Hi! Can you continue the flower shop AU with Warren but go into more detail Alex Summers' character? Like continue it with Alex x reader? I don't know I just really loved the AU! Thanks! 😊
Yes, absolutely! Alex Summers is my absolute favourite, so here you go!
A/N: ‘Lydia’ is just what I have named the
reader character from the original Florist AU for the purposes of this oneshot
to make it easier to read/understand.
(this was not supposed to be this long when i started j e s u s)
“Yeah, I’m moving down next week. I have
the lease on my new place all set up, so I’m actually going to be there pretty soon.”
You put your phone on speaker and set it on the kitchen counter in front of you
while you pull your leftovers out of the microwave.
“I didn’t realise you’d be down so soon!
Doesn’t your job start in like, two months’ time, though?” Lydia asks, her
voice a little distorted as it comes through the phone’s tiny speakers.
“Yeah, but I’m finished here and I sort of
figured I could get settled or whatever before-” You don’t get to finish the sentence
before Lydia cuts you off.
“Oh my god, please work at my shop. Please.
You’re in the area and I desperately need time off. It’s just me running the
shop like ninety percent of the time and I feel like I haven’t left my fucking
flower shop in years and I love it there, but I need a break. Please. I’ll pay
you and everything and it’ll only be for a little while but Warren and I just
want to take a vacation.”
“Christ, Lyds. Okay I’ll work at your
flower shop,” You say, laughing. “Fair warning, though. I know like, fuck all
about flowers, so you’ll need to show me what to do.” Her sigh of relief sounds
like a rush of static.
“I’ll show you everything. It isn’t that
hard, business is way slower in winter. You’ll be fine. I love you. You’re my
At the end of your first day, you already
have dirt under your nails from the potted plants and scratches on your hands
from rose thorns, but Lydia wasn’t lying. It really wasn’t all that hard. You
wait for her to finish locking up, and then she grabs your arm and all but
drags you next door into the tattoo parlour where Warren works. When you walk
into the building, you are faced with three large, tattooed males, all of whom
were in the process of locking up their own shop for the night.
“Guys, this is (Y/N). She’s the reason I am
actually able to take a vacation and you should all treat her with the appropriate
gratitude,” Lydia addresses the introduction to the two unfamiliar faces,
having introduced you to Warren when you first arrived. “(Y/N),” she continues,
“This is Alex Summers and his brother Scott,” She gestures to the two of them
as she names them. They both dutifully step forwards to shake your hand, and as
you take in Alex’s leather jacket and dog tags, you decide that he’s someone
you’d like to know better. “Okay, we’re all going out for drinks. No
exceptions. Scott, before you start sulking, Jean is meeting us at the bar.”
Lydia commands, spinning on her heel and heading for the door, towing you after
“God, you haven’t changed a bit since uni,”
You quip, sliding into her car, and she sticks her tongue out at you as she
pulls away from the curb.
The bar is a little noisy, but it’s nice.
As you walk in, Lydia pulls you over to the booth Jean is sat at. Scott approaches
moments later, slipping in beside Jean and kissing her quickly. Warren and Alex
appear soon after, the former holding a tray laden with drinks, all of which
are gratefully accepted. They both slip into the remaining spaces in the booth,
and if you feel something warm and thrilling stirring in your chest as Alex
wedges himself in beside you, then you ignore it.
The six of you quickly fall into a
comfortable rhythm, exchange easy conversation and trading old stories about the
others, most of which reveal some sort of embarrassing information about a
member of the group and are met with groans from the subject of the story and
laughter from the remainder. After a while, Jean and Scott duck out, citing fatigue
as they leave. As you’re idly watching them walk out, Scott winds an arm around
Jean’s waist, pulling her close to him, and Warren smirks across the table at
“I’m pretty sure your little brother gets
laid more often than you do.”
“And how much did he pay you to say that.
Go buy me a drink, dickhead. That’s your punishment.” Alex glares back at his
friend in mock irritation and you and Lydia collapse into laughter as Warren
flips Alex off, slipping out of the booth to get to the bar.
It’s an unseasonably warm afternoon for
November when you watch Lydia and Warren drive off to the airport. She had
insisted on coming in for the morning, making sure you had working keys, instructions
for weird plants and alarm codes, but you managed to get her in the car, and
now you were stood at the curb, watching her and Warren pull away.
“Make sure you actually see Prague, sweetheart,” you shout teasingly
after her. She flips you off out the car window, and you blow a kiss back at
“Twenty bucks says they don’t get further
than a mile from the hotel” Alex quips, having appeared just behind you. You turn
and grin up at him.
‘I’ll take that bet. Prague is on her
bucket list, so I reckon they’ll get at least two miles,” You remark, extending
a hand to shake on the agreement. Alex laughs and shakes your hand before slinging
an arm over your shoulders, and maybe your throat tightens a little, maybe it
“You clearly don’t know how determined
Warren is. It will be an absolute pleasure to take your money,” He jokes, and
you roll your eyes.
“We’ll see who’s paying up in two weeks’
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is blaring from
the speakers in the flower shop as you haul a potted lemon tree from a shady
corner into more direct sunlight. You had closed up at lunch time to re
rationalise the yard, and had taken the opportunity to crank the volume on your
music. You straighten up, pushing stray hairs out of your eyes as you survey
your work, when you suddenly become conscious of someone watching you. Turning
around, you see Alex leaning out the window of the tattoo parlour. His sleeves
have ridden up, giving you a spectacular view of an intricate spiral tattoo
wrapping around one of his biceps, and you find your mouth inexplicably dry.
“What’s up?” You lean against a display
bench of herbs in front of you.
“You wanna get a drink with Scott and me
after work?” He suggests. “The bar’s kind of a dive, but it’ll be fun.” You arch
an eyebrow at him.
“Is there a pool table? It isn’t an
official dive bar without a pool table.”
“I can confirm that there is, actually, a
pool table.” He smirks at you, clearly amused. “I assume you play?” he asks and
all you can do is chuckle at him, because you play pool really fucking well.
“Sweetheart, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
You were right. You do kick his ass, and
you make a point of rubbing it in, but all he does is laugh good naturedly and
offer you his leather jacket as you walk back to where you’d both parked
because it’s a cold night and ‘Hey, I’d better show proper deference after such
an appropriately termed ass-kicking’. You invite him round for Chinese takeout
a few nights later and you start watching Vikings on Netflix, and over a
stupidly short amount of time, the two of you fall into a routine that’s almost
domestic, which feels ridiculous sometimes because, much to your
disappointment, you’re not actually dating.
You catch yourself staring at him, or
finding excuses to lean on him and when he smiles at you, you feel something in
your chest tighten and you know you’re attracted to him, but you’re friends,
and it’s great, so you just leave it be. And if you feel like he might be
staring too, then you do your best to ignore it because if legal adulthood
meant dealing with your feelings like an adult, then no one had told you about
that particular rule.
Lydia and Warren got back from Prague that afternoon.
You had grilled them about their trip, looked at the appropriate photos and
then promptly sent them to sleep off the long plane flight. Lydia had put up a
weak protest when you firmly informed her that you could handle the shop the
next day because she clearly needed to recover from her jetlag, but protest
aside, keeping her home had not taken a lot of convincing.
Just as you’re locking up for the night,
Alex appears, leaning against the doorway.
“Wanna finish up ‘Vikings’ tonight? We can
get Chinese from just up the road.” He suggests, and as he smiles languidly at
you, you find yourself wondering if he’s aware of just how attractive he is or
if his effortless confidence is just a well-engineered facade. You return his
smile without a second thought
“Yes to both.”
As the credits roll on the last episode of
the season, you look at your phone and pull a face.
“Ugh, I should go. I open before you do, so
I should get some sleep.” And you head to the door, grabbing your wallet and
car keys off the table and toeing your shoes back on. Your hand is on the
doorhandle when he grabs your arm, stopping you from going.
“Wait, here.” He pulls a crumpled $20 out
of his pocket and holds it out to you. You frown slightly in confusion.
“No, Alex, I said dinner was on me-”
“The bet. You won, remember? Lyds and
Warren made it all the way to Salzburg, so I owe you $20.” He reminds you. Your
gaze darts between the twenty in his hand and his eyes and you make a split
second decision, because you’ve always been good at not overthinking things.
“How about I change the terms slightly.”
You suggest, and he arches an eyebrow.
“What did you have in mind?” He asks, and
you’re still not thinking about it because if you do, you’ll stop now, and you
really, really don’t want to stop.
“Something like this.” And you grab a
fistful of his shirt, yanking him towards you and pulling his lips down hard to
yours. He responds immediately, his arms going around your waist and hauling
your body against his. His lips are soft and perfect against yours, but your pulse is beating wildly in your
ears and all you’re really aware of is that you’re kissing him and he’s kissing
you back and all you can think is fucking
finally. His teeth graze against your lower lip and your knees go weak and
you’re pretty sure that he’s most of the reason you’re still upright but you
can’t find it in you to care.
He drags his lips from yours, mouthing
hotly at your jaw and down to your neck and the moan he draws out of you as he
nips at the skin on your collarbone makes him pull back and smirk arrogantly
down at you.
Thorin jerks awake with a shudder and a dry cough. His throat feels like sandpaper; parched as if he’s not drunken in ages, and a hand sets a cup of blissfully cold water to his lips.
“Careful, careful,” somebody says, while caressing Thorin’s hair, “Don’t drink too fast.”
Thorin empties the cup, breathes in relief. Reality asserts itself – he recognizes the ceiling, the room and the bed. The fabrics feel richer than they should, and the last time he looked at the mosaics on the ceiling they were worn and dull. Now the gold shines and the missing gems have been replaced.
“Thorin?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin whirls around to see a familiar figure seated at his bedside. Bilbo Baggins wears a dark blue coat, decorated with Durin’s symbols and of obvious dwarven make. The garment looks wonderful on him – and perhaps much more time passed then Thorin remembers.
The last thing he recalls is passing out on Ravenhill, with Bilbo pleading for him to stay alive.
“Bilbo,” he rasps, glad that he survived after all. The Valar must have had mercy, though he had been so certain he’d die. “What … happened?”
Bilbo smiles. There are new lines surrounding his eyes, speaking of exhaustion. “Don’t worry, Thorin. You’re back – just rest, and once you have recovered, I will tell you.”