#but... that's something to leave to other artists | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wxsteriawishes · 2 days ago

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the lads men finding you again in this life. . . but you're already with someone else (angst version) what who said that

post-writing clarity: written while listening to the Dear Hongrang OST, very much set the mood. i recommend! most songs are instrumental.

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content: mentions of death, mentions of toxic behavior/abuse, use of indecent language/swearing, use of pet names (pips)

caleb

bonus points: imagine zayne is "the other guy" in caleb's story

he'd immediately try sabotaging the two of you. over and over again, using his status and evol to his benefit and that asshole's detriment. he'd play the perfect older brother, you'd come crying to him each time something went wrong. each time an issue popped up. caleb wouldn't let him enter the house, wouldn't let him explain or apologize. he'd let the miscommunications fester. when you find out how much caleb had been meddling, you're furious, you're outraged -- you feel betrayed. he had already lied about his death, now this?initially, he's firm and stubborn. he won't let go of you. "can't you see how much better i could treat you?" maybe if you were single, he'd let you be. but you acted as if you were in love with that other guy, like you might marry him. spend your whole life with him? he can't have that, now, can he? no, that wouldn't do. he locks you up, hides you away from the rest of the world. you didn't even get to say goodbye, you had screamed at him once. he didn't care. you missed your lover, you never quite had the courage to confess. he could tell anyway. he didn't relent. "i know you, pips! he'll never know you like i do." you don't know for sure what happened to your partner ex. you get hints. caleb tells you he took care of him. you didn't have to guess at what that meant. the important part was that you'd never be able to see him again. it broke you apart. you stopped speaking, ate less, never laughed. your smiles were only half-hearted. you had trouble sleeping. it takes a while, but he eventually takes a step back. he sees you fading away, missing the man you used to be with, the one you really loved. you're just a shell of the bright, loving, confident woman you used to be. you don't even look at him anymore. he'd broken your trust. he was too intense, too possessive, too much. he lets you go. you don't look back. instead of your partner's loving arms, you come home to a tombstone and a death certificate. even though you eventually forgive caleb, you can't find it within yourself to love him back the way he's always loved you. he's killed (backstabbed) by one of his colleagues a few years later, eternally distracted by thoughts of you. people think he died without a lover. but he loved you to his grave, even when you didn't love him back. even when you had another in your own heart.

rafayel

bonus points: imagine sylus is "the other guy" in rafayel's story

he ignores you. initially, he wants to shout at you. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake until you remember him again, remember what you did to him, what the two of you had. he sees your eyes scanning the crowd and missing him. you didn't recognize him, you weren't even looking for him. he watches your lover lean down and plant a kiss on your lips, startling you. rafayel watches you blush and turns to leave. fine. if you were happy without him, who was he to object? the second time you meet, it's at one of rafayel's art exhibitions. he's mingling with the other guests. he's charming, captivating, unforgettable, everything a world-renowned artist like him should be. he's startled when you suddenly appear behind him. you introduce yourself and he turns around with his usual flirtatious gaze. he meets your sparkling eyes and, for a moment, he can't speak. why were you here? maybe you had finally remembered something-- but you only ask him for a favor. he pretends to be skeptical, when he was truly curious. he thought you might ask about lemuria. or at the very least, just be a fan of his work, wanting to meet him. but when he hears your favor. . . he laughs. hard. it sounds bitter, even to him. oh, you were audacious. who did you think you were? he wanted to say no, to just walk away, so badly. he was one of the best, for god's sake. he could afford to be an asshole this far in his career. but that would be cruel and unfair to you. you did not remember him, for whatever reason, and he couldn't expect anything from you. and, perhaps, he also just couldn't refuse you, no matter how hard he tried. like he was under your spell. thomas was right behind you. please say yes, his eyes seemed to be screaming at rafayel. so he does. only a few months later, he's dressed in soft pastels, blending in with the venue. he's sitting in the very front, a little off to the side, brush in hand. he paints. the life, the weather, the people. part of him feels like he's wasting his pigment on this. he's finally done when he hears you, "i do," voice full of emotion. rafayel watches the ring get pushed on your finger. he looks away. packs up his stuff, waits at the back, leaves before the afterparties. drowns himself in his work. years pass and people notice something had changed in his work. like something was missing. his fame and wealth skyrocketed. he had everything he could want. and most of all, he was happy. he didn't need you.

sylus

bonus points: imagine xavier is "the other guy" in sylus' story

he stalks you. he'd never call it that though. he was simply keeping an eye on you, to make sure you were safe. he has cameras set near your apartment building. when you go out, he usually sends luke and kieran, not willing to trust any of his mindless lackeys to ensure your safety. he has mephisto on the job when you're on a mission and you're trying to lay low. that's how he finds out you're with someone, another hunter. someone he had seen you spending time with at home and at work. instead of backing away, he keeps an even closer eye on you. what exactly had you two done? how far had you let him go? he kept catching his evol out of control, ready to strangle the man who dared touch you. he wouldn't believe you were in love with another. not when his soul was tied to yours. when you go on a sort of solo mission to find the leader of Onychinus, he sees his chance. he tries to get you to remember, he tries to resonate with you, he tries near everything he can think of. nothing works. no, he's only made things worse. you leave to go back to linkon city and he felt himself going insane. how had you forgotten everything? when it was you that tied your fate to his and cursed him. you, who doomed him to only be yours, when you couldn't even remember who he was to you now. on his better days, he has hope. he trusts that you'll make your way back to him. but on his worse days, he pays you a visit. he appears in your vicinity, scares the living hell out of you, and he wants to demand answers. but you hated him. you could only see him as the murderer of your foster grandmother and brother. he disgusted you, how could you love him with that fear, that betrayal in your eyes? one time, he appeared in your room while you were in his arms, the two of you in your bed. he went crazy. he lunged, aiming to kill. he almost did, but he caught sight of your eyes again. horror. pleading. tears. you call him a monster. his gaze dropped to his hands, strangling an innocent throat, black and crimson tendrils of smoke clouding his vision. you were in the corner of the room, looking like you wanted to disappear. sylus' grip loosened. he wanted to disappear. he stands up. takes a step back. he vanishes from the room. you never see him again.

xavier

bonus points: rafayel is "the other guy" in xavier's story

he'd introduce himself. he'd make his presence known each time he walked past your desk at work, past your door at home. he'd bring you home-baked muffins, to welcome you to the neighborhood. you're shocked by the acidic taste in the dough, but his aloof nature is charming. he leaves quite the impression on you. you become friends -- going on missions together, hanging out at his place on the weekends sometimes, having a drink together after a particularly intense fight. he's happy. he's friendly, he's sweet, he's respectful. he's such a gentleman, and honestly, a little bit of a flirt. he knows you don't remember anything. but he doesn't mind. it was more than perfect like this. he didn't have enough time to be nitpicking over the finer details. then you decide you want him to meet your fiancé. he had recently come back from a five-month-long world tour, you were saying, and you just had to introduce him to xavier. of course. xavier never did ask if you were single. he thought his feelings were obvious. he thought you two were on the same page. he forgot you didn't remember the things he did. you didn't catch the little inside jokes he made in reference to your past. and now, he was about to come face-to-face with your lover. fine, he'll be the judge of it. and when they met in person, xavier was livid. it would've been easier if he were horrible. but he wasn't. your fiancé was the whole package: deathly handsome, world-famous, wealthier than one could imagine, and most of all, he had left quite the impression on you too. only he had gotten to you first. xavier didn't ever smile at him, never spoke directly to him, always seething beneath the surface. the worst part was he was so good to you. he was so kind to you. xavier couldn't ignore that, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. you invited xavier to your wedding. he still tried to make you see him as the better choice. he could fight, he could protect you, he would never forsake you. but you couldn't turn your head from your husband, your heart couldn't stop loving the passionate, flirtatious, loving man you were already tied to. he could feel how distant you were getting already. he could feel the friendship hanging on by a thread. he had a choice: he could try and save it, savor what little interactions he had with you, or go off the grid again. he never got to make the choice. his body was so tired and he already had such little time. he should've noticed the signs, without your love and comfort, all alone again, the stress, the solitude, it was all getting to him. then, one night, you found yourself dressed in black, hand-in-hand with your husband. you were told it was painless, in the middle of the night. you were grateful. you never knew how deep his feelings went for you.

zayne

bonus points: imagine caleb is "the other guy" in zayne's story

he'd keep his distance. at first, he couldn't believe it. it was you. you were the girl in his dreams. the woman formed from fragments of his mind. it had been years since you two had last spoke. but that was before the nightmares started, when he began to think there was something wrong with him. but like a fairytale come to life, he saw you. your eyes, your smile, your everything -- you were divine. his drink was untouched as he stared out the window, into the town square. he needed to speak to you. he thought he was crazy, having nightmares of killing a wife he never even met. but there you stood, laughing as you were grabbed by the waist, kissed until you ran out of breath. his heart dropped. you looked so happy. all hopes of talking to you vanished. he wouldn't cross that line. he got up and left the café immediately. it wasn't his place, to try to speak of such an intimate matter to a taken woman. how could he ruin that for you? he wouldn't. but, maybe. . . he'd make sure to be assigned to you as your primary physician. he'd get to know you in a professional setting, in a respectful manner. just for his own sake. when you had problems with your boyfriend, he'd comfort you. give you advice, sometimes as a doctor, sometimes as a friend. he kept his eye on you to make sure you were never hurt. he couldn't help himself, he couldn't completely stay away. how could he? but he never pushed it. he never flirted with you. even when he might've felt like you were attracted to him too. you had been in your relationship for years, why would you risk that for him? he never explicitly expressed his feelings to you, never wanting you to feel pressured to return them. there were boundaries he wouldn't cross. you weren't his, for god's sake, no matter how much he'd wished otherwise. but he kept telling himself if things didn't work out between you and that guy, he'd try his own luck. two years later, he was attending your wedding. he watched you exchange your vows, eyes sparkling, skin glowing, like you were made of gems. he was so happy for you. he moved towns. kept having nightmares of your lifeless body, dying at his scarred hands.

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lessersole · 2 days ago

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Scarlet Sands

Pairing: Reader x Bucky (artist AU)

Summary: Newly arrived at an artist's retreat, you have mixed feelings about your next-door neighbour.

Word count: 6.9k

A/N: This was entirely inspired by this photo of Sebastian Stan, so thanks to the photographer, Norman Jean Roy. Also everyone in this is queer. Happy Pride month!

Warnings: Mentions of an emotionally abusive ex, drinking. A few MCU cameos, but no spoilers

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You close your eyes against the bright sun and take a deep breath of the dry desert air. This retreat is exactly what you need - getting out of the city, into a new environment. Leaving everything behind and focusing on yourself, and your art.

After getting your key to the small studio and apartment that will be your home for the next few weeks, you unpack, leaving all your art and photography supplies in the private space, along with your much less extensive personal items, before heading outside to take in the rest of the retreat. You’ve barely left your doorway when you hear a friendly voice calling your name across the dusty ground.

“Looks like you’re settling in already,” The woman beams, her pale red hair fluttering in the warm breeze as she extends a hand in greeting. “Welcome to Scarlet Sands! I’m Wanda.”

“Oh, hi!” You shake the hand of the woman you now recognise as the owner of the retreat. “It’s great to properly meet you.”

“Same to you. Beautiful isn’t it?”

“Incredible,” you agree, looking around at the vast sienna vista extending towards the horizon, distant outcroppings of rock peppering the view.

“I hope it’ll be very inspiring for you.” Wanda says. “Most of our residents are repeat visitors, there’s nothing like the open space to get your creativity flowing. Personally, I think there’s something magical about this place.”

“I’d believe it,” you chuckle. A few minutes here and you’re already feeling refreshed. “Are there a lot of other people staying at the moment?”

“Not too many - you’ll meet most of them at dinner; we try to encourage everyone to get together for that in the evenings, exchange ideas, get to know each other. But we also have a tradition here that the most recent person to check in shows the next new arrival around, so Bucky should be along any minute now to look after you. Any questions in the meantime?”

“No, the welcome pack explained everything perfectly.” You tell her. “Thanks Wanda.”

“No problem, we’re glad to have you here! I’ll see you in the main house at dinner.”

Grabbing your paints and a sketchpad from your room, you settle into one of the chairs on your small private porch, take another deep breath and stare out at the unobstructed view of the endless wilderness, and start mixing colours. You’re so lost in capturing the feel of the environment - so different to anywhere you’ve worked in before - that it’s only when the darker blues of night start bleeding into the sky that you realise this Bucky person never showed up. Frowning, you pack up your equipment and head to the communal building, lights flickering on around you as you make your way to dinner.

The dining area is half-open to the air, facing a patio space and steps down to a sunken firepit, all with stunning views of the surrounding landscape. There are already a few people moving around the room, which is dominated by a long wooden table running the length of it, backed by a small breakfast bar and kitchenette.

You enter hesitantly, then hoping to make yourself useful, aim for the swing doors at the back of the room where others are already helping to bring food out from what must be a full-size kitchen off the dining space. You narrowly avoid slamming into a man who emerges backwards, carrying an enormous steaming pot of something that smells delicious.

“Woah, careful there,” he says with a grin, his dark eyes warm.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologise, “I thought I could help.”

“You can,” he says, setting the pot down on the island, “I think the Coven has the silverware handled but there’s still other stuff to bring out.”

You introduce yourself as you follow him back through the doors to the kitchen.

“Oh yeah, the newbie,” he grins again, his energy infectious, “I’m Joaquin. Great to meet you.” He effortlessly lifts another enormous pot of rice, and you grab two smaller bowls of sour cream sitting ready to go out.

“The coven?” You question, wondering if you misheard his earlier comment.

“Over there,” he nods to two dark haired women haphazardly setting cutlery out along the table, “Agatha and Rio, they’re part of a collective out east, the Coven. They’ll probably try and recruit if you give them the chance. I’m pretty sure half the reason they keep coming back here is so they can convince Wanda to join them.”

As if summoned by her name, your host appears at your side. “Sit down, sit down! You just arrived, you should be taking it easy. Do you have a drink?”

“It’s no worry,” you assure her, “and just water’s fine.”

“You know the drinks and food are all included,” Joaquin leans in to tell you with a wink, “You should take full advantage of that.”

“And you can’t have chilli without a good red,” a British voice chips in, and you turn to see a tall blond man setting two bottles on the table before joining you, giving Wanda a kiss on the cheek as he does.

“This is Vision, my husband.” She introduces you, “And he’s right about the wine.”

Smiling at their warmth and easy affection, you agree to their suggestion. “Where do I get a glass?” You ask, looking around the room.

“This way,” Wanda shakes her head as she leads you to a cabinet at the back, “Bucky should have told you all this when he showed you around.”

“He, uh, didn’t actually turn up.”

“What?”

“Yeah, maybe he forgot, or didn’t know what room I was, or something.”

“You’re right next door to him, and I reminded him this morning.” Wanda frowns, but she’s interrupted by a loud bong before she can say more.

“Dinner is served!” Vision announces, before turning to Joaquin, who’s stood next to a shaking gong with a smile stretching from ear to ear, and pulling the beater from his hand. “Maybe a little less enthusiastically next time, eh?”

Wanda grabs a handful of wine glasses and nods you into the bustling line forming at the counter. Minutes later everyone’s seated, the smoky smell of the food dancing through the air, and a generous glass of wine in front of you.

“So what kind of art do you do?” You ask Joaquin, who’s seated opposite.

“Photography,” he tells you between bites, “I specialise in fast-moving things in motion, especially in the air. I’ve been focusing on nature photography lately, mainly birds of prey. Here, I’m looking for hawks, eagles, kestrels and my favourite, falcons.”

“Wow, that’s impressive. It must take a lot of skill to get those kind of photos.”

Joaquin shrugs off your compliment, “And a lot of great tech. You should see how huge my lens is.”

“Ugh, boys,” Agatha chips in with an eye-roll and a playful smile as she nudges your arm, “Always talking about the size of their lenses.”

You laugh as Joaquin goodnaturedly shakes his head and turns back to his food.

“So what do you do?” You ask her, taking the chance to get to know more of the other residents. “Joaquin says you’re part of a collective?”

“The Coven, yes. It’s a great bunch of powerful artists, all with different specialties, you’d love it. I’m a mixed media sculpturist, working with found objects. At least that’s the quick way to describe it.” She nods to the woman opposite her. “Rio here’s part of the gang too, but she’s more focused on destroying things.”

“Destruction is creation, darling.” Rio deadpans, wine glass in hand. “And that’s only a part of what I do, which is experimental performance art.”

“What do you do?” Joaquin asks, setting his cutlery down.

“Painting, mostly,” you tell him, looking down at your plate as you push a few grains of rice around, “Usually photorealistic landscapes, but I’m, uh, a bit out of practice lately.”

You quickly shovel food into your mouth. It’s been a long time since you talked with other artists about your work - you wanted to be in this environment, but you suddenly feel a nervous flash of imposter syndrome. What you do is so much more basic than them.

“Now that takes skill,” Joaquin tells you earnestly, “I couldn’t do anything like that.”

You smile at his generous comment before returning your attention to your meal.

The rest of the evening passes in the warm glow of good food and good company. You meet most of the other residents, even if briefly, and once everything’s been cleared away and a few early birds have disappeared off to their rooms, Wanda encourages the rest of you to take your drinks out to the fire pit - which she seems to light with not much more than a flick of her hand.

As Joaquin heads off to bed, needing to be up before dawn to catch sight of his birds, you hear him call out teasingly to a man approaching the building. “You missed the food, old man!”

Turning at his words, your heart almost stops as you see what is definitely not an old man. A tall, broad frame, a short beard emphasising a sharp jaw, thick dark hair, and eyes that gleam like ice even in the heat of the flickering firelight. An intricate tattoo runs the length of his left arm, all the way from his hand to where it disappears beneath the sleeve that strains tight over his bicep. This man has the kind of rare good looks that make you wish you did portraits, just for an excuse to stare at him longer.

“Bucky!” Wanda calls out, pouring cold water on your attraction before it has time to spark into flame. This is the guy who stood you up earlier? “There’s leftovers in the kitchen if you want to grab something. Although maybe I should be denying you since you skipped your neighbourly duty this afternoon.”

She nods in your direction and Bucky’s intense gaze falls to you. Returning it as neutrally as you can, you sip nonchalantly from your glass while he drinks you in.

“She was busy,” He answers coolly. How is even his voice devastating?

“Was she?” Wanda questions, turning to you.

“I was busy waiting for my tour guide,” you answer.

Bucky just shrugs, “She was so focused on her painting she didn’t hear me come out of my room. I figured she was in the zone. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Before either you or Wanda can reply, he disappears to get his leftovers from the kitchen.

“Then you can show her around tomorrow!” Wanda calls after him.

The conversation around the firepit resumes, but Bucky stays indoors alone to eat his food at the table. Feeling your long day of travel and chatter finally catch up with you, you decide to call it a night rather than see if he deigns to join the group after eating.

—

The next day, after a fresh breakfast and a few cups of coffee in the dining room, you’re itching to get outside and explore. Step one for you is finding a view you want to work on, and after pouring over maps of the nearby trails with Wanda, who left Vision to handle the breakfast cooking, you’ve found a promising start.

“If you set off now, you can be back before it gets too hot.” She tells you, glancing at the clock. “Remember to take lots of water, some food and mark on the sign out book where you’re going and when you’ll be back.”

“Got it,” you tell her, excited to get started.

Rushing back to your studio, you see Bucky emerge from the room next to yours.

“Morning,” he greets you, squinting in the low sun.

“Morning,” you answer brusquely, hurrying inside to pick up your camera and hiking bag. Bucky, clearly taking the door you left open as an invitation to follow you, rather than a sign that you’re turning right back around to head out again, strolls over.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday,” he begins, leaning casually against your door frame, blocking most of the way.

“Don’t worry about it. Do you mind?” You push past him with barely a glance, not interested in him derailing your day again, but unable to ignore the heady scent of him as you brush by - must be some kind of fancy cologne. What kind of guy wears cologne out here?

Without waiting, or seeing his confused and slightly hurt expression, you dash off to sign out at the front office.

—

The hike went well. The space and solitude gave you time to clear your mind and really focus in a way your grey life in the city never does any more. You can’t help agreeing with Wanda - it feels like there’s something not just inspirational but magical about the area; towering rock formations, hot air shimmering above the burnt hues of the ground, studded with spiny sprays of plants, all crowned by the endless deep azure sky. You can feel the creative energy unfurling inside you.

There was a particular rock formation that had caught your eye, but you felt like you could get a better angle on it from another trail - something to try once the heat of the day has died off, and you’ve refueled at the retreat with a lunch of more than the collection of nuts and protein bars in your bag.

Dusty and hot but content, you sign back in at the main lodge and make your way to your room - where once again catch sight of Bucky, still outside on the deck that abuts both your studios.

Clad in a khaki shirt, white pants rolled up above partially unlaced leather biker boots, Bucky reclines on the shaded part of the deck, one booted foot up on the table, the other propped on the pillar that’s all there is to mark your space separate from his. He’s leaning so far back he’s half falling out of his chair, head tilted back, eyes half-closed in a gentle frown of concentration. There’s an open sketchbook on his lap and the deft fingers of his raised right hand toy with a pencil as he thinks.

You take the moment before he notices you to really look at him. He truly is unfairly attractive; everything from the clean line of his jaw, to his tattooed arm just catching the sun, to the curve of his ass half-sliding out of the seat, seems like it was built to be admired. Even the soft thickness of his thick hair as it falls back from his face makes you want to run your hands through it, and something about the way his long fingers play with that pencil adds an extra heat to your sun-baked blood.

You wonder vaguely if he started out as a model before becoming an artist - he seems so different to everyone else here. But you didn’t come to this retreat to gawk over guys, and his background is irrelevant to you. Shaking yourself from your reverie, you make a beeline to the door of your room. As if woken from his thoughts, Bucky notices you with a start, quickly pulling his feet down, so like a guilty child that you almost laugh - and when the sudden action makes him drop out of the chair into an awkward squat, you can’t help snorting at him.

“Busy morning?” You tease with a broad grin.

He frowns. “In a way.”

“Good.” You unlock your door, determined to maintain the good mood from your hike. “Me too.”

You leave the door open again, planning to drop off your bag, wash up and go for lunch. Ignoring the lesson of this morning, Bucky approaches, clearing his throat to get your attention. “So, you want that tour now?”

You glance up at him silhouetted in the doorway before heading to the bathroom in the back. “Not now. I’m going for lunch and then I’m headed out again.”

“Unless you’re a very slow eater, it’ll be too hot to go out right after,” Bucky crosses his arms, confidently leaning against the door again like he owns the place. “How about I show you around and then you can eat?”

Emerging from the bathroom, you check the time and glance at the sun before nodding in agreement. “Alright.”

Bucky’s tour of the retreat is pretty quick, partly because you’ve seen most of it by now. You end in the dining room, where he explains - as you already know - that there’s no catered lunch provided, so he points out where they keep the food that’s available to use, and what’s reserved by Wanda and Vision for breakfast and dinner.

You thank him as you start assembling a sandwich. Bucky makes no move to get food for himself, just leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you intently.

You frown at him, which just makes him smile back, his eyes crinkling.

“Are you judging my sandwich making or something?” You ask. “You better not be expecting I’ll make one for you.”

“Of course not.” He says, still just staring.

“So what’s with,” you gesture at him exasperatedly with the knife you’re holding, “all this?”

“All what?”

“You’re just - looking at me.”

“I am.” He confirms with a lazy smile.

You make a noise of frustration and he laughs.

“I’m a portrait artist. You have an interesting face.”

“Interesting, wow, thanks.” Your self-esteem is still recovering from the way you were treated by your ex, and Bucky’s casual comment stings.

“It’s not a criticism.” He insists.

“Okay,” you’re still being sarcastic, not convinced.

Bucky frowns. “I mean it. I mean interesting like I like looking at you, there are all these little details-”

“Digging a hole, Bucky.”

“-that make you really attractive.” He finishes despite your interruption.

You frown at him suspiciously. He smiles back.

“Okay.” You say again, not knowing what to think of that. “Well, I’d rather not have an audience while I eat, so if you’re not having anything, I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Maybe,” he says, standing up straight. “I usually work straight through if I’m inspired.”

He leaves you alone, and as you eat, you shake off the confusion of what he said and focus again on the plans for your piece.

—

The second trail has the perfect angle you’ve been looking for, and you have time to take plenty of reference photos before the light starts fading and it’s time to head back, buzzing with inspiration. Dinner is again delicious, friendly and encouraging - and with no sign of Bucky - but you head to bed early, hoping to get an early start on the trail the next day.

Walking to your room through the dusky light, you glimpse into Bucky’s studio as you pass his uncovered French windows just as he looks up, giving you an easy smile as your eyes meet. Embarrassed to be caught nosing, you quickly look away, and scurry past to your door.

The next few days pass in a haze of creation, and the canvas in your studio fills with colour, the vivid umber of the ground and fresh blue of the sky coming to life beneath your brush.

When you’re not on the trail, you work outside on the deck as much as you can, the land in front of you inspiring your work. More often than not Bucky’s outside as well, lounging in his preferred chair, the soft scratch of his pencil the only sound passing between you.

But as good as it feels to be creating again, and as proud as you are of your piece, you can’t help but feel like it’s missing something, worrying that it could be better. It’s not grabbing and pulling at you like your best pieces have; that spark when you’re on to something truly incredible just isn’t there. Trying to sleep after talking to the other residents about it over dinner, you’re stuck tossing and turning in bed, your mind going over and over possible solutions.

With a sigh, you roll out of bed. Hoping to calm your mind before you lose an entire night of sleep, you shuffle out onto the deck for some fresh air. The desert night is peaceful, a soft glow illuminating the retreat. Closing your eyes, you tip your head back as you take a deep breath, opening your eyes on the exhale only to gasp at what you see; the sky is a masterpiece, more full of stars than you’ve ever seen it, vast bright clusters that crowd out the dark between them. Your eyes trace the arc of the milky way across the sky, a sense of wonder swelling in your chest and tingling in your fingertips.

You’ve noticed the number of stars out here before, but something about it tonight is something else.

“Wow,” you whisper as you breathe out, staring up with misty-eyes.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You start at Bucky’s quiet voice and turn to see him sat on his chair as ever, the only difference to the day the absence of his sketchpad and that he’s facing out, feet on the deck, instead of his usual relaxed sprawl towards you.

“It’s amazing.” You beam at him, and he smiles back before you both return your gazes to the stars. “And I think I just had a breakthrough with my piece.”

“Oh?”

“I was feeling stuck, but,” you move closer to Bucky, so filled with enthusiasm you want to share the inspiration that’s struck you, “now I’m thinking - what if the sky in my piece is the night sky? The ground as it is in the day, but the sky like this? It’d be a bit different to what I’ve done before, not straightforward realism, but - maybe it could work. Like, the sky as endless, majestical creative spirit or the unknown future, but grounded with the warmth and security of the red rocks, of a home base. Almost a yin and yang. Balance.”

You turn to see Bucky’s eyes on you, bright with the ambient light of the thousands of stars. “That sounds like here,” he tells you softly.

“Yes, exactly! Like a less realistic painting is the more accurate way to really represent it.” Your eyes widen in realisation. “Oh god - I’m an expressionist.”

Bucky chuckles. “There are worse things to be. And it sounds perfect. Beautiful.” He’s still watching you.

You laugh quietly. “I wasn’t expecting to solve that so quickly.”

“That’s what happens here,” he tells you, pushing out the chair next to him in invitation. “Wanda will be happy to know about it.”

“I’ll tell her tomorrow,” you say, sinking into it. After a moment longer admiring the stars, you turn to him. “Are you out here for inspiration?”

His eye twitches as a flicker of something crosses his face. “No. I - I get nightmares sometimes. I come out here to sort of reset, before trying to sleep again.”

“I’m sorry. That sounds horrible.”

“It’s not great,” he smiles wryly. “I haven’t been waking you up or anything, have I?”

“No,” you shake your head, “not at all.”

“Good. I told Wanda it’s better not to have anyone next to my room, but she has her own plans.”

“Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare?”

“Not really. But thanks.” He smiles at you, open and natural.

“Does anything help with them?” You ask gently.

“This helps.” He answers.

“The sky? Or the talking?”

“The sky. You.”

You stare at each other for a long moment, until you shiver, the chill of the night getting to you.

“You should go back to sleep,” Bucky suggests, “It sounds like you’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

You agree, standing up with a stretch, not noticing how his eyes dance over you before returning to the sky.

“Are you turning in too?” You ask, pausing with a hand on your door.

“Soon,” he assures you softly.

Bidding him a good night, you fall back into bed, full of a clear, contented energy.

You mean to sleep in a little the next day, but you’re fully awake and full of ideas first thing, so you excitedly head out to breakfast, telling Wanda about your plans. She’s enthused about your idea, but a little more hesitant about your plan to get the reference photos.

“I know you’ve been to the trail a lot, but hiking at night can be dangerous.”

“I’ve hiked at night before,” you tell her.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “In the desert? Without a guide?”

“Okay, no,” you admit, “but I’ve been on that trail nearly every day, I could walk it blindfolded!”

Wanda sighs, sensing your determination. “Fine,” her eyes drift over your shoulder, and she fails to hide a small smile, “but take someone with you.”

“Who’s going to want to-”

“I’ll go.” You turn at the sound of Bucky’s voice. This is the first time you’ve seen him at breakfast, but he strolls casually to the counter to pour himself a coffee.

“I really don’t think I need a babysitter,” you protest.

“He’s not a babysitter, he’s a partner.” Wanda insists.

Bucky simply smirks at you over his cup.

“Fine.” You relent. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

—

After spending the day making preparations and brushing up on your night-time photography skills, you’ve loaded your car with all your equipment, the resort’s loan-out camping gear, some food, water and a first-aid kit. Bucky had chucked his own pack in after it, and you drove the two of you out to the trail, parking up just as the sun grazed the horizon.

Weighed down with the extra kit, it was slower going than normal but you reach the spot you’ve been working from just as the luminous sunset burns an even deeper russet into the rocks around you. Dropping your packs to the ground you immediately pull out your camera.

You almost forget about Bucky behind you, putting his own stuff down more carefully, and it’s only when you turn to him, smiling broadly at the beauty around you that you realise he’s quietly taking a few photos of his own.

“Was I in that?” You ask, glancing at the lens aimed towards you.

He smiles back, “I do portraits, remember?”

You shake your head, unstrapping your tripod and positioning it carefully, “I don’t understand how you can focus on a person when there’s all this around you.”

“Just different forms of beauty,” he shrugs, “and it’s not like it’s a close up. It’s you in this landscape, the light of the sun on you - all of this. It’s incredible. And much more interesting than some rocks.”

“I do landscapes, remember?” You echo him. “Agree to disagree, I guess.”

“I guess.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

Bucky unpacks the camping gear and his sketchpad and pencils while you kneel on the ground, focused on your set up, and you’re so absorbed in your task you don’t notice him hovering at your elbow until he speaks.

“So what’s the plan here?”

You turn, surprised to find you’re almost nose to nose when you do.

“You don’t have to watch me so closely, you know. You can do your own thing.”

“I don’t know.” He pretends to think. “I’m here to keep you safe, I think that means watching you pretty closely.”

“Hmm.” Unconvinced, you turn back to check the angle of your camera when you feel a prod on your bare ankle. “Hey!”

“See?” He tells you, “What if that was a scorpion?”

“A scorpion probably wouldn’t be poking me with a pencil.” You grumble, sensing his grin even without looking and sighing in surrender. “I’m going to take a few photos of the sky once it gets properly dark, but I want to set up a time-lapse too, to get the star trails.”

He nods. “You’ve done this before? Night time photography, long-exposure?”

“Yeah, I took a couple of courses when I was younger.” You step back, satisfied and look up at the navy sky. “I guess now we wait.”

After setting up the tent and eating a quick dinner you settle down on the most comfortable-looking rock you can find. With the sun gone, the temperature drops rapidly - you don’t want to light a fire, so the two of you are draped in blankets, sitting closer together than you would do otherwise.

With no lamps, torches or phones for fear of interfering with the light balance in the time lapse you’ve set up, the two of you have nothing to do but talk.

“Have you seen any of the other residents’ work?” You ask.

“Some,” Bucky answers. “They’re very different from each other, but I’ve not seen anything bad yet. Mostly what you’d expect from each of them, given their personalities.”

You don’t mention that Bucky keeps to himself so much you’re surprised he knows what they’re like.

“Wong’s the one I’m surprised by.” You tell him, referring to the friendly mononymous artist Wanda had introduced you to. “I mean, he used to be a monk in some mysterious Tibetan sect, and now he does typographic portraits of pop stars?”

“Have you ever seen them?” Bucky’s eyes are wide as you shake your head. “They’re crazy. Joaquin thinks they’re enchanted. They’re so lifelike, and the text is so small you can’t even see it without a magnifying glass. But somehow you know it’s all song lyrics.” He grimaces. “I had Single Ladies stuck in my head for weeks after seeing his Beyonce portrait.”

You burst out laughing at the thought.

“You clearly know a lot about technique,” Bucky tells you, “I’m guessing you went to art school?”

“Yeah, I got one of those Stark scholarships,” you pause, lost in memories, “Seems like a long time ago now.”

“Would I have seen any of your stuff? In galleries?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Years ago, maybe. I had a few things straight out of school. Then I-” you hesitate, but Bucky’s steady presence and the intimate darkness around you encourages you to open up. “I met my ex. It’s a long story, but I didn’t paint, didn’t draw, barely even took photos while we were together.”

“They stopped you?” There’s restrained anger in Bucky’s voice.

“Not stopped, just-” you bite your lip, looking up at the first stars winking to life above you, “-discouraged. There were a lot of money problems - any time I spent on art was time I could have spent making money, you know?”

You risk a look at Bucky, the concern clear in his bright eyes even under the moonless night. “It was never abusive or anything,” you rush to clarify, “Maybe if it had been I would have left earlier. I just - it felt like I was walking on eggshells a lot.”

“When did you leave?”

“Barely a year ago.” You sigh. “I was worried it would be shallow or something, leaving because of money - even if it was more the problems caused by the money problems. And everyone who knew us thought we were the perfect couple.”

“What changed?” Bucky’s gentle voice and the soft rustling of the desert soothe you enough to keep opening up.

“There were a few more slips - comments people could overhear, bad moods that took a toll on me. And I was starting to get really sick of it. Then my best friends’ wedding anniversary was coming up and I wanted to get them a gift. They’d got married in this beautiful vineyard in the mountains, so I decided to paint that for them. My ex allowed it because I said it would save us money, not having to buy a gift. And working on that - it all came back. All the joy I got from it. I was happy and calm, and felt like myself again for the first time in ages. And I loved making it - I put all these little easter eggs of their love story hidden around the landscape. By the time I’d finished the painting I knew I had to leave.”

Bucky’s shoulder brushes yours. “That must have taken a lot of courage.”

“Kind of. We’d been together a really long time. But my friends made it easier.”

“They really care about you.”

“Yeah. I’m lucky.”

“No. You deserve them.”

You turn to fully face Bucky, meeting his eyes. The light from the stars above paints the contours of his face, and he sits quietly as you admire him, before catching yourself.

“Sorry for dumping that all on you,” you laugh, embarrassed.

“Don’t apologise. I’m glad you told me.” His voice is soft, eyes still on you.

“How about you? How did you become an artist?”

“Not art school, but you probably guessed that.” Bucky fidgets. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“Hey, I showed you mine,” you nudge him, smiling in a way that you hope is as supportive as the way he’s been looking at you.

Bucky holds your gaze for a long moment before looking down at his feet and taking a deep breath. “Steve. He was my best friend since we were little, as long as I can remember, and he was always really into art. He wanted to go to art school, but his family didn’t have the money so he signed up to join the army. I was worried about him - he was the kind of guy who’d go into a fight whether he could win it or not if he thought it was the right thing to do - so I signed up too. When we were deployed it went alright for a while, then we got caught in an attack. Both got head injuries, and I caught an armful of shrapnel.” Bucky’s tattoo-covered left arm twitches at the mention. “I was captured.”

You swallow a gasp, but Bucky doesn’t linger on that part of his story.

“When I eventually got back, the doctors were able to help me recover my memories. But Steve’s never fully returned, not properly. He could remember the facts, but it was like the emotions weren’t there; our whole history was next to meaningless to him. He met a woman at the army base, and when he was discharged, he moved to the UK to be with her. They’re married now.

“Then an army friend, Sam - well, he was more Steve’s friend than mine back then - he suggested art therapy, to help me deal with it all. Then when he saw my stuff he suggested I get into it properly. Said it’d give me purpose, and be a way to honour Steve, and what we lost.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, and finally turns to you with a shaky smile. “And I guess now I’m an artist.”

You breathe out his name. You don’t know what to say. You’d assumed he’d had an unorthodox path to the art world, but you hadn’t thought it would be like this.

“It’s a lot, I’m sorry.” He frowns, looking down again.

“Don’t be sorry,” you reach over and turn his face back towards you with a careful hand on his chin, “I asked you to tell me. And it’s a lot, but it’s not too much. I’m so sorry you went through that.”

“You too,” he whispers.

“My story’s not really comparable,” you chuckle, absentmindedly stroking the soft beard along his jaw. “But we’re both here now.”

Bucky’s eyes darken and his arm snakes around you, pulling you into him. Your eyes drop to his mouth, your other hand lifting to wrap around his arm, your legs tangling together. The blankets fall from you both as you lean in, lips gently brushing against each other, inhaling one another, savouring this lingering before, until you close that last gap and press into him in a perfect kiss. It’s gentle at first, careful and delicate, and you separate for an instant, each searching the others eyes for any regret and finding only encouragement. Bucky’s lips claim yours, the soft brush of his kiss turning into something deeper, nipping teeth and, when you open up to him, sinuous tongues.

One of your hands sinks into his thick hair, the other skating up his chest before you wrap it around his neck, needing to be closer. You’re encircled in Bucky’s strong arms, holding you to him so firmly you’re almost lifted up, and you go with it, straddling him and gasping into his mouth as you explore each other - before misjudging the size of the rock you’re both on and half-falling off him.

Your frustrated huff at gravity breaking the kiss makes Bucky laugh, and you join in as he picks you up, seating you back down.

“Didn’t you want to take some photos?” He asks with a cheeky grin.

“Oh, shit, yeah.” You scramble off him, digging in your bag for your camera. He’s still watching you, still smiling when you straighten up.

“At least we were far enough away from your time-lapse set up that you didn’t land on it.” He teases. “Almost like you planned this.”

“Shut up,” you joke back, finally turning your attention to the sky. “You weren’t exactly keeping an eye out for scorpions and snakes.”

“I’m always aware.”

You laugh as you take your photos, not caring if your chuckling pushes the photos out of perfect alignment. You can always come back the next night.

After taking the pictures, you sit back down next to Bucky. “I guess we should probably turn in,” you admit reluctantly, aware that it’s long past the middle of the night.

“Seems a shame to leave this view.” Bucky observes. “How about we skip the tent and sleep under the stars?”

“Is that safe?” You ask him. “Since you’re my official protector and all.”

“It’s safe.” He tells you, smiling wickedly. “We’ll just have to make sure we stay alert. And probably best to zip our sleeping bags together. You know, for warmth.”

You keep each other awake for the rest of the night, only intermittently admiring the arch of the milky way painted across the night above you. You’re still lazily entwined together, the first fingers of dawn staining the sky when your alarm goes off, and Bucky grumbles, pulling you back as you try to extricate yourself from him and the sleeping bags.

“I have to stop the time-lapse,” you tell him with a sleepy laugh and he reluctantly lets you go. Crouching next to your camera, you turn with a smile once you’ve shut it off, only to see Bucky’s own camera in his hand as he snaps a photo of you.

You groan, well aware of your mussed hair and rumpled clothes. “That’s going to be a terrible photo! I’m a mess.”

“No,” Bucky’s smile is genuine, “you’re perfect.”

—

You park up back at the retreat just as the breakfast service is starting. Wanda spies you from the courtyard and waves you over. “Did it all go well? You got everything you wanted?”

“Yes,” you tell her, unable to stop smiling, “and more.”

Bucky smirks. “Yes, there was a lot of nature and - beauty and - wonder to appreciate out there.”

Hearing him chuckle at your side, you dig an elbow into his ribs, not wanting to be too obvious.

But your efforts are unnecessary as Wanda looks between the two of you, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “I’m glad. And it’s great that you two seem to have bonded, I had a feeling you’d get on.”

“Bonded?” Agatha’s voice rings out from the dining room. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

You gape at her, heat rushing to your face as practically the entire resort turns towards you and Bucky.

“Good for you!” Rio calls out, toasting you with her coffee cup. “There’s something so primal about sex out in the wilderness, everyone should try it.”

“You owe me twenty bucks, little falconer,” Agatha tells Joaquin as he sits down, grinning at you and Bucky.

“Hey, I never took that bet!”

You groan, wondering if Bucky knew the other residents had been gossiping about you both, but when you look at him he’s staring at you with such open adoration you have to laugh, burying your face in his shirt in only half-mock embarrassment.

“Don’t be shy about it.” Rio insists over Agatha and Joaquin’s bickering. “It’s practically a rite of passage here, Wanda’s always matchmaking. I mean, not everyone’s bold enough to do it out in the desert, but-”

“I’ve never hooked up with another resident.” Joaquin interrupts to point out.

“Did I say it had to be a resident?” Rio challenges.

“Yes, what was the name of that cute little kitchen boy we saw come out of his room yesterday morning?” Agatha wonders aloud.

“Bob.” Vision supplies, arriving to place a fresh tray of fruit on the table, his remark turning Joaquin the same colour as the watermelon.

As the dining room dissolves into raucous laughter and overlapping conversation, you stifle a yawn and Bucky pulls you aside.

“Do you want to have breakfast here?” He asks, “Or do you want to get some sleep and then I’ll make you pancakes?”

“Definitely the second one,” you tell him, pretty sure there are visible hearts in your eyes at his suggestion.

“Good.” He slings an arm around you and leads you away from the noise. “Now, last question - your room or mine?”

“Use protection!” Agatha shouts after you.

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

Bucky taglist: @yesshewrites1 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @rockyeatrock @whitewolfluvr @star-yawnznn @xoxabs88xox @maydayfigment @starfly-nicole

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demie90s · 1 day ago

Note

Reader and Angel were each other’s first love in college but broke up when Angel went pro. Years later, they run into each other at a charity event—both successful, both changed, both still clearly hurting. Angel pulls reader aside and quietly asks, “Do you ever regret walking away… or just regret that I let you?” The spark’s still there, but so is the pain.

History

Angel Reese x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Years after their quiet, painful breakup, Angel and you reunite at a charity event. Both have grown. Both have healed—somewhat. But the spark never left, and neither did the ache.

Word Count: ~ 1.2k

Genre: Second chance, angst, slow burn, emotional tension

Warnings: emotional intimacy, bittersweet memories, slow pacing

I hadn’t seen her in almost three years, but I knew that frame the second she walked in.

Long legs, chin high, diamond necklace catching the light as she laughed—her whole presence still magnetic like I remembered.

Angel Reese, number five on the court, number one in every headline. But before all that, she was just my girl. My first love. My everything.

I watched from across the room, pretending to sip from my champagne flute as she made her rounds. She looked happy. Or at least… she looked like someone who knew how to wear happiness well.

The kind that was curated, practiced, press-trained. I’d studied that kind of polish in the industry for years now—working with models, artists, walking egos and broken girls alike. I knew what hiding in plain sight looked like. And maybe I was projecting. But when her eyes finally met mine, the way they widened told me she saw it too.

Neither of us moved at first. Just… staring. The kind of stare you feel in your ribs. The kind that makes your throat close. She took a slow breath. So did I. Then, almost cautiously, she started walking toward me.

God, she was beautiful.

“Wow,” she said, the word leaving her lips like it had weight. Her voice was lower now. More control in it. But still Angel. “You look… damn.”

I laughed before I could stop it, nervous and quiet. “You too,” I managed, still clutching the stem of my glass too tightly. “I—how are you?”

She didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head like she was still trying to believe I was real. “Been busy,” she said. “Chicago… media, playoffs. You know how it is.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen.”

“You’ve been doing your thing too,” she added quickly, almost like she didn’t want to give me a chance to humble it down. “I saw your Vogue feature. That shoot with Anok and Zaya? That was fire. I was like—‘She really out here changing the game.’”

That made me smile for real. She still remembered the way to say things that hit my chest first. “Thank you,” I said softly. “It means a lot. Coming from you.”

The room felt too loud. Too hot. People buzzed past us—publicists, stylists, agents, fake friends in heels. But it was like a silent current pulled just the two of us to the side. Somewhere quieter. Away from the clinking of glasses and curated laughter. Angel didn’t ask. She just walked, and I followed. Because I always did.

We ended up outside on a terrace. Just city air, warm lights, and that hum between us.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” she said, leaning on the stone railing. Her nails tapped lightly against the edge. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.”

That stung a little. “Damn. That bad?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “No, I just—I wouldn’t have known what to do.”

I stepped beside her. Not too close. But not far. “You still don’t,” I whispered.

She looked at me then. Really looked. Like I’d peeled something back without warning. “You think about it?” she asked. “Us?”

My heart kicked. I tried not to let it show. “I don’t stop.”

Angel looked down for a second, jaw flexing, like she was biting back years. When she finally spoke, her voice was almost raw. “Do you ever regret walking away… or just regret that I let you?”

I didn’t have a good answer. Because neither of us had walked, not really. Life just… moved. Faster than we expected. She went pro. I stayed back, focused on my grind, told myself I’d catch up later. But later kept slipping away.

“I regret everything we didn’t say,” I admitted. “I regret that we let silence win.”

Angel nodded slowly, eyes wet but unreadable. “I used to replay our mornings. That little corner cafe you loved. The way you’d hum when you were picking out outfits. I’d play whole conversations in my head when I couldn’t sleep.”

“I thought I was the only one.”

She laughed under her breath, but it cracked in the middle. “You weren’t.”

A long beat passed. The kind that stretches time, lets you sit inside it.

I turned to face her fully. “So what now?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m scared. I’ve been scared. We both got big lives now. People watching. Pressure. Schedules. I can’t do another heartbreak. Not like that.”

“Me either.”

“But,” she said, stepping just a little closer. “You still make me feel like I’m nineteen and nothing else matters.” That broke something soft in me.

“You wanna be honest?” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “You still make me feel like home.”

She just stood there, looking like everything I wanted and everything I was afraid of. I didn’t reach for her either. Not yet. But we were here. Finally. And maybe that was enough for now.

We weren’t healed. We weren’t whole. But we were still us. Somehow, after all this time… that still meant something.

We didn’t rush it. Even though every part of me wanted to.

I could’ve kissed her right there on that terrace. Could’ve said come home with me, and I know she would’ve. Hell, she might’ve said it first. But something about the way we looked at each other—that long, loaded silence—said don’t ruin it this time.

Instead, we just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the air carry the weight of what we didn’t say out loud.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” she said finally, voice low like a secret. “Not again.”

“You’re not the only one scared,” I admitted. “I think I’m still holding my breath from the last time.”

She turned to me slowly, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips. “So what if we take our time? Not fall into it. Build it. Like something we earned.”

I nodded. “Like a story we write on purpose.”

Her pinky brushed mine. Just that. A soft, accidental-almost-intentional touch. But I felt it everywhere.

It was crazy—how something that once felt like a wildfire now felt more like a candle we were both protecting from the wind.

Not because the fire wasn’t there. But because we knew how hard it had been to relight it.

“I still love you,” Angel said quietly. “I never stopped. I just… stopped saying it out loud.”

I didn’t freak. Just looked her in the eye, chest warm and eyes tired from missing her for too long.

“I know,” I whispered. “Me too.” Maybe that was the beginning. Not a second chance, not really. More like the first real one.

The one where we weren’t kids trying to hold onto something too big for our hands. Now we had the hands. And the hearts. And the lessons.

So we walked back into the event like nothing had changed. But everything had. No one else knew it but us.

We didn’t kiss that night. We didn’t sleep together. We just texted when we got home. Called the next day. Saw each other that weekend.

And slowly—deliberately—we let the fairytale unfold. This time, page by page.Like the kind of love you only get once,

if you’re lucky enough to find it again.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai

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soo0hee · 22 hours ago

Text

HR meets Heart

Pairing — HR!Xu Minghao x HR!afab!Reader

Summary — When you didn't get the promotion you were licking your fingers for, you weren't at all amused. When it was the one person you were sure was out for your every last nerve to get said promotion, you were even less amused. Now stuck with a new boss you loathed you were sure you'd go insane — but what if it's in a different way then you thought....

Genre — fluff, enemies to lovers au

Warnings — suggestive, language, alcohol

Word Count — 5.4k

Rating — PG-13

A/N — i thank my coworker who ping ponged dialoge at work with me for almost 2 hours and one of my dance girls who beta read this after my emotional breakdown over the deadline for this. Neither have tumblr but still thanks S & E💕

Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©soo0hee on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.

This work is part of the SHOWBIZ collab by @studioeisa ! Please check it out!

The rain pattering against the windows of your office started to get on your nerves. Its been a few hours since you started your day and the grey of the sky, the chill of the wind and the constant patter against the glass left you unsettled in a way you hadn't been in a longtime. Your nerves frayed and more then a little tired you stared down at the file that had landed on your desk. It felt like the bad weather of the last week had drained every bit of energy you had and you desperately waited for the sunny days that came with the season of spring.

You were restless, shifting in your chair and tapping your ballpoint pen against the surface of the desk, clicking over and over again. The report seeming to glare as much as a disgruntled wife for not having been worked over yet.

The list of possible future artists for Sebong Company demanding attention you couldn’t concentrate on giving at that moment and you cursed the man who had put it down in front of you with that much to smug grin of his. Given it wasn’t much of a grin, more a barely contained tug of the corner of his mouth but you knew what it meant. What it implicated as he almost strutted out of your office.

Xu Minghao. Manager of HR. Pain in your ass and the man who had gotten the very same promotion you had worked towards to.

"Seokmin has reviewed the audition tapes already, now it's on you to get them signed." He had said seeing the baffled look on your face.

Unsure you had taken the folder from the man grating on your nerves with every time he'd open his month.

"Isn't that Soyeon's job? Who's literally 2 offices down the hall, mind you?"

"And now it's yours. I think you're more then capable of a task like this as Soyeon will leave for a 3 week vacation."

"And now it's yours. I think you're more then capable of a task like this as Soyeon will leave for a 3 week vacation.”

It had taken everything for you now to reach for the stapler and throw it right at his head right then and there and you were sure, had he stayed in your office for one moment longer you might have actually done it. Minghao, as annoying as he always had been, was a smart man. He knew that working with future clients was not your expertise and that you, even with all your dedication to your job, were not the logical choice to take over for Soyeon in her absence. There were others in the department that were far better at handling clients then you were and you had now qualms in admitting to it.

But instead of throwing something you had only grated your teeth together and nodded.

Even accepting the siuggestion of bringing the forms right to his office instead of mailing them and saving yourself the torture of going to the office that should have been yours in the first place instead of his.

The office of the Head Manager of Sebong Corporates HR department.

The very same promotion you had been in the run for alongside Minghao. Him getting the promotion instead of you had not sparked your immense dislike for the man, it had been there long before that. About as long as you had started working for the, back then much smaller Company, around the same time as he did.

And if you had learned one thing with time was that Xu Minghao was exceptionally good at getting a rise out of you with the slightest raise of his perfectly plucked eyebrow and his far to heavy accent that made your stomach flip.

With disgust of course. (Of course…what else could it be;))

There were days where it seemed Minghao would leave you alone, leave you be and work in peace. And then there were days in which you felt he tried everything to get a reaction.

Appearing behind you without notice while you talked to someone in the hallway, startling you to the point where multiple reports or coffee cups were almost sent flying. Additional shift in which you were paired up with him and in which you forced yourself not to jump his throat. Emails send to your Inbox filled with nonsense like memes telling you to keep working. Him always using the last of copy paper and never filling the printer back up so you always ran out and had to do it yourself and the uneasy you felt when he called you something in mandarin.

Google translate has left you not knowing any better with that last one and you hated it.

And now you were still stuck staring at the file like it had personally wronged you, which, in a way, it had. Or at least, the person who’d brought it to your desk had.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair and watching the grey light from outside cast shadows across your screen. The soft clink of your pen dropping to the desk was the only sound you allowed before finally standing, pushing your chair back with a squeak that echoed just a little too loudly for comfort.

Yes, you absolutely could have mailed the damn thing just to spite him. Minghao, after had never explicitly said you had to bring it yourself. But the spiteful little part of you, the part that had been sitting in your heart since the day you watched Minghao move into the bigger office, said if he was going to try and test you with work that wasn’t yours, he’d at least have to look you in the eye when you handed it off with a smile so tight it made your jaw hurt.

The hallway to the corner office felt longer today. Or maybe that was just your mood clinging to your shoes and dragging your steps. You didn’t bother knocking as Minghao never did either when he barged into your space with his smug little quips and printouts, and the door creaked slightly as you pushed it open.

There he was.

Leaning back in the ridiculous leather chair that squeaked only when you sat in it, one leg crossed over the other like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t infuriatingly, effortlessly perfect in a way that made your blood boil and your skin prickle in the most inconvenient way.

Minghao looked up, his eyes catching yours instantly, as if he’d known you were coming. “I was wondering how long it’d take,” he said smoothly, setting his pen down and gesturing toward the desk with that damned smile of his. “Just put it there.”

You didn’t move.

You stared at him, expression carefully neutral because if you weren’t careful, you’d either start yelling or throwing something, or worse, you’d blush and you couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not with the way he was looking at you like he knew something you didn’t.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said finally, stepping forward and placing the folder down with a thump, as controlled as you could manage without slamming it straight into the table and his keyboard.

“Giving me extra work that you know I’m not the best fit for. Watching me try not to murder you on office grounds. It’s like your personal brand of entertainment.”

He tilted his head, just a little, eyes flicking from the folder to your face and back again. That infuriating almost smile threatened the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t let it bloom. At least not yet.

“I wouldn’t say entertainment,” he replied, his tone slow, deliberate, “but I do enjoy keeping you on your toes.”

Your jaw tightened when he looked entirely to innocent while those words came out of him

“I’m not your toy.”

“I never said you were,” he said, voice softening slightly, in that way that always threw you off more than it should. “You’re…a lot of things. But not a toy.”

You squinted. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

He gave a quiet, breathy laugh — the kind you were sure had made interns and assistants weak in the knees more than once. You hated that you knew exactly what it sounded like.

“You can take it however you like.”

You opened your mouth to fire something back, something cutting, probably a little mean, because that’s how the two of you worked — but stopped short when your eyes flicked down to the desk and landed on the two coffee cups sitting near his keyboard. One was his usual order, you recognized it from the corner café downstairs. The other was yours.

The exact kind you always bought for yourself, right down to the extra coconut syrup and low fat milk.

He followed your gaze and leaned back in his chair with that air of maddening ease. “I thought you might need a boost-” he said casually, “given how grumpy you’ve been today. Or well, last few months...”

“I’m not grumpy,” you said immediately, then realized how that sounded. Defensive, sharp and grumpy.

His smile finally appeared in full, slow and devastating and far too pleased with himself.

You rolled your eyes and turned on your heel before he could say anything else. “If you keep this up, I really will throw the stapler next time.”

His voice followed you, low and amused, like he knew the exact kind of chaos he left behind every time he pulled stunts like this. “I’ll make sure to duck.”

The coffee was left behind.

You were many things and one of them was proud. To proud to take the little peace offering he seemed to have gotten.

Huffing you stormed back into your own office.

This man really was something. Did he really think a simple cup of coffee was gonna change the way you two dance around each other like some rivaling predators ready to pounce to defend their territory?

Oh really absolutely not. Not when Minghao tried to get a rise out of you at every possible moment.

Which is also why you nearly screamed when you came back from the restroom and found said coffee sitting on your desk with a bright pink post it attached to it.

"You forgot this in my office. Enjoy :)"

Very tempted to throw it away you left it sitting there feeling it's presence like a rain cloud from outside while you wend through your mails. The tiredness in your bones still hadn't went away over the last hour and maybe you were craving the sweet taste of your favorite beverage. And maybe you reached for it after reading the 4th complaint of one of your coworkers in other departments in which they complained about the construction site outside their office window. Like you were responsible in any way for the city to renew the street around the company.

Fuck. Minghao really had ordered it just how you liked.

“You're grumpy again."

Jumping out of your skin at the sudden appearance of your boss you glared at the chinese man as he leaned against the door frame, glasses almost slipping from his nose from sitting so low.

“I'm not."

Minghao huffed a laugh but didn't move closer. Rather he settled more against the frame.

"Tell that to your desktop. The poor screen is gonna go up in flames soon."

You eyed him once and softened your features. Even if just the slightest bit.

"Do you need something?"

The man shrugged and entirely ignored the question.

"How was the coffee?"

You stopped and turned to look at him. His presence filling the room but not in a smug way. He looked soft , put together and entirely to curious for your taste.

"You got it wrong."

It was a lie and you both new it.

"Sure it is."

"I repeat, do you need something?"

"Nothing, just thought you might miss me băobèi." His little shrug left you speechless and with your jaw almost on your desk to the point you even ignored the mandarin he had yet again slipped into his sentence.

“Wow,” he said lightly, breaking the silence that followed, voice now quieter then before.

“That might be the first time I’ve ever seen you speechless. Should I be worried? Or flattered?”

Still nothing.

But his eyes flickered to your mouth, just for a second and when his eyes met yours again, there was something in them.

You blinked slowly, needing a moment to recover, but the pause had already said too much.

Minghao tilted his head, letting the silence stretch, letting you sit with the fact that he had once again caught you of guard. This time however differently to what he usually did or said.

“Di- did you hit your head in your office just now?” you spluttered with wide eyes the hand on the computer mouse having gone completely still.

“Are you worried?”

“You- what- no!

“But you didn’t deny it.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again, and you were sure your brain had just done a hard reboot mid-thought.

“I didn’t deny it,” you said finally, fingers tightening slightly on the mouse, “because I was too busy trying to figure out if you’ve finally lost it.”

Minghao raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“So still no denial.”

You rolled your eyes, heart annoyingly loud in your chest. “I’m not worried, Minghao. I’m just… trying making sure you’re not having some kind of stroke. You know, suddenly deciding to be nice to me?”

“I’m always nice.”

You snorted. “No, no, no, no. If you were always nice, I wouldn’t have three separate folders on my desktop labeled ‘HR pain in my ass – Volumes I, II and III.’”

He didn’t even blink. “So you think about me often enough to label my niceness.”

You gaped. “That’s not—! It’s called workplace trauma, Xu!”

His smile spread wider.

“And yet you still haven’t denied it.”

And gone he was.

With a heavily beating heart you stared at the spot where the door gently clicked shut.

God you needed a drink. Now!

The break room was empty when you entered, which you were quite thankful for in that moment.

You needed a moment to take a breath. Or maybe three. Anything to take your mind off whatever it had been that had just happened.

What the freak had that been? And what was Minghao trying to achieve with it?!

You yanked open the fridge door and stared blankly at the contents like your life depended on it. It didn’t, but your hands were still warm from where they’d curled around your mouse during that completely unnecessary and maybe u settling conversation, and you swore you could still hear his voice echoing in your ears. That was unfair. That was workplace harassment. That was—

“Okay,” came a voice behind you, loud and mildly scandalized. “Who got under your skin this time?”

You jumped, whipping around with the fridge door still open and nearly knocking into Boo Seungkwan, Marketing Manager and full-time chaos detector.

He took one look at you and narrowed his eyes like a seasoned drama critic watching Vernon act out his newest movie in real time.

“Why do you look like someone just whispered something very not HR conform in your ear during a board meeting?”

“No Idea what you mean.” you said immediately, too fast and a bit high pitched which triggered Seungkwan’s distrust even more.

“Sure.” He crossed his arms, expression unchanging. “You’re fidgety. Your lips are almost bleeding from chewing on them and you’re staring into that fridge like it holds the answers to your entire emotional breakdown.”

“I’m not having a breakdown.” You grumbled a bit petulant.

He held up one hand, as if to signal he’d allow the lie just this once. “Okay. Fine. Not a breakdown. Got it.”

You groaned and closed the fridge. “Can’t I just be in the middle of a caffeine crisis without being interrogated like this?”

“Oh, babe, no.” he said, slipping past you to grab his sparkling water with far too much smugness. “Not when you come in here looking like you’ve just had a near death experience with that Hongjoong guy from your screensaver.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

You shouldn’t have and one look at the Marketing Manager told you that you would regret it.

Seungkwan’s eyes lit up like he’d just found the plot twist *and* the end credits.

“Oh my god. It was Hao, wasn’t it?”

You tried your best to safe your pride. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t have to,” he sang, now grinning like a cat that had caught itxs prey.

“That face says everything. Did he finally flirt you into a corner?”

“No,” you hissed, though your voice cracked halfway through. “It wasn’t flirting. It was—it was just a conversation.”

One that left you reeling but if you said that out loud, Seungkwan would never let you live in peace again.

Not that he did that in the first place.

“Right.” Seungkwan sipped his water like it was wine while sittibg down at the long table. “The kind of conversation that leaves you breathless and checking your pulse in front of a fridge.”

“I hate you.” You grabbed your coffee, ready to flee. “And you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Absolutely. Because finally” he called after you as you headed for the door, “ you started to catch up on what everyone else here sees when he looks at you.”

You stopped.

Turned slightly.

Ehh?????

“…What the hell do you mean the rest of us?”

Seungkwan smirked.

“Oh babe, we all noticed. Minghao is sarcastic with everyone. But with you, there’s this little sparkle in his eyes and he’s a lot softer in the way he talks to you then anyone else in this place.”

And with that, he pulled out his phone and started his break. Acting like he hadn’t just thrown you into a rollercoaster of emotions.

A few days later at a corporate gala you’re dressed to kill after trying to avoid Minghao for the past 3 days like your life depends on it and clinging onto your champagne to keep your cool.

The gala was everything you’d expected from Sebong Corporation and more. Something straight out of a movie and a sea of dressed to the nines people pretending they didn’t hate networking just as much as you did.

You stood near one of the bar, a half-empty glass of champagne in hand, nodding politely at someone from legal who was still talking about last quarter’s contract revisions. You hadn’t understood a single thing.

Way to busy with scanning the room.

More specifically, busy making sure Xu Minghao wasn’t within a 3 meter radius.

So far he wasn’t. You’d spotted him once a bit earlier. Tall and unfairly sharp looking in a black suit that fit like it a glove and his hair slicked back, his smile polite, and his eyes–

No! You wouldn’t allow your thoughts to go there.

You had successfully dipped every time he came even remotely close for the past hour.

Your new personal record, especially after the week you’d had, which consisted ignoring his mails,, escaping to “urgent meetings” the moment he entered a room, and very nearly ducking behind the office ficus once when he passed by too close to your desk.

You hadn’t done that but the thought was there.

You were in denial. And the champagne was helping you stay there.

“I see you’ve upgraded from ‘fidgety’ to ‘liquid courage’.” Came a voice to your right.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Seungkwan, looking flawless in a silk tie and an expression that said he lived for nights like this — social chaos, good lighting, and corporate gossip served with shrimp cocktails. Everything you only survived with some strong whisky quickly thrown back before leaving your apartment.

“I’m networking” you said, sipping your drink.

“You’re pretending to network while checking for one specific threat like he’s Bowser in Super Mario 64 and you’re Princess Peach.”

“You really have a thing for over dramatizing things. Thats not even remotely what I was doing and Bowser at least had a castle.”

“Oh?” Seungkwan smiled into his glass. “So the running away, the drink refills every ten minutes, and the fact that you keep track of him to dip in time to not run into him is just… coincidence?”

You sighed, pressing your fingers to your temple. “I’m just trying to have one evening without… stress.”

“That being him breathing in your direction and making you question your entire personality?”

You pulled a face that very clearly showed how unamused you were by his deduction.

Seungkwan took pity. Just a little.

“Look, I get it. You two have that… thing. The tension. The banter. The enemies-but-not-really thing that feels like foreplay but sounds like an HR violation, which buy the way would land on your own desk if it came out. Or his.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

He just grinned. “All I’m saying is that pretending nothing’s happening might not be the best strategy.”

Before you could say anything his gaze flicked over your shoulder and instantly light up.

“Oh,” he said, far too pleased. “And look who just noticed you.”

You stiffened. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t say it Seungkwan.”

“He’s walking this way, babe.”

You turned, fully prepared to escape once again but it was too late. Minghao was already behind you and stepping into your personal space with the kind of calm that made your nerves bubble like your chmpagne

“Evening,” he said, voice smooth and low and criminal in the way it made your insides flutter.

You forced a smile. “Minghao.”

His eyes flicked to your glass. “Third one?”

You blinked. “Fourth actually.”

He hummed. “That’s cute.”

Seungkwan coughed, conveniently and very loudly. “Well. I’ll leave you two to whatever this is.”

He gestured wildly and disappeared before you could stare him down.

You turned back to Minghao, who was definitely fighting a smirk himself.

You hated him.

Hated the way he was looking at you like he knew exactly what yyou had been doing for the past hour. Like he’d let you run just to see how many times you’d try to flee from him.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, trying for neutral.

“It’s tolerable,” he said. “The view helps.”

You froze.

And again. EHH????

He raised his glass slightly in your direction. “You look good tonight.”

Your throat dried.

“Dito” you managed to grumble while keeping your voice low. “You look… good.”

“Mm.” That smirk was back. “So you’ve been looking.”

You downed the rest of your champagne and prayed someone would pull the fire alarm.

The air outside felt amazing on your skin. Cool, gentle, not enough to sober you, but just enough to make your head feel lighter than it already was.

You leaned against the iron railing of the terrace, empty champagne glass dangling between your fingers and the bubbles long gone but the warmth still bubbling in your system.

The heels on your feet hurt, your vision just the slightest bit swimming every time you blinked too slowly, and your brain was somewhere between *I need food* and *I miss the old Winx Club*.

More than anything, though, you were trying very hard not to think about Minghao.

Which of course, only made you think about him more.

The way he looked tonight. The sleek suit that did nothing to help your composure, the soft way his hair curled behind his ears, the tie just the slightest bit loose at his collar like even perfection had its limit. And the way he’d kept glancing your way even while conversing with a sponsor from all the way across the hall just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You were fine. Tipsy, sure. A little warm. A little emotionally unstable. But totally, completely fine.

And then the door behind you opened.

You felt him before you saw him. That presence, all calm and unsettlingly quiet, like standing too close to a fire that hadn’t caught flame yet.

“Didn’t take you for an escape artist.” Minghao said gently as he came to stand close enough for you to feel the heat of his body through your dress without touching you.

You snorted into your glass, too tired and too buzzed to be anything but honest.

“Didn’t take you for someone who would notice.”

“I always notice you.”

You turned your head, slowly. He wasn’t smirking or teasing. Just looking at you with that same steady gaze that made you feel weak in the knees.

“I came out for air.” you said, blinking harder than necessary. “And also because if I stood in that room for one more minute I was going to throw myself into the chocolate fountain.”

A soft laugh escaped him, low and surprised. “That’s fair I guess..”

You squinted at him. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be networking? Charming sponsors and artists? Making everyone wonder how you’re both terrifyingly polite and smug all at once?”

“I got bored,” he said. Then with a shrug: “And I saw you leave.”

You made a small sound; somewhere between a scoff and something more startled, annd looked back out over the city od Seoul.

“You’re gonna give me a complex one of these days.”

Minghao didn’t answer at first. Then, after a moment: “You’re glowing.”

Your head tilted slightly. “That’s the champagne.”

He hummed. “No. It’s you. When you’re not pretending you don’t like me.”

You laughed a little startled and a little too loud in the silence of the night.

“I don’t like you,” you said, but your voice cracked halfway through.

Minghao smiled slowly. “You’re drunk.”

You lifted your chin with an unconscious pout on your lips.

“I’m *tipsy.* That’s different.”

Minghao moved just slightly closer, enough that your breath caught a little in your throat.

“You’re soft when you drink.” he murmured. “It suits you.”

You narrowed your eyes — or tried to. The effect was more squinty than threatening.

“You think you can just… say things like that and not get punched?”

“Oh Băobèi, you won’t punch me.”

“Don’t test me, Xu.”

He laughed again, and something about the sound pulled at your chest like a thread unraveling.

“So tell me. Why were you running?”

“I wasn’t running,” you mumbled, nose wrinkling and still pouty t as you swirled that last drop of champagne around the glass.

“I was… briskly walking away from poor decisions.”

Minghao chuckled under his breath. “And I’m the poor decision?”

You didn’t answer. You just shrugged and gave him a side glance. The kind that was equal parts playful and infuriatingly unreadable.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you thought it.”

You sighed dramatically, leaning your elbow on the railing and pressing your cheek to your knuckles, suddenly very aware of how your earring brushed against the skin of your neck when you moved.

“You’re very full of yourself, you know that?” you said lightly.

Minghao chuckled.

“I get that a lot.”

“You should.” You nodded.

Minghao laughed again, softer this time, like he couldn’t help it, like it was just falling out of him now.

And when he looked at you again, it was different. Warmer and honest.

“You’re dangerous when you’re tipsy,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You peeked up at him, eyes wide and a little too shiny from champagne, night air and the light of the skyline reflecting in them. “Why?”

“Because you’re cute,” he said, honestly. “And unpredictable. And because I want to kiss you so badly it’s starting to mess with my sense of logic.”

Your breath caught but instead of melting, you narrowed your eyes, lips pulling into a lazy, smug little smile.

“I am unpredictable” you said. “So maybe I’ll kiss you.”

He went still.

You leaned closer, just barely and lowered your voice. “Or maybe I’ll go back inside and pretend this never happened.”

He exhaled a soft breath through his nose, smiling like someone trying very hard not to break apart in real time. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You tilted your head, eyes fluttering slightly. “Yeah? Well, if you die dramatically enough, I promise to attend the funeral in black and cry over your grave.”

Minghao shook his head with a breathless laugh, running a hand down his face. “God, you are so annoying.”

“And yet.” You blinked up at him, biting back a grin. “You’re still here”

He looked at you then. Really looked and you could see it happen. The silent unraveling. The moment he stopped trying to keep it together and let himself feel you.

All of you.

The pout. The teasing. The stubbornness. The ache and affection under every attempt to dodge his flirting.

“I am so screwed,” he said softly.

You let out a tiny hum. “You’ve been screwed since the first time I rolled my eyes at you when we started working at Sebong.”

“I knew it,” he whispered, eyes wide with mock offense. “That was flirting.”

You grinned, tipsy and victorious, and lifted your glass like a toast. “No it wasn’t.. and if it was you can’t prove it.”

“I don’t have to.” He closed the tiny gap still left between you.

“Because if you don’t kiss me in the next five seconds, I’m going to.”

You raised a brow, head tilted to the side and your lips pursed. “Is that a threat?”

He leaned in, not quite touching but close enough that your breath brushed against his face.

“No,” he whispered, voice lower now. “That’s a promise.”

And for a moment, just one long champagne-dizzy second you didn’t push him away.

You didn’t tease.

You just stayed there, quiet and breathless, as the walls you had pulled up trembled in the presence of someone who saw through all of them.

You didn’t say a single clever thing.

You couldn’t even think of one and just looked at him.

Really looked.

At the way his hair curled ever so slightly at the ends. The way his eyes flew your face like he was memorizing every single detail on it. The way his breath caught just barely when your own hitched.

And then, before either of you could thinkk to much, you closed the space yourself.

It was barely a movement.

Just the softest lean forward, the smallest tilt of your head, the faintest brush of lips and still enough to ruin you completely.

Because the moment you kissed him, the world went quiet.

Minghao froze for the briefest second, like he couldn’t quite believe you would actually lean in and then melted into you like butter in the sun.

His hand found your waist. Not urgent or demanding, just there, steady and warm through the thin fabric of your dress. His other hand rose slowly, fingers ghosting over side of your face as his thumb brushed your cheek so gently it made your eyes flutter shut all over again.

It wasn’t a hungry nor was it rushed.

It was deliberate like something that had been waiting to happen for a long time.

Like Minghao wanted to savor every soft breath, every angle, every little noise that left you.

You kissed him back with that same slow ache, the champagne still bubbling through your veins but fading now under the heat blooming in your chest. Your hand curled lightly into the lapel of his jacket, anchoring yourself, like if you let go, you might float right out of your skin.

When you finally pulled back, just a breath apart, his eyes opened slowly.

He looked dazed.

Wrecked, in the quietest, most beautiful way.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice rougher now. “I take it back.”

You blinked up at him, still catching your breath. “Take what back?”

His thumb traced your jaw.

“I’m already yours.”

Your heart stuttered.

You tried to smirk — tried to throw up one last wall, one last quip, but it didn’t quite make it. It dissolved on your lips as he leaned his forehead gently against yours.

And for once, you let it happen.

You didn’t fight him.

Didn’t outrun the way your body leaned into him like it belonged there.

You just stayed.

Minghao’s arms around you, the city glowing quietly beyond the terrace, the kiss still burning on your lips.

No more games.

No more fighting.

Just this.

Inside were Seungkwan and Vernon, who high fived each other and threw their drinks back like it was apple juice.

Finally

50 notes · View notes

quill-vy · 3 days ago

Text

ENCORE

a/n: hi guys! so we’re back! this one’s a liiiittle exaggerated, but i hope you guys like it. put that imagination into perspective, and you have yourself a less.. reckless fic.

warnings: coarse language, untrue information about formula one (because i don’t know how to make it interesting 😭), popstar!reader, short fic

any references made to people from real life are pure coincidences.

---

TRACK ONE: COLLISION

the first time lando norris met you, he crashed into your dressing room. literally.

you were perched on a makeup counter, tuning your guitar, when the door slammed open and a blur of papaya orange stumbled inside, nearly wiping out a rack of sequined outfits.

"shit—sorry—" the blur resolved into a very flustered, very pretty boy in a mclaren race suit, helmet tucked under his arm like a misplaced prop. "wrong greenroom. again."

your bassist snorted. "third one this week, norris."

lando’s ears flushed pink. "i’m dyslexic, not stupid."

you bit back a smile. "aren’t you supposed to be, like… on track?"

"quali’s delayed. rain." he nodded at your guitar. "you’re y/n, right? the, uh…" he mimed something between air guitar and interpretive dance. you hadn’t seen each other in a while, but you were mutuals on instagram. maybe you could cut him some slack. or not.

"wow. nailed it." you plucked a string. "and yeah. the ‘uh’."

lando grinned. "cool. i’ve got, like, three of your songs on my pre-race playlist."

"which ones?"

"uh…" he scratched his neck. "golden? and the one that goes dun-dun-dun—"

your drummer groaned. "get out."

lando fled. as fast as he could.

you didn’t stop smiling for hours.

(sorry for the taylor reference guys, couldn’t help it. let’s imagine her song is just a different one ok :()

TRACK TWO: THE BACKSTAGE PASS

turns out, lando norris was a menace with a vip pass.

he showed up at your next gig with a laminate and zero shame, propped against your soundcheck speakers like he belonged there. "play golden," he said.

you adjusted a mic. "make me."

he held up his phone. "i’ll donate 50k to charity."

"100k and you have to sing backup."

"deal."

he was terrible. voice-cracks and all. you loved it.

after the show, he cornered you by the snack table. "you’re different than i thought."

you licked frosting off a cupcake. "less mysterious artiste, more chaos gremlin?"

"more… real." his eyes flicked to your mouth. "it’s nice."

the cupcake turned to static on your tongue.

TRACK THREE: INTERLUDE (PRESS TROUBLE)

fame had rules.

1. don’t date within the industry.

2. definitely don’t date a driver.

3. absolutely don’t get caught sneaking out of lando norris’s hotel at 3am, even if all you did was eat crisps and watch top gear reruns.

too late.

popcrave (8.2m): breaking: global pop sensation y/n spotted leaving f1 star lando norris’s hotel. new power couple?

your manager panicked. his pr team panicked harder.

lando called, voice tight: "they’ve got me doing damage control. sky sports interview tomorrow."

you chewed your lip. "what are you gonna say?"

a pause. then, quietly: "dunno. what do you want me to say?"

the line went dead before you could answer.

TRACK FOUR: LIVE AND UNFILTERED

the interview went viral.

natalie evans: "rumors about you and y/n. any truth to them?"

lando fidgeted. "we’re… friends."

"just friends?"

he hesitated. he murmured, just above a whisper. "she writes lyrics on her arm in sharpie. hates champagne, loves those gummy rings. and when she really laughs, she snorts."

a shrug.

"dunno what you call that. doesn’t feel very just to me."

the internet combusted.

your phone exploded.

lan 💩 (🧡)

lan 💩 (🧡): sorry

you: shut up. bring me haribos.

lan 💩 (🧡): already got them. x

TRACK FIVE: FINAL MIX

next race, you showed up unannounced.

lando nearly choked when he spotted you in the paddock. "what’re you—"

you shoved a note into his hand.

he unfolded it. scanned the lyrics. blinked. "this is a love song."

"observant." you stole his cap. "i’ll play it for you. if you win."

he won.

so, you played it.

ENCORE

months later, lando crowd-surfed at your wembley show.

the tablions lost their minds.

you lost your voice screaming.

and when he kissed you mid-stage, the flashbulbs burst like fireworks.

"told you i’d make you famous," you grinned.

lando rolled his eyes. "piss off."

he was still smiling.

a/n: guys, do we want a prequel? i repeat, do we want a prequel??? and im sorry yet again for lando being too rich or this being just a little unreal 🙁🙁

(if one person says yes im posting it because i already made it 🥺 i got carried away. i think i work better when i’m sad)

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fic #lando norris x y/n #lando norris #lando norris x you #lando norris fluff #formula 1 x y/n #lando x you

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kifflepiffles · 1 day ago

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GUYS HELP MY BROKE ARTIST FRIEND VIA COMMISIONS!!

He's a very good artist and he's also very sexy that should be enough to convince you /silly

Info From him:

Rules:

No hardcore fetish content

No agere/age regression

No age change

Art of young characters is okay but only in family-friendly circumstances.

Art of real people is okay, non-sexualized.

Furry/anthro is okay, non-sexualized.

What I offer and their prices:

Digital art

Bust: colored $2 / rendered $3

Extra characters: colored $0.50 / rendered $1

Full body: colored $5 / rendered $10 / (dynamic +$3)

Extra characters: +$2 per person colored / +$5 per person rendered / (dynamic +$1)

Comics:

4 panels: lineart $15 / colored $20 / rendered $35

Plus every extra panel: lineart +$1 / colored +$2 / rendered +$4

Rendered background fee: $5

Smut fee: $2

Fetish fee: $1

Dead dove fee: $5

EXTRA FACTS:

Colored art is a flat color, whereas rendered art includes shadows, lighting, lineart smoothing, and more.

Examples:

A dynamic full-body render with an extra character and background would cost $24.

A colored bust with three people would be $4.

Comics will take much longer due to the excessive planning and higher effort that go into them.

Payment

How it works:

Because we can’t know exactly how much something is going to cost, we’ll take a starting payment of half the estimated overall payment.

If I believe the cost will come out to be $20, you’ll pay $10 to start, then I’ll finish the project and you can pay the other $10 after.

It operates on a trust system.

You trust me to deliver and make your money worth it; I trust you to pay the rest of the cost.

To ensure I’m not scammed, the final product will be blurred/heavily watermarked before the transaction; you’ll get it clean once you’ve paid fully.

Don’t feel overwhelmed! It sounds like a lot, but I’ll keep updating you the whole time. Plus, these rates are actually pretty cheap compared to other offers lol.

If I can’t get your product to you, you’ll receive a full refund.

Payment methods:

I use Cash App and Paypal.

If need be, I can move to another payment method instead.

My IDs will be sent to you through email; I don’t feel comfortable putting them here.

Finally, my email:

You can reach me at [email protected]

From Poster: Please note that I am not Ica! I'm posting this on his behalf! You can still DM me or comment if you have questions but it will go much faster and you will have direct contact if you email him!

Q AND A

Can I just pay the full price to start?

Unless it’s a cheap order, no. I don’t want to estimate something higher or lower than what the full product is worth; then either I would have to refund you some of the money or you would have to pay me more for the extra work.

Why so strict?

I’ve personally seen other creators get scammed, and I’m not trying to go through that myself lol.

What about the fees?

Smut, fetish, and dead dove all require focus to make it effective.

They are stackable! If you have fetish on top of smut, it will come out to be $3 in fees.

However, if you use all three (+$5 for DD) then I’ll discount it to $6 rather than $8.

As for Paypal/Cash App fees, whatever loss caused by fees will be accounted for in the final cost.

Can I leave a tip?

Pretty please <:3 I’ll give you a lil drawing of your choice.

EXTRA EXAMPLES (PLUS 15$ COMIC EXAMPLE):

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ryozakidesu · 12 hours ago

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▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||။• NOW PLAYING..

♯ NEO RECORDS

—⭒ NCT series feat. JAEHYUN, MARK & JOHNNY

➤ One of Seoul’s greatest record label, NEO RECORDS has always been on top of the music industry. Dishing out masterpieces catered only to those who has exquisite taste in music. The label was built from the dirty concrete until it reached the skyline, with artists that bled money, fame and success. Music was their life— but the lyrics doesn’t write itself. It was more than a song— it was a story told with chords, a piece performed with memories, by lips that sung the truth. Well, mostly. After all, lies just sounds better on the mic.

GENRE: ANGST, SMUT

WARNING: ‼️MDNI, toxic themes, explicit sexual content, drug use, violence, crimes, infidelity, obsession, stalking and manipulation.

if you want to be added to tags, lmk!!

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

➤ track ⌗ 1: now playing

superman - j.jh

summary ⭑ You knew better than to let yourself be tangled in the so called ‘superman’s sheets. You’ve heard enough— that he’s far from the beloved superhero everybody adored. Whilst Clark Kent lived with dignity, honor and justice, Jeong Jaehyun thrived with sex, money and fame. You? Well, you’d live to be his kryptonite, making it your mission to see superman on his knees, ruining him for everybody else.

“ Is it a bird? A plane? No, it’s fucking Jeong Jaehyun. ”

GENRE: Angst, Fluff, Smut

WARNINGS: MDNI,toxic themes, obsession, manipulation, jealousy, explicit sexual themes, language, possessiveness, drugs&alcohol, morally flawed characters, violence, infamous!jaehyun x fem!reader

Exp. WC: 15k -20k

➤ track ⌗ 2: now playing

call me back - l.mk

summary ⭑ “Uh, hey.. it’s Mark again. Hmm, just leaving a message just in case… you know what, nevermind. Uhm, yeah.. I’m performing at your hometown tonight… a few special songs I wrote.. for— Ah, fuck this is pathetic.. anyways, yeah. I know I’ve said this a million time but.. call me back, yeah?” Mark knows you wouldn’t answer, he doesn’t even know if you still have the same number. Nonetheless, he still calls you— leaves a message, as if it’d change the fact that you’re not his anymore. As if it’ll erase the mistake he made. One mistake that left him here, settling in your dialtone. He hears it again,

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service at this time.”

GENRE: Angst, Smut, Fluff

WARNINGS: MDNI, toxic themes, cheating/infedelity, explicit sexual content, language, drugs&alcohol, ex!mark x fem!reader, violence

Exp. WC: 15k -20k

➤ track ⌗ 3: now playing

heartless - s.jn

summary ⭑ Neo Records wasn’t always the best, just like any other— it had to start from something. Johnny Suh made the label from his own blood and sweat, building straight from the ruins, holding into his ambition as power until he engraved his name onto the solid grounds of the industry. However— behind a man who has everything, was a woman that gave him exactly that, everything. A woman who left him scarred for years. He had never thought he’d see you again, but here you are— standing in front of him, ready to ruin him all over again. But he’ll be damned if he’d let you— a woman so heartless, claim his legacy and destroy him again.

“I hope I’ll haunt you with the idea that I would’ve fought for us ‘til the very fucking end.”

GENRE: Angst, Smut, Fluff

WARNINGS: MDNI, toxic themes, explicit sexual content, language, drugs&alcohol, ceo!johnnny x fem!reader, extreme violence, infidelity, obsession, crime

Exp. WC: 15k-20k

note: ok so.. don’t kill me. i just thought yk… the jh fic sounded really good as a standalone but what IF we make another series thats NOT gonna take years to make??? right?? no?? oh… well okay. ig you guys just gotta trusts me then🙏 let me cook smth gewwddd!!

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

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jacksabbotts · 2 days ago

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dbf!jake seresin x artist!reader tw .' slight sexual innuendos , condoms

main masterlist | series masterlist | join the taglist | dividers by @cafekitsune

imagine running into jake at the grocery store

three days. that's how long it had been since the dinner. jake had replayed it more times than he cared to admit. the way you'd laughed soft under her breath when your dad told some corny story about jake's flight sim mishap. the way your pajama-clad knee kept brushing his under the table like it wasn't trying to kill him.

and then, the shift. you had come out of that kitchen, hand full of pie and you'd changed into a completely different person. you came back guarded and quiet. like someone had pulled the plug on you.

he hadn't seen you since. not once, not even in the background. no hey jake in passing, no sarcastic commentary while he helped your dad in the barn. you'd quite literally disappeared. body and mind.

he told himself to let it go. that you just needed space. that maybe he'd crossed a line when he decided to defend you, a woman he barely knew, to your parents of all people.

but still. he found himself aimlessly drifting the aisles of the tiny corner grocery store after his last teaching simulation at the navy camp—not because he needed anything, not really. just gatorade. and maybe . . . hope. Which might have been pathetic, but here he was anyway.

he crouched to lift the case of gatorade—bottom shelf, of course—and caught the edge of his reflection in the glossy linoleum floor. sweat-worn henley, cuffed boots and a cowboy hat that was half a disguise, half a crutch. maybe if he looked like his old self, he’d feel like his old self. the version who didn’t get rattled by the shape of a girl’s smile.

the plastic creaked faintly beneath his fingers, and then the sound of flip-flops filled his ears. heard them before he saw you. squeaky, awkward, the kind of sound that didn’t belong in a place this quiet. and then just—you.

you stopped like you’d been yanked back on a leash, sketchbook clutched to her chest, hoodie half-swallowed your face, joggers limp at the hem like you hadn’t cared enough to pull youself together.

still the most beautiful fucking thing he’d seen in three days.

he stood slow—so you wouldn’t spook. and when your eyes met his, he smiled. not cocky. not smug but careful.

‘hey,’ he said, voice lower than intended.

you blinked at him like you didn’t quite believe it was him. your grip on the sketchbook tightened, like you might bolt and you couldn’t bare to leave it behind ( it didn’t matter that the one you currently held was empty. it was the principle of it ). ‘jake,’ you managed. ‘hi.’

god, her voice, he thought. that slight rasp. it made something in him go still. ‘didn’t mean to sneak up on you,’ he added, gesturing vaguely at himself. ‘i didn’t think i’d see you in the wild like this. after the other night… well, uh, you’ve been avoiding me. i just figured you needed some space.’

your eyes flared. 'no,' you said quickly. 'jake, i— i wasn’t. i’m not avoiding you. it wasn’t about you.'

his brow furrowed, unbidden. 'kinda felt like it. reel like i’m at your house more than my own. your dad… he likes to hang out, you know how he is.'

something flickered behind your eyes—like guilt, or shame.

'you barely looked at me,' he said gently. 'and i—' he exhaled. 'i didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable for you. i don’t know if i said something i shouldn’t’ve or… if i crossed a line during dinner.'

'no,' you said, firmer. 'you didn’t do anything wrong.'

he wanted to believe that. but the look on your face—drawn, exhausted, like you hadn’t slept in days—didn’t match the words.

he glanced down, noticed the sketchbook again.

'what’s that?' he asked, a little desperate to shift gears. make you smile again. loosen whatever was wrapped so tight around your ribs.

you hugged it tighter. 'nothing. it’s nothing.'

jake raised a brow. 'didn’t know nothin’ came spiral-bound.'

'it’s just paper,' you said too fast. too defensive.

he squinted, playful. 'paper?'

'yes.'

'didn't know we had an art store in town.'

'we dont,' you started, 'this is from the school supplies aisle. right next to the discount printer ink and lisa frank folders. it obviously not high quality but it'll work for what i need.”

his mouth curved. 'so it’s serious.'

'what?' you blinked.

'the drawing,' he said, nodding toward the sketchbook again. 'you don’t strike me as the type to go out of your way for subpar drawing paper. unless it were imperative.'

the way your entire body stiffened—it nearly floored him. red crept up the back of your neck. your knuckles whitened.

he smiled—soft, curious. 'you fill the last one already?'

'yeah,' you croaked.

'must’ve been inspired.'

'guess so.'

jake nodded, trying to hide the surge of heat in his own chest. god, she was cute when she got flustered. he wanted to tease you, just a little. just enough to make you smile again.

'what was it this time?' he asked, still light. 'still life? portraits?'

you didn’t answer.

you looked . . . nervous. and then—stepped back and knocked into the shelf behind you. hard. something tumbled from the shelf and hit the floor with a thud.

'you okay?'

'yeah,' you mumbled. she crouched, grabbed it—froze.

his brows knit. you stood up too fast and shoved the box back onto the shelf like it had burned you. 'what was that?'

'nothing,' you said. 'nothing at all. just a—uh—poorly stocked shelf. jake leaned to the side. squinted.

oh.

condoms. on a shelf with party cups and streamers. his mouth twitched ( and maybe something else too ). hard.

'party essentials, huh?'

'no,' you said instantly.

he couldn’t help it. he reached past her and picked it up. turned it over in his hand like he didn’t already know the brand. 'nice brand,' he mused. 'not the one i prefer, but nice. does the job, i guess.'

you shook her head like she might die on the spot. 'who the fuck—who puts condoms next to glitter glue and paper plates?'

he pressed a knuckle to his lips. 'that’s a hell of a party.'

'jake—'

'i mean, i’ve seen some bachelor parties, but damn. that’s efficient.'

'i actually hate you.'

'you sure?' he grinned. 'you were lookin’ real serious about the selection.'

you made a strangled sound and shoved the sketchbook into his chest. 'shut up.'

he caught it. let the weight settle. let himself watch you squirm.

god, she was beautiful.

'you alright, darlin’?' he asked softly.

you adjusted the sketchbook in her arms. 'yeah.'

'sure?'

you hesitated.

and in that pause—jake saw it. all of it.

the fear. the loneliness. the mother’s words she hadn’t repeated. the way you'd looked at him like you were breaking apart under the weight of something you didn’t know how to share.

you swallowed. 'yeah.' then turned to go.

'i’m going to find a checkout line and then i’m going to go home and pretend this never happened.”

he smirked. couldn’t help himself. "shame,' he called after you. 'i was gonna ask if you wanted to split the glitter glue and a couple of party hats.'

you turned so fast your hoodie swished behind you, the sketchbook tight in your arms like a shield—and fake just stood there. frozen. watching.

dazed, even.

he let out a slow exhale, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile like a goddamn idiot. but it didn’t work. the smirk slipped anyway.

you was halfway down the aisle now. flip-flops slapping. shoulders hunched like the universe had given you just a little too much embarrassment to carry in one go.

he wanted to follow you.

not in a creepy way. just . . . walk behind you. push your cart. ask what else you needed for your top-secret, glitter-glue-condom-themed art project. carry your sketchbook. hell—buy you every sketchbook in the state if it meant you'd look at him like you did that night at dinner.

jake dragged a hand down his face, chuckling quietly as he let the box of condoms fall back onto the shelf.

his heart was still thumping. stupid and warm and loose in his chest like he’d run a mile barefoot. his skin tingled, his stomach flipped, and he couldn’t remember the last time just talking to someone had made him feel like he might explode from under his own skin.

'must’ve been inspired,' he murmured to himself, echoing the line he’d tossed out just minutes before.

because you had been. he could see it in your eyes. youd drawn something—someone—with enough fire to finish a whole sketchbook in three days. and for some reason, the thought of it being him?

that knocked the wind out of him.

jake looked down at his hands. big, calloused. not exactly the kind of thing you expect to show up in someone’s sketchbook. but the way you’d hugged it like it held the ark of the covenant? the way your face flushed, throat fluttered, pupils blew wide?

it did things to him. dangerous things.

he ran his thumb over the edge of the plastic basket handle, brain full of your blush and your panic and the memory of your voice catching when yo said 'it wasn’t about you.'

bullshit. but okay.

he wasn’t stupid. you'd been hurt. not by him, maybe—but by something close enough to stick. he wanted to fix it. he would fix it. he sighed again, watching the last of you disappear toward the checkout lines, head down, sketchbook clutched like a lifeline.

he knew then—right there between the solo cups and a damn box of misplaced condoms—that you weren't just a crush. you weren't just pretty or clever or tempting in that way he only ever joked about.

you mattered.

and he was officially, irrevocably, and probably foolishly in it.

for you.

god fucking help him, he was done for.

#jake seresin x reader #dbf!jake seresin x artist!reader #dbf!jake #dbf!jake seresin #jake seresin #jake seresin fluff #jake seresin smut #jake seresin fanfiction #topgun #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun x reader

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landlubber3000 · 3 days ago

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Roommate 2

Author note: this took me forever to write LOL. The magical writing juices do not flow consistently.

Rafayel X y/n; non-mc main; college AU; roommates to lovers; fluff?; pining; big crush energy

Prompt: they’d done their best to hold back . . .

Rafayel woke as the sun barely breached the horizon. Just a red, fiery glow hidden behind clouds. His eyes land on you sleeping peacefully in his arms and knows he still has time.

He’s in love with you, and that’s what he can properly say of this feeling. He doesn’t know what else this overwhelming and lowkey frustrating feeling would be.

His art is a well oiled work, but lately something catastrophic has interrupted his free flowing artistic channel. Nothing has ever bothered him so painfully before, not even when lack of inspiration strikes. He’s tripping and skinning his knees over this feeling he’s kept hidden for the past four months. He thought it would pass, fizzle out. Heal even. Mend itself closed. He doubted it, doubted his motives, doubted where his heart really was, doubted the authenticity.

Was it real?

Was it selfish?

Maybe, yes to both.

Does he like you, or does he like warmth you draw out of him so effortlessly?

One thing is for certain: no one else makes him feel the way you do. It is you who makes this special. It is you who he pines for. It has intensified, become chronic. His heart strains, and the more he denies himself of it, the more it hurts. The heart hates lies.

His first question last night downplayed what he really wanted to ask. It was a simple gauge of whether or not you wanted him around after graduation, or longer.

How much longer could he have this feeling before he had to let it go?

Did he have to let it go?

He couldn’t place his finger on how or when or what caused him to feel this way, but maybe it started with the fact that being around you doesn’t trouble him. It never has, not even when he rolled his eyes at having to share the apartment with someone else. You’re a friend of a friend, that’s how this kind of came about. He thought he’d classify you as tolerable, someone he just so happened to share a space with; he didn’t think you’d become friends, either. He couldn’t blame you for your initial response. Forced proximity isn’t a bad descriptor. But then, somehow, you waltzed your way into a small group of people he cherishes.

One of the first times you two connected was over a work he was making. It was never the same way twice. It started light and beautiful, then grew dark and grotesque. You asked him once what he was looking for. He said, nothing. Just that he was painting a self portrait. You said it reminded you of a story where a painter paints a beautiful man, and as that beautiful man spirals into hedonism, the painting itself grows uglier.

Even with that assessment, you didn’t judge him, nor did you ask what pains made the painting evolve. He probably would’ve answered. Sometimes strangers are easier to admit those things to. He wanted your thoughts on his work thereafter.

He too looks forward to you coming home, an ear subconsciously tuned to the door. He doesn’t leave his spot when you walk in, but his stiffened shoulders relax at knowing you’re just in the other room.

He loves that you enjoy to his cooking. It’s usually an accident when he makes too much, but recently he’s found himself doing it on purpose. You enjoy something about him that isn’t his art, and he likes sharing with you. This also helps alleviate his concern about your long, long, long study sessions where you won’t get up from your chair for hours. He hopes it’s a reprieve from the mental gymnastics while also fueling you for the next round.

The gross, watered down coffee left a film on his tongue and it’s not a pleasant taste hours later. He should really just learn to make coffee for you. He’ll have to remember to look at espresso machines later. Maybe he’d only get to use it until the end the semester, but for you, it’d be worth it.

He struggles with the dichotomy of being both selfish and generous with you. He wants no one but you to have this feeling overflowing within him. . . All the cherishing he wishes he could do outside of being your friend. How can he ask you, though, to shoulder something he can barely carry himself? How can he ask you to open yourself up and let him pour into you? And while he has a vague, but relieved and elated awareness of how you feel. . . I wanted you to stay. . . He’s vulnerable now.

He squeezed his eyes shut as pain pooled in his forehead. He didn’t say everything he wanted to last night. Not even close, not when he danced around admitting his feelings. He probably should’ve had a preliminary pep-talk with himself while sober before he heavily implied he liked you.

Really, Raf? A third thing worse is her wanting to keep you around? Idiot. That’s the best outcome.

But could he allow himself that? It is only a third thing worse because it would destroy him if it went wrong and is inevitably his fault. Would you regret him?

He admires your features in the light of the slow retreating darkness and wants to trace his fingers over your cheek bones, the ridge of your nose, the dip of your cupids bow, down to the suppleness of your lips. His thumb remembers how it felt. Soft. Monumental. His name has kissed your lips before he has, and he’s jealous of every other word after.

You start to stir and open your eyes when the sun meets your eyes. You look confused and grumpy by the crease in your brow.

“Slept on the beach. . .” You mumble. “That’s a first.”

Rafayel feels it in his back and he’s sure you do too.

He closes his eyes again, catching a second wind of sleepiness. Just to stave off the morning a little longer. “Mhm.”

“We should go home and sleep some more, Raf.”

You both trudge sleepily back to the apartment and Rafayel held his tongue the entire way, and so did you.

You tell each other good night while standing in front of your bedroom doors. You went in, but Rafayel delayed. Small specks of dry paint pepper his white door, including the golden handle. He can’t go in until he knows exactly what he’s going to paint about from last night. It will take time, as things are still incomplete, suspended. What the painting will reveal depends on him.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s the afternoon by the time you wake up again, and you’re in bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering how it felt to be in Rafayel’s arms. Your paper due next week is on the mainland while you’re on an island with a solitary palm tree.

A third thing worse. A third thing worse. He wouldn’t have asked you to stay with him, put his thumb on your lip, or hold each other, if it wasn’t a third thing worse. Or maybe he was drunk and lonely, and you happened to be who he came home to. How much is drunk honesty worth? Does he even remember?

You wish you could have seen him better. It was definitely a night of feeling around in the dark and clinging to every word for a sense of direction. Where do you and him go from here? Do you forget about it and just keep being roommates? It’s not like you ever thought you had a chance with him. . .

You sigh and finally get out of bed for the day. A sharp pain scatters up your back as you stretch and heave the tightness from your body. Groaning, you grip at your side and your eyes land on the desk next to you. Laptop open (dead), papers abandoned (disarray), a room temp coffee (hellish), the straw that Rafayel sipped from (tempting).

Shaking your head, you tidy it up a bit and organize the papers again. You needed to get it done, but not without the proper conditions: shower, clothes not clad in sand, food, another coffee.

You wonder if you should invite Rafayel to join you for coffee, but you can’t bring yourself to knock on the door. He’s a deep sleeper, and maybe being separate is what you both need. Your fist hovers though: defeat. You resign to going alone, but make a mental promise to bring him something.

By the time you’re back, he’s awake and sketching on the balcony with the door open. He’s got his legs kicked up on the seat across from him, his sketch pad on his thighs while one hand flits around the paper and the other props his head. He’s subtly focused, and probably making a rough sketch look effortlessly masterful.

You approach him and he smiles once he sees you. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“I brought you a muffin and a libation,” you say, holding it out to him. “Hopefully it will be a small comfort to any lingering back pain.”

“You’re so thoughtful, miss academia,” he says and sets it down on the small side table next to him. “Although, it is my fault. I should be the one treating you.”

You’re waiting to see who will acknowledge the elephant in the room first.

“Hm. What will you be making for dinner then?”

You wouldn’t be the one to do it. Not yet at least.

“Whatever you want,” he says, sipping on his drink and licking the excess from his lips. He nods in silent approval of your choice: blended white mocha with cinnamon and caramel.

“I’ll think about it. What’re you working on?”

It looks to be a landscape sketch. Maybe the ocean. He pulls it up to his chest and gives you a challenging look.

“Sorry, I only share my pure rough drafts with my friends. As of 12 to 13 hours ago, you aren’t friends with me.”

You gape. “That’s- Raf,” you grumble, looking away. “I explained myself. I’m sorry. We are.”

He tilts his head and hands you the sketch book. “If you are sorry and we are friends then let’s sit together when we’re in the same cafe studying.”

You gulp. “I didn’t think you noticed,” you say quietly as you follow the pencil strokes. It is a beach, perhaps at sunrise or sun set.

He tilts his drink toward you. “You didn’t?”

Your cheeks prickle lightly and you continue to observe nothing in particular about the sketch. You wish you could hide in it.

“But, fair enough,” he continues. “I can be quite an airhead. However, if we can’t be honest about our friendship, how will we ever come around to that other thing?”

Fantastic pencil shading here, nice lines there, you’re cornered. You avoid his gaze at all cost, but you couldn’t hide completely from him. Your cheeks are hot and you know they’re beet red.

You clear your throat and hand the notebook back. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

He smirks. “So will I.”

After a long night of tossing and turning, you find yourself dead tired and sitting across from Rafayel at the cafe. He’d walked in shortly after you did and immediately planted himself across from you. Your laptops nearly touch. He’s working on his senior project, which includes a long paper about his exhibition.

“What’re my sources? My beautiful brain,” he mumbles to himself.

His glasses sit on the bridge of his nose and he fidgets with his dark, purple hued hair while his eyes dart from sentence to sentence. Despite him being in front of you, looking studious and dare you say cute, you’re not as nervous as you thought you’d be in public together.

“Have I seen any of your exhibition work?”

He hums. “No, it’s a secret sequestered in an off-campus studio.” He looks up from his laptop. “Will you come to see it when it is ready though?”

Something shy and sensitive lingers in his question. His eyes, pleading. You’re focused on the reddish-pink that sits at the base of his iris. It reminds you of a sunrise on a clear, blue morning. You’re touched, included.

You smile and nod. “Of course.”

“Good,” he says, then clears his throat. “I’ll get us more coffees.”

You want to take a peak at his laptop to get a sense of what his pieces are, but you won’t invade. You know they will be Rafayel’s vision of beauty.

A light patter hits the window, then another and another. You watch the rain cover the street in a torrential downpour and everyone outside scattering to get inside or opening umbrellas. It’s unexpected, just as unexpected as you spending your Saturday with Rafayel. You’ve been here two hours and while you’re happy to be here with him, a certain . . . Anticipation is stirring. You still don’t know what to do from here.

What is allowed?

Where are the lines in the sand?

A light thud snaps you out of your spiral and a fresh coffee appears by your laptop.

“Well,” Rafayel sighs, taking his seat. “Guess we’ll have to wait out the rain. No umbrella.”

The words in front of you run into each other after a while longer. Your second coffee, emptied. You’re nearly done, then come the edits. You stretch your arms, and Rafayel shuts his laptop like it personally offended him.

“I’m hungry,” he sighs and rubs his eyes under his glasses. He takes them off and cleans the lenses with his sleeve. “Wanna get take out and watch a movie at home?”

Your heart does a somersault at the idea of spending more time with him, but you try not to get ahead of yourself. You are roommates and roommates can spend time together. Sit on the same couch, share a meal, watch a movie that hopefully isn’t romantic. . . It doesn’t have to mean something if he doesn’t mean something. . . This is stressful.

“What’re you craving?”

You settle on pizza and eat it on the floor in front of the coffee table. He chose a sappy chick flick, which had some romantic themes, but you talk yourself through it. It’ll probably be fine, considering Rafayel is bullying one of the male leads.

“She deserves better,” he grumbles, taking a bite out of his pepperoni pizza. He waves the floppy piece at the TV screen. “No one should settle for a fuck-boy like that.”

You nod along, pretty invested. “She’ll come to her senses.”

He rolls his eyes. “Or someone needs to hit him upside the head.”

You’d only just noticed the back of his arm resting behind you on the couch. It isn’t touching you, but it’s lingering. You were wrapped up in his arms just 48 hours ago, yet this feels intimate in its own way.

The third point in the love triangle comes into the mix, and those two start the tango of will they, won’t they. That feels slightly familiar.

“Just be together,” he groans and puts his forehead on your shoulder, a hand grabbing your bicep for support. “I don’t even know why I picked this movie. Probably to feel something, and it’s working.”

You laugh at his dramatics and he looks at you, his bangs hanging over his eyes. He’s so adorable, and so close. “I had fun today,” he says.

Your lips part to say something, but all you can do is nod. “Mhm.”

“I didn’t say what I wanted to the other night,” he continues. He strokes your arm with his thumb, and you hold your breath. “I’ve been silly about all this, I think. Just stalling and waiting. For what? I don’t know, but the longer I wait the worse it gets. . . I like you, and if you like me too, we can take our time.”

You blush hard. You can’t look at him. Instead, you bore holes in the pizza box. “So, do you want to date, or something?”

“Yes!” The exclamation brought your attention back to him. He clears his throat and scratches the back of his head. “I mean, yes,” he says more controlled now. “I would love to take you on dates and do more together.”

You purse your lips. “I mean, are you sure? What if it doesn’t work?”

He cups your face with his hand. “Then, it doesn’t work, but I’d like to see if it will. We’re pretty successful people, despite when we’re not.”

You fidget with your fingers. “Feelings can make messes.”

“I know,” he says. “Mine are making a mess of me the longer I try to contain them. I’ve liked you long enough to know they’re not going away any time soon.”

The sentiment hits you like a truck. His longevity matches yours. You nod your head, the honesty spewing through the cracks; he swiped his foot through the line in the sand.

You reach your hand to brush his bangs from his eyes. “I notice everything about you,” you admit.

He smiles. “You never miss a thing, cutie.”

He leans over to kiss your cheek, and his lips are so soft. You turn your head, the boldest thing you could’ve done, and your lips are centimeters from another. He looks to your eyes for what you take as permission, and you close the gap.

He sighs into you, his lips situating with yours before moving them, his hot breath like a blanket against your lips. They’re so patient and earnest, like he’s telling the truth when he said he’s wanted you this long. Gratitude drowns out your concerns, at least for now. In this moment, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Slight cliff hanger? Idk. We’ll see what happens lmao.

#lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #fanfic #writing practice #lads #y/n #rafayel x you #rafayel fluff #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel x reader #pining #romance

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leebrontide · 1 day ago

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I’m so curious about your wife’s novella that could have been an opera, and in no small part because opera isn’t exactly center stage in modern popular entertainment, like next to stage musicals, etc. as far as I can tell. Do you mind my asking what made you think of encouraging your wife in the direction of an opera adaption? Is the novella about an opera singer, or is there some other aspect…?

Oh yeah, it's been ages since I talked about this so people won't remember it!

Ok, so like 15ish years ago, before I got into prose, I actually drew a webcomic, and was pretty tied in to a section of the queer local comic community in the twin cities, which at least at the time was a great but unlauded place to be a comic artist or writer. But everybody talked about how Portland was THEEE place for comics, and it made me grumpy.

And one day, on twitter, I saw that some comic artists in Portland had got to go to the final dress rehearsal of an opera, to make sketches to post online as a sort of cross-promotional thing. My grudge was activated.

With my wife out of town for the weekend I was bored and restless and lacking in distractions, so I wrote up a pitch to the MN opera asking for myself and all my comics drawing friends to come do the same- we get a little legit art cred, they get a little popular media credit. I figured they wanted to draw in a younger crowd.

And by the time my wife got home I'd organized a season-long free final dress rehearsal pass for not only myself but like 10 other comics people. The opera company even fed us fancy snacks and let us talk to people associated with the show.

This arrangement spiraled, as my schemes often do, and ended up lasting for a decade. I met some good friends there. It finally ended at an intersection of new-director-of-marketing and covid.

So as a result I got to see some spectacular old and brand new operas, and met some composers. I saw never before seen opera adaptations of The Shining, and also the Christmas Truce of WWI, and the 1919 Black Sox baseball scandal, the night before their debuts.

And my wife happened to have written a novella that would organize itself fantastically into a series of mostly arias with some interstitial bits, that could be performed cheaply because of the small cast and simple setting, and everybody could have an actually good part. The story itself had nothing to do with opera but was a meditation of suicidality, grief, and what it means to human beings to want things. Which like, classic fancy opera stuff.

It was about an old man whose husband died, leaving him with a used book shop they were going to spend their retirement life running, who notices strange things going on in the neighborhood, and goes to investigate the mystery. He finds a trail of people who all once wanted something desperately, who suddenly just...stopped wanting that, and explores the ways that unfolded in their lives. Eventually this leads him to the caretaker of the apartment complex across the street- a demon who feeds off want, and in doing so gets whatever desire he consumed. Each person who wanted is their own little story, all narrated by the old man, whose setting out what he's uncovered before he goes to confront the demon, pretty sure that in his own heart, all he's waiting for is his own death. It's a good story.

#opera #writing #Lee lore

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startaegi · 3 days ago

Text

CHAPTER THREE . . . nobody else

in which the lonely hybe barista catches the eye of popular idol jung hoseok, in turn changing her life forever.

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the atmosphere in the classroom shifted. you sat back in the uncomfortable lecture hall chair, fingers nervously fiddling with the pencil in your hand. the day started like any other, the first half spent in the studios, and now the second half in the lecture hall. your usually over-enthusiastic teacher had been smiling until now.

professor yoon cleared her throat, and the room fell silent. "i have some very important news to share with you today—" she paused mid-sentence, eyes lingering near the front of the room where a few students stayed glued to their screens. "i would appreciate if everyone could put their phones away and listen."

your ears perked up.

"starting next week, we will begin preparing for your end-of-year project, and if successful, three of you will have the chance to have your art displayed in the yunsul gallery exhibit."

your classmates exchanged shocked glances and hushed whispers. yunsul gallery was a prestigious space in the heart of seoul, housing some of south korea's most famous artworks—paintings, marble statues, sculptures. tickets sold out within minutes, and in the art world, you were considered lucky just to walk through the doors.

"if selected," professor yoon went on, "your work will be part of their spring newcomers collection."

your heart stammered in your chest. this could potentially be the biggest moment of your career, a real chance at being recognised. you felt giddy with excitement, your mind racing with ideas.

and just as quickly as the excitement came, it disappeared.

"guess some of us will have to start taking this class seriously," said iseul with a smirk pointed in your direction. "no more running off halfway through a lesson."

you felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment but refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, so you said nothing, instead moving to gather your belongings. it was typical of iseul to ruin any sense of excitement you had been feeling. since the day professor yoon recognized your work in the early months of your first year, iseul made it her mission to undermine you at every opportunity.

you didn't waste any time leaving the building. on any other day, you might've stayed behind, maybe found an empty studio to paint something or other. today, however, you left as soon as you could.

you took your time walking. the distance from your uni to hybe was short, just long enough to give in to your racing thoughts.

yunsul gallery. you, of course, knew about the opportunities they gave to new artists, could never dream of being within reach of one. you should be excited. but the voices in your head nipped away. iseul. your mother. your father. old high school classmates. even your old neighbours. each one had planted a seed of doubt in your mind. each one telling you you’d never make it.

the smell of coffee hit you as you stepped through the double glass doors. your shift started at 1pm, it now being five past, which meant they were likely to be busier than usual—caught in the rush of lunchtime. you quickly wove through the crowds of people, bag clutched to your chest, and soon tied your apron, clocking in for your shift.

"hi," sunjae said from beside the cake stand. "you're late."

"sorry," you apologised, already moving to the sink. "class was held up."

he shrugged with a smile, making his way back to the register.

sunjae was a nice boy, a few years older than you. he basically ran the cafeteria like he owned it, and somehow, no one minded. he was sweet in the sense that he understood you had your troubles, but never asked questions. If you were late, like you usually were, he acted as if your shift was always supposed to start at that hour or minute. you would forever be grateful for the kindness he showed you.

the line of customers didn't seem to end. you moved without thinking—coffee after coffee, cleaning dishes in between, politely smiling as you delivered pastries to tables. you were grateful for the busyness the afternoon brought, your mind clear of all bad thoughts for once.

as you rung up the last customer, eyes still focused on the screen in front of you, a familiar voice spoke, "iced americano, please."

you lifted your head, eyes soon meeting his. you smiled, "anything else?"

hoseok turned to his right, where a boy you didn't recognise stood. you stared at him in disbelief. he was one of the prettiest people you had ever seen. soft face, plump lips, and dyed dirty blonde hair. he was definitely an idol, you thought to yourself.

"oat milk latte and a muffin," the boy smiled.

you didn't have time to continue a conversation, the next customer stepping up to order. minutes later sunjae approached, his voice frantic.

"can you take this to table 10?" he asked, stressfully running a hand through his hair. "sohee was supposed to be back from her break at 2."

you nodded, quickly ringing up the customer and reaching for the tray. table 10 was at the far back of the room, close enough to the giant windows overlooking the cafeteria but far enough from the hustle of the register. you carefully balanced the two coffees and muffin on the tray, moving slowly as you walked toward the table.

hoseok noticed you approach, a smile spreading across his face. he stood up to help with the tray, but you were quick to push him away. reluctantly, he sat back down.

“it's tuesday," hoseok said as if it were obvious, then continued, "uni today?"

"yeah," you nodded, placing their drinks and cake on the table, then tucking the empty tray under your arm. "ran a little late."

the blonde boy raised an eyebrow, suspiciously eyeing you both. "do you know each other?"

before you could speak, hoseok replied, "sort of. we're getting there." he laughed.

you smiled softly, unsure how to reply. "if you need anything else, you know where to find me," you said, glancing back at the register. hoseok smiled in return, nodding while the pretty boy sipped his coffee through a smirk.

you returned to your spot, cheeks warm and heart racing. there was something about hoseok you couldn't shake.

previous next masterlist wattpad

❪ notes ❫ . another bts member introduced ��

❪ taglist ❫ . @granataepfelchen @readeryaknow @mizz-kraziii if you wanna be added to the taglist for all future chapters let me know

#｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ nobody else #jhope x fem reader #jhope x y/n #jhope x you #jhope x reader #jhope fanfic #jhope fic #hobi x you #hobi x reader #hoseok x you #hoseok x reader #bts x fem!reader #bts x fem reader #bts x y/n #bts fanfction #bts x you #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts fic

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medi-melancholy · 24 hours ago

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alright, fuckhuge ramble about anjyu lore, past and present, this time mostly focused on his family, his life as a bard, and how these things all tie together. if you are even remotely interested in the bnuuy then this will be like christmas for you

for starters, his parents weren't proper clan viera, and were already wanderers themselves. they were the kind of people who were torn between two worlds, wanting to keep some traditions, but discard others--like, they kept their forest names when they left together, but they did leave in the first place

they were always to have kids together, and didn't want to have kids within the established way of things, which was a factor for why they left home. they wanted their child to grow up with both of them and stay with them. like, their kids would be the ultimate culmination and symbol of their dreams, being free and having family. and they wanted a biiiiiiiig family, just, so many kids, so much love to go around. but anjyu's mother had a very rough pregnancy and they couldn't risk the dangers again, especially not with their lifestyle.

so, all they ever got is anjyu. and they're happy to have just one single, perfect child to devote all their love and attention and hope to. and anjyu ended up being different than they'd imagined their kid being, but by god did they love him regardless. he was their treasure. he was so very beloved.

his mom was sweet and doting as can be. in irl or modern settings she'd be like. Granola Mom(tm). his dad was also very softhearted, not a type well-suited to battle by nature, someone who tended to feel like an outcast. which, hey, that's one of the big reasons they wanted to leave their clan, he's just not a fighter at all.

they were also both artistic people, enjoyers of song and words. his father would make up songs while going about daily life, his mother would join in; she would hold little anjyu and sing lullabies to him while he dozed off. and he has no true memory of this, but he has always, always, always instinctively known “music is a naturally good and soothing thing” as a fact of life, and never questioned it. he was taught the importance of tradition and progress both, of love and emotion and connection, of art in tandem with survival

all of this in his childhood--and it is empty in his mind. he doesn't know any of this happened. his whole life before the calamity, before being separated from his parents, is just Gone. he does not know what he is missing. he does not know his parents' names, their faces, their voices, their touch. he does not know where he originally came from, or how he knows what he already knows

(as for what happened to his parents, they're almost certainly dead already)

this is why anjyu ending up mainly pursuing the path of a bard means. A Lot. because he is Not loud. he is not very or openly emotional. he is not expressive. he is not particularly social. but, he loves and cherishes beautiful things. and he is drawn to new and unique things and experiences. he doesn't think himself a poetic or musical sort in any way, but--those are such lovely things, and he admires them. and he does not at all remember that he was raised in an environment tied to these things in any way.

one of the reasons anjyu is drawn to music and bard-ly things is because one of his parents would sing and recite poems around him. he just, of course, has no conscious memory of it. it's part of why he's so drawn to the chance to get into song and such--it's like fate guiding him to something he has a connection to already even if he doesn’t realize it at all. he takes up a path about carrying on stories and memories when he does not hold onto his own and has been unable to for a long time

but somehow it just, comes naturally to him.

at the very least--the thought of being able to support others in battle, even from a distance, in his own way, while also handling himself--carrying on stories and legends, carrying things with words as you would carry yourself across the land with your own two legs… letting things move on and continuing to let time past while honouring said past, expressing it in a show of beauty... anjyu likes this.

someone like jehantel, he can look at anjyu and speak to him and tell that this is a person who is… very directionless, in a more bleak way than anjyu himself could ever realize.

those early bard quests involve going out and about to do things to stir your emotions to better learn the songs for your path and your training. anjyu's just like

"……….huh. This. really resonates with me. i get it

……………………………………..i will now proceed to never think about why that is"

becoming a musician in general is just, such a good pursuit for anjyu that he would've never thought of on his own, but one he was bound to be drawn to eventually. he's had a lot of idle time the past few years where he just kinda. sits there. and does nothing. just kinda Exists.

he thinks about some things he could be doing. but he has no reason to be doing them. therefore, why should be do them? so, technically, he has nothing to do. if he is not traveling, or working, or spending time with someone by rare chance, or anything other specific per-established thing--then, he will do nothing. that's… just what's made sense to him. he… just isn't someone who does things, really.

reading never felt right. reading is something you do when you're required. even if he's better at reading than he should be, considering his upbringing (whatever it may be, because he doesn't recall)--if he isn't required to do it, why should he? writing, too. writing you save for when you need to do it. hunting. exploring. eating. those are things you simply do when it's time to do them.

but… music isn't something you have a time and place to do it. it isn't a job. it isn't something for survival. there's no time when you must play music.

but it's such a beautiful thing. and he likes beautiful things. so he can't bring himself to question it. it just Is. and he, too, just Is. so, making music into the thing he can, should, and must do when idle? it just… fits. it feels… oddly purposeful, to him. and unexpectedly fulfilling. if he has nothing else his hands or mouth are required for, that means it's time to play something, sing, or both. it's a Job, but also a job, now. and he likes that. he likes the routine, the stability. the secureness.

and besides, anjyu is a perfect man to carry on proper bard songs of stories and memories and legacy and history instead of like, air-filler fare of drinking and romance and whatnot, because you are NEVER going to get a love song out of this guy oh my GOD you are not

anjyu does eventually open up more to songs that aren't fully based in truth and memory, the songs meant to light up a tavern, because down the road he comes to realize, like… how worthwhile and meaningful that fantasy, that indulgence, can be. a distraction, a break--this, too, is meaningful, that sort of healing. sometimes you don't want to be carried by someone else's tale of triumph or sorrow, sometimes you need to dream, to be merry (even if he can't fully be that way himself, he wants to give others the chance to be)

i am soooooooo.

as of now, the very start of heavensward, anjyu has repeatedly been left wondering why is he even alive. HOW is he even alive. he had no purpose. he saw nothing for himself. he was alive but not living. there's all these people, people who have--HAD, purpose and impact and meaning and passion and lives, and yet, here he is, someone with no past, who can't even be concerned that he has no past, and he's the one who gets to survive? out of luck? happenstance?

now he has to survive. he has to survive, and continue to survive, in all the misery and hopelessness and sorrow because he CANNOT allow himself to die after what happened to so so many people, several times over, because of him. it hurts and it sucks and it hurts and it’s hard but he has to. he HAS to. he has to stay alive. he has to remember them all.

and he still does try to find joy in things. he really does try. he may not seem like it, and he may not seem like the type for it--but he does.

yes he's not super emotive and yes there's something kind of 'distant' about him but like, he's honestly such a sensitive soul. he isn't one to form close connections with people, and yet, by god and YET, he is so naturally primed to do just that. how he's unable to say no to people. how he's a great listener. how he's nonjudgmental. anjyu being such an impartial and "oh ok this may as well happen" person is what enables him to become attached to so many people in different ways. him being neutral and not having strong opinions by default means it makes sense that he can end up being fairly invested in others or take note of them

and that's the thing--he doesn't realize how deeply connected to others he is, and how much he cares about them, until they're gone.

...but, what about the things he doesn't remember?

and why doesn't he remember them?

why, only a few weeks after the day of the banquet, does anjyu not seem to remember the specifics of that day? and why is he seemingly unbothered by it?

why is someone who's so devoted to preservation and memory apparently unconcerned with his own?

that's a talk for another time. :)

#medi plays ff14 #anjyu #oc #this was gonna be a post about a whole other thing that i needed to build up to first #but then the buildup took over #Whoops!#it's not super linear or organized but. i hope u enjoy the info about my boy

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