back of his neck, “I guess it sort of worked out in the end.”

The professor’s voice draws your attention, “Once you’re done discussing with your partner, you’re free to leave.”

You look at the time, sparing a glance to Akaashi, “I’m sorry, I have to get to my next class.” You’re shoving your stuff into your backpack and he also quickly packs up.

“I’ll walk you.” He’s so eager that he almost knocks over his coffee cup, “I mean if it’s alright with you?”

“Sure, my next class is.”

Akaashi interjects, “Intro to Business, across campus.”

You’re surprised he remembers, a little impressed that it feels like he’s leading the way to your next class. For a moment it’s silent, you can tell he’s a little nervous but heck you’re also very nervous.

“You said two other guys sent you an application?”

Slowly you nod, “I mean one’s definitely a no, he’s just so cocky, definitely not my type. The other?” You think for a moment, “He’s really nice, funny, and we’ve kind of built up a friendship over the semester.” You notice how silent Akaashi has suddenly fallen.

“So.” Akaashi is quiet, “Then you would say that I’m up against him?” The two of you have stopped in front of your class, Akaashi staring down at you; the look in his eyes suddenly changes. He was getting competitive, “I’ll make sure to win you over.”

Your cheeks dust with a blush. He’s suddenly digging in his bag; he pulls out a baseball style cap. His hand tugging back your hood, undoing your sloppy bun to let your hair fall down. Your heart races at the way he sneaks in a stroke through your hair before fitting the cap onto your head. It’s loosely hanging until he leans into you, he smells of a deep forest and you’re tempted to just wrap your fingers on his t-shirt and pull him in a little bit more.

“You’ll probably be more comfortable with a hat than a hood.” He pulls away once he’s fixed the strap but his scent lingers momentarily, “You should get to class.” He states sweetly, taking in the cute way you’re trying to hide your face with his hat.

“I’ll message you.” You say as you slowly hang around the doorway to your class, “To return the hat.” And possibly more. You think.

The moment you turn away, a blushing grin on you with your heart beating rapidly; everything stops when you come face to face with Kuroo Tetsuro. He’s got a cheeky look on him, slightly eyeing the man still lingering outside of the classroom. The two men meet gazes and there’s a sharp sting between the two; an acknowledgement of an opponent.

#now accepting boyfriend applications #haikyuu x reader #akaashi x reader #haikyuu #akaashi #haikyuu scenarios #akaashi scenarios #hq x reader #hq scenarios

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