#this was using a white charcoal brush on a black canvas. been enjoying those for lighting studies

[dream-it-be-it]

I don't recognize you anymore

screencap reference under the cut

(this is brightened and adjusted slightly from the actual show because this scene is VERY dark)

[vindicatedvirgil]

art is (not) dead / analogical

inspired by an idea brainstormed in a discord server i’m in.

art critic logan!!!!! give him art rights! immediately!!!!

[masterlist]

---

Logan adjusted his glasses, eyes focused on the abstract painting in front of him. When it came to artwork in that style, he either appreciated it or it confused him, and this piece fell into the latter category. It was a white canvas with cloud-like shapes in various shades of purple, gray, and black. Logan wanted to understand what the artist was trying to convey, but he only felt perplexed. As he stepped up to read the information about the piece, a man stood to his left. 

“Priced a bit high,” Logan muttered, gripping his pen a little tighter. He scribbled down the title, price, and artist of the piece, then straightened back up. He spun on his heel, and the man who was standing there was looking at him, frowning. Logan observed the badge on his black coat, denoting him as an artist. The name… “Oh, this is your piece,” Logan said, recalling the name he had just written down.

“Is there something wrong with my art…” the man, named Virgil Storm, narrowed his eyes onto Logan’s badge, explaining that he was the critic at the show, “...Mr. Crofters?” Logan sighed, glancing back to the large art piece.

“I do not understand why you have titled it ‘anxiety’,” Logan explained, “and the colors don’t… bring any certain emotion.” Virgil rolled his eyes, inhaling sharply. He was used to this by now, critics claiming they knew what art needed to be, but he was sick of it. The art represented how he felt, no matter how abstract it was.

“Look, you don’t need to understand art for it to be worth something,” Virgil explained, gesturing to all of the art surrounding them. “It means something to the artist. But you wouldn’t understand that, you just like critiquing and judging the things that people put countless hours into, hmm?” Logan frowned at this, and felt a pang of unease. “Yes, Mr. Crofters. I’ve heard of you and your… critiquing. You caused Roman Prince, one of the greatest artists in the area, to have a mental breakdown because you didn’t ‘understand’ the piece that he dedicated to his brother.”

“Look, Storm. This is what I studied. I know art-”

“You know what you like, and I don’t care if you think my art is overpriced. You couldn’t create something with half as much heart or emotion, I’m sure,” Virgil started to step away, but Logan stepped in front of him, eyes dark.

“I can paint,” Logan informed him. He thought he was no good, though, which is why he became a critic. He hadn’t painted in years.

“Oh? Prove it, then,” Virgil fished a business card out of his pocket. “The address for my studio is there. Come by tomorrow and prove to me that you can do art.”

-

Logan stared at the brick building, the wide windows startling him. He considered turning back, going home, because why did he need to prove himself to a cocky artist like Virgil Storm? Except he didn’t turn back, he gripped the paints that he had dug out of his closet a little tighter in his hand and stepped to the door, knocking only once. If Virgil didn’t hear him, then he could say it wasn’t his fault-

Of course, Logan was not that lucky. The door swung open, revealing Virgil with a stained button-up lavender shirt, paint-splattered black pants, his long hair pulled into a bun. “Ah, the critic,” Virgil smirked, stepping aside to let Logan inside. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to show after my painting sold for higher than the listed price.”

Logan glanced around at the bottom floor of the lofted building; it was covered with full, half-full, and blank canvases and plants, and he could see that on the second level there was a full bedroom. There were two easels set up, one with what Logan assumed was Virgil’s current work in progress, the other with a blank canvas. He glanced down at his own clothes; his polo shirt and tie and slacks, and wondered if he should have worn something that he didn’t mind getting paint on.

“Need an apron?” Virgil asked, strolling over to the easels. He pulled an apron from behind one of them, paint splatters and charcoal stains coating most of the fabric. “You can use this one,” he tossed it at Logan, who nearly dropped his paints in the process. Virgil lifted a paintbrush from his easel, and Logan noted the bright colors he was using with the current piece; yellows, pinks, and teals in a pattern that almost resembled a sunset. 

“Thanks,” Logan set his paints down on the bottom of the easel and slipped the apron over his head, then got out his brush. He glanced over at Virgil, who seemed to be deep in thought, lips pursed as he splattered some orange onto the canvas. Logan began with black paint, outlining a figure, and the two painted in silence for a while, until Virgil set his paintbrush down and stretched his arms up, his shirt riding up to reveal a pierced belly button. Logan blinked, then returned his focus to the silhouette he was painting.

“Want anything to drink? I’ve got about twenty types of tea, but there’s also wine…” He ran a hand through his hair to fix it back up into a bun, not realizing that there was yellow paint on his fingers, and Logan bit back a grin when the paint streaked Virgil’s dark hair.

“Um, tea’s fine. Whatever kind you’re having,” Logan responded. He had loosened his tie earlier and his glasses were situated on the top of his head, and he felt more relaxed than he had in years; painting was something he enjoyed so much, but with his work schedule and the discouragement he faced from those around him… he had stepped away from the thing that he was so passionate about.

Logan refocused on his painting; it was a silhouette of a man standing outside, and he had decided that he would paint the night sky around the frame of the man’s likeness. After a few minutes, he felt Virgil standing next to him, and noted that the artist had placed a mug of tea on the table between the easels. 

“Wow,” Virgil breathed out, his eyes focused on the painting. “Your silhouette work is incredible,” he murmured, and Logan glanced at him, wondering if he was being mocked, but the expression on Virgil’s face only showed admiration. 

“Oh. Um. Thank you,” Logan grabbed the mug of tea, holding it up to his lips to distract from the blush that had coated his cheeks. The aroma of roses and jasmine wafted into his nose, and he felt a bit calmer. No one had ever complimented his art; he didn’t know how to react to Virgil’s kind words. 

Luckily, he didn’t need to say anything more, as Virgil stepped away and back to his easel. 

-

By the time they had both finished their paintings, the sun had gone down and Virgil had flipped on the lights of the loft, revealing several sets of fairy lights in the windows. It was almost… magical, Logan thought, and as he pulled the apron back over his head, hanging it off of the easel, he wondered if he’d be allowed to come back and paint another time.

Virgil stood beside him, hand on his chin, looking at Logan’s painting closely. Perhaps unconsciously, Logan had given the silhouetted man a bun and a paintbrush, and he wondered if Virgil would notice.

“Well, it looks like I owe you an apology, Mr. Art Critic,” Virgil finally said, turning to glance at Logan. “You can paint, and you’re good. You should enter in the next show.”

“It’s really not… that good,” Logan muttered, closing the case with his paints. “It’s been a long time since I painted. I don’t think I’ve touched a paintbrush since college.”

“Why is that?” Virgil asked, eyes focused on the way that Logan’s face was turning a pale pink.

“I was… discouraged often. My parents didn’t think that painting was a worthwhile endeavor, but I didn’t want to step away from the world of art,” Logan’s eyes followed Virgil, who sat down on a plastic-covered couch, then beckoned the critic over. He sat down next to him, and Virgil pulled his legs under him, his elbow on the edge of the couch and his chin in the palm of his hand.

“You realize that’s what you’ve become, don’t you?” Virgil asked incredulously. Logan raised his eyebrows, frowning. “Roman hasn’t painted in weeks. If I wasn’t familiar with my own self-doubt, your words could have stopped me, too. Art isn’t meant to be judged, it’s meant to be appreciated and encouraged, and you should be aware of that, if that’s what you went through.”

“I… I’m sorry.” Logan didn’t say anything else, he wanted to run and never come back, but he felt like he could trust being around Virgil. “Do you… have Roman’s phone number? I would like to apologize to him.” Virgil nodded, but made no other movements, except to flutter his eyes shut. “I should go.”

“Do you want to take your painting with you?” Virgil asked, glancing over at the easels. Logan glanced, too, and shook his head.

“No. You can keep it,” he wanted to ask Virgil if he could come back the following day to paint some more, but he didn’t want to impose. Or be annoying. Logan often found that people didn’t want to spend time with him, so he began to favor being alone. “It was nice to paint again, if only for a bit.”

“You’re not going to get back into it?” Virgil’s hand was on his forearm, and Logan sucked in a deep breath, then shook his head.

“I have no reason to,” he explained, wanting to pull his arm away. Virgil grimaced at this. 

“Yes you do. You love it. You’re good at it. Don’t give up on it again,” Virgil’s voice was nearly pleading, and Logan looked away from the man, because the emotions were too strong, and he couldn’t bear to feel them. He didn’t want to feel anything. “Logan.”

“I can’t. I don’t have an easel or canvases or…” Logan trailed off, and Virgil squeezed his arm gently. “I can’t get back into it. It’s not… serious enough. I want to be taken seriously. I need to be.”

“Why?” Virgil’s voice was calling him back, his long fingers warm against Logan’s skin, and the critic resisted the urge to run again. “Why do you need to be taken seriously? Because of your parents? Logan, your skills speak for themselves. You can be taken seriously as an artist.”

“Does your family take you seriously?” Logan asked, and Virgil’s eyes opened. He chewed on his lower lip, then sighed before responding.

“I haven’t spoken to my family since I was seventeen. There was a lot more than just my art that they didn’t accept me for,” Virgil’s voice was low, and Logan just nodded, understanding. “You can come back to paint whenever you want, Logan.”

-

And so he did. The following morning, he showed up at Virgil’s loft, bagels and coffee in hand. Instead of his normal professional attire, he was wearing an old pair of jeans and a NASA t-shirt that had bleach stains. The door was open when he approached it, so he peeked in to see Virgil already at his easel, a new painting in the works, dressed in the same outfit as the day before.

“Um, good morning, Virgil,” Logan said, announcing his presence. “I brought some bagels and coffee,” he said, stepping over to set the food and drinks on the kitchen counters. 

“Thank goodness, I’m going to need caffeine. I didn’t finish the painting from yesterday until three in the morning,” Virgil groaned, stepping away from the easel temporarily to grab the coffee Logan had brought for him. “You’re my hero.” Logan turned bright red at this, looking down at his feet. “Oh. I talked to Roman. He actually started painting again. Let me get my phone to show you the picture,” Virgil stepped away, and Logan had to hold back again. Standing close to the other man was intoxicating, but he craved it. Even though he had only known the painter for two days, he was entranced, and had never felt the need to gravitate around another person in that way.

When Virgil stepped back over to him, phone showing a picture of a painting of a throne. Logan smiled faintly at it, remembering Roman’s penchant for theatricality and royalty. And then Logan realized just how close he was standing to Virgil. The artist seemed to notice, as well, because he stepped away, clearing his throat. Without saying anything, the two went to their easels, and painted in silence for some time.

Virgil had given his canvas a thorough once-over with black paint, and allowed it to dry before starting to add colors on top of it; dark blues and purples were swirled on. Logan found himself pause what he was doing to watch the way that Virgil arched his wrist in a precise way to allow for different points of pressure from the brush. He wondered if Virgil had studied art, and glanced around the room to see if he could locate any degrees. None were visible, though, and he didn’t want to ask and break the comfortable silence they had entered.

They painted in that space of tranquility for a few hours, until Logan heard his stomach grumble. Virgil chuckled a bit at this, setting his brush down and stepping back from his own easel. “I’ll order us some lunch, is Chinese takeout alright?”

“Sounds delicious. Kung Pao Chicken, please,” Logan responded, setting his brush down to look at his painting as a whole. It was a silhouette again, but this time there were two figures, and it looked like they were dancing. He hadn’t done the background yet, but he wanted to do something similar to the galaxy he had painted the day before. He heard Virgil finish making the order for takeout, and then felt his presence next to him.

“Are they dancing?” Virgil asked, letting his hair out of its bun. Logan ignored the way that his dark hair framed his pale face, and instead just nodded. “You must be familiar with dancing, I can almost see the movement in them.”

“I’m not much of a dancer, but my cousin Patton is,” he explained, remembering the times when, as teenagers, he and Patton would learn different styles of dance, even ballroom dancing. A smile crossed his features, and he barely noticed that music started playing from a speaker. Then he felt arms on his, pulling him into Virgil’s arms so they could move to the music. “Virgil, I-”

“Shh, just dance with me,” Virgil’s voice was calm, and Logan leaned into the touch, his head resting on the other man’s shoulder, Virgil’s hands settling on his waist. They moved around the empty space of the room until the doorbell rang, and Logan felt as if he had been pulled out of a dream. The two ate their takeout in silence, though the quiet was not as pleasant as it had been prior; there was now this tension spread out in front of them, and neither of them knew what to do with that.

By the time they had both finished eating and returned to their easels, Logan knew that he was visibly rigid, but his hands shook with every movement. He could barely press his paintbrush against the canvas without needing to pull away for fear of making one wrong move. Of course, it was the fact that he was afraid of all of his past wrong moves and the fear that if he made a false choice now, the progress he had made and the confidence he had built up with his painting again would fade away. 

Virgil could practically feel the unease dripping from Logan’s body, so he left his painting to dry (at this point, all he wanted to do was add some white borders to the swirls), and stepped over to Logan, taking the brush from his hand. “You want to talk about it?” Logan wouldn’t meet his eyes, but nodded, and the two moved to sit on the couch, Virgil leaning close into the cushions, watching Logan with those dark eyes of his. 

“I want to learn how to be okay with the things that I tried to push back,” he finally said, and Virgil knew it wasn’t just the painting he was talking about. “But… I don’t know where to start.”

“You already have started, Logan. You’re painting again, and you need to keep painting, no matter how hard it is or how conflicted you feel,” Virgil’s voice was soft as he scooted a little closer to the critic, and his fingers pulled Logan’s face to look at him. “As for the other things… take your time. Be open. It’s… hard. But… I think that everyone deserves a second chance, and I’m happy to help you on your journey.”

-

Logan stepped into the building and walked up to the table with badges, scanning the rows until he found the one he was looking for: Logan Crofters, Artist, Dancing Under the Stars. A faint smile crossed his face as he pinned it to his jacket, and then he wandered to where he knew the canvas was hung. 

On his way there, he passed Roman, whose throne painting was hung proudly as the center of the show, and they shook hands, exchanged friendly greetings, and made promises to see each other at the after party. Then Logan went to stand by his painting, the lights from up above illuminating the silhouettes in a way that no natural light could. 

Logan felt a presence to his left, and glanced over to see Virgil beaming brightly. His sunset painting was on display a few exhibits over. Their hands linked together, Virgil’s thumb brushing comfortably over the back of Logan’s hand, and Logan leaned up to press a kiss to Virgil’s cheek.

“I put in my notices,” he informed Virgil, who nodded, still smiling. “No more critiquing. No more boring apartment.” He hadn’t been spending much time in his apartment over the past several months, anyways. Each morning he’d find himself waking up in Virgil’s warm embrace, the fairy lights of the loft illuminating their way, and each afternoon they’d paint side by side like they had at the start, except now when they needed a break, they’d fall into each other’s arms, cascading across the room, lips brushing together like paintbrushes on a canvas.

[cloudywriter]

vanilla pudding cups - 3

~~~

A/N: so sorry it has been a little bit, i just have been so busy with school. also sorry about the minimal feysand interaction in this chapter too but i’m trying to build the relationship ya know? anyway, enjoy! also leave comments too, i love feedback!

masterlist + AO3

~~~

Feyre hadn’t talked to Rhysand since they had met a couple of days ago, but his eyes seem to have taken up a permanent residence in her mind. That much was evident by the sheer number of various shades of blue and even violet colored pencils that were surrounding her on the beanbag in the corner of her room. She could never get the combination of colors to look quite right though, she itched to go and make him sit down for her just so she could study the colors that make up his eyes. 

Luckily, the sane part of her mind that kept reminding her just how creepy swatching the colors of a stranger’s eyes was held her back from doing such a thing. But no matter how much she reprimanded herself in her mind, her infatuation with him didn’t cease. There was just such a depth to him that reeled her in. 

Okay, maybe it also had to do with the fact he was absolutely beautiful. He was the kind of guy she could see in the grocery store who’s too gorgeous to approach but would definitely mourn the thought of probably never seeing again in her life once she left.

She had hoped to attempt to talk to him, to get a better feel for him, but had yet to find the right time. Alis had refused to tell her much about him, only saying that his cancer had relapsed and that was why he was here in the ward. Her heart fell when Alis told her that. Feyre knew that pain and wanted him to know she understood, that he wasn’t alone. But it was also the fact that she knew his pain that kept her from reaching out. He needed time to process without her bothering him, he needed his space to breathe and come to terms with it so Feyre made sure to maintain her distance for the time being. Maybe he’d even come to her.

She smiled at the thought. 

---

Rhys woke up to the fluff of a pillow hitting him in the face repeatedly, he opened his eyes immediately, a little dazed, a little panicked; standing over him was just his ass of a friend, Cassian.

Cassian peered down at him with his signature shit-eating grin, his hair pulled back in a messy bun of sorts.

“Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty,” he basically sang.

“It’s like fucking 6am, what are you doing?” Rhys rolled his eyes.

“We are getting your sorry ass out of bed and down to Rita’s for some breakfast,’’ he responded.

“At 6am?”

“Gotta get it while it’s hot,” Cassian claimed as he turned around and started picking through clothes in Rhysand’s bags that he had yet to put away. “Mor, Az, and Amren are down waiting in the car. The nurse lady only let one of us come get you because it’s technically not visiting hours.”

“Right and it seemed appropriate to send the loudest one they could?”

“Don’t act like you’d rather wake up to anything besides my face,” Cass batted his eyelashes for emphasis. 

For some odd reason Feyre’s face flashed through his mind. 

He would be lying if he said he hadn’t at least thought about her, the image of her atop that ladder radiating ethereal beauty never entirely left his head. He was even a little disappointed when that streak of charcoal dissipated.

Cassian throwing a pair of dark jeans and a black t-shirt interrupted his mini pining session. “Come on, get dressed. I’ll be in the hall.”

Rhysand huffed as he departed from his warm cocoon.

---

Rhys, Mor, Cassian, Azriel, and Amren sat outside on the trails with their takeout breakfast tacos from Rita’s wrappers scattered around them on the benches. 

“Okay, seriously, why did you make us wake up at 5:30am for Rita’s breakfast just for us to get takeout?” Amren questioned Cassian.

“Just eat your taco. I asked them to put extra children’s tears in it just for you, little one.”

“Call me little one again and I’ll nail your balls to that tree, you brute.”

The way Cassian cautiously crossed his legs escaped no one’s notice. 

The group had mostly returned to their normal dynamic, Cass being loud and making jokes, Mor giggling, offering her own sarcastic retorts, Rhys mostly laughing, watching, and adding to the conversation at times. Azriel continued his usual observing, letting out small smiles occasionally while Amren went back and forth between scowling and telling off Cassian. 

At the moment, Mor and Cassian were arguing over who got to eat the last taco, “Mor I am literally three of you put together.”

“And? A girl’s gotta eat.”

Cassian and Mor continued their pointless bickering, each swiping the taco out of the other’s hand and chasing each other around the benches. Rhys’s stomach hurt from laughing at their antics. He was feeling good again.

He found himself looking back up at the hospital towering over the little park, maybe to ground himself, it served as a reminder that this isn’t his whole reality anymore. He is still sick and one day Mor and Cassian will be running after each other without him around to watch. 

Mor’s breathless giggles and Cassian’s obnoxious shouting faded into the background as he began to get sucked back into that blackhole that had started growing again when he heard his most recent prognosis. It wasn’t an unfamiliar blackhole, he knew it well, but it had become so miniscule as his life returned to what it should be. But even in space it’s hard to make blackholes truly disappear. 

That’s when Rhys noticed her. A flash of golden-brown hair reflecting the fresh morning sun’s rays. She was sitting on a light wooden stool in front of an easel, her position pivoted at an angle to face out the window. He could make out the back of a white canvas sitting on the easel and a paint palette balanced in one of her hands. At such a distance he couldn’t make out her face fully, but he just knew it was her in his heart. He could almost imagine her face, her nose scrunched up in concentration as it was in those brief moments he saw her focused on hanging up sketches. 

Maybe she even had a paint stain on her cheek. 

Once again, she brought him back as he began to sink. 

Rhys wasn’t even sure how long he just stared at her, observing her in her own little world, wholly focused on the painting in front of her. She would swipe her brush around and then pull back, studying what she had done before going back in. He might’ve been content just watching her for hours.

“WHAT THE FUCK, CASS!”

Rhys’s attention was drawn behind him to Cassian frantically shoving a whole taco in his mouth while Mor fumed behind the bench parallel to Cass. 

“You’re such an ass, Cass. You’re an asshat, that's what you are. Asshat Cass.”

Amren raised her brows at that. “Asshat Cass does have a nice ring to it,” she observed, picking at her nails feigning disinterest. Mor just huffed and crossed her arms, but never broke the skank eye she gave Cass who only smirked in return. 

“Oh, I’ll get you for that one, Mor,” Cass grumbled, his mouth full of taco.

Rhys allowed himself one more glance at the girl in the window. This time though, he could’ve sworn she was looking back. 

“How about Mor the bore? Snory Mory?” He suggested. 

Rhys gave a little smile just in case, perhaps, she was actually staring right back. 

“Wait, I know, Mor the whore!” Cassian exclaimed with a dramatic hand gesture. 

No one even noticed Rhys’s utterly distracted state, entrapped by the angel in the window. 

~~~

mini taglist: @awkward-avocado-s & @booksofthemoon

[scarletwillowtree]

The Soldier and The Artist ch4 (soulmate AU)

Pairing: Bucky x artist!reader

Warning: slight angst

Word count: 2,146

Summary: In a world where your soulmates first words show up on your skin once you meet, it’s not entirely common to actually meet the one you’re destined to be with. Though you’ve always held out hope, you never believed you would meet them, especially after you got your words but haven’t seen the man since. Now, working closely with The Avengers for a project Tony Stark himself requested you for, you’re closer to your soulmate than you ever expected.

A/N: Yes, hello! I am aliiiiive! My apologies to my readers, it’s been rough going for me for a while, but I have returned. Originally this chapter was VERY different, and the way I wrote it honestly made me hate the direction the story went, so I scrapped it and now I’m much happier. Chapter five is being rewritten as it’s the epilogue I had planned, but we’re almost there! I hope you enjoy my lovelies.

masterlist

As I watched Bucky walk off the jet, I could feel my heart speeding up. My face flushed as I felt my lips part and a harsh inhale past my teeth must have been heard by Steve still standing next to me as I could see his head turn to me from my peripheral vision. But none of that mattered. Not Steve, not the fact that I was standing on the roof of the compound still, not even that I was still dressed in my paint stained clothing.

All that mattered was Bucky, the man from the coffee shop, my soulmate. I couldn’t peel my eyes away from his steely blue ones as he made a beeline for me, never looking away from me. Once he finally reached us, I expected him to move for Steve, his life long best friend.

Surprising everyone in the area, Bucky reached out and pulled me into his arms where I immediately melted into his embrace, feeling him press his face into my hair with his mouth near my ear.

“I’ve been waiting so long for you, doll.” He whispered gently, his arms squeezing me slightly tighter as he did. We stood there for what could’ve been minutes or years, before a throat clearing to the side of us caused me to pull back enough to see who it was, Bucky’s grip loosening enough for that to happen but not letting me ago entirely.

“So uh, you two know each other?” Steve shifted awkwardly as he looked between me and his best friend, still wrapped in each other’s arms. Beyond Steve I could see who I guessed to be Sam and Thor standing there, both wearing teasing smiles while looking at the group that had gathered.

Looking back up at Bucky, I felt a warmth blossoming in my chest as my next words spilled from behind my lips with no fight or filter.

“We’re soulmates.”

***

After a lengthy talk in the communal kitchen, several cups of coffee, and a very awkward walk from the hangar, Steve sat across the bar from Bucky and myself. Everyone else had cleared out already after the initial announcement, too tired to unpack the full story yet.

“Gotta say, I’m happy you two found each other. Bucky here wouldn’t shut up about what you’d be like when we were younger (Y/N).”

“Alright punk, that’s enough about that. Why don’t you get lost for a while?”

Steve raised his hands in mock surrender as he stood and moved to leave the kitchen. At the last moment, he turned to face us at the bar, a genuine and soft smile on his face.

“Hey, (Y/N), treat him right okay?”

I smiled and gave him a nod in response before he finally left the room. I turned back to Bucky to see him shaking his head as he grumbles under his breath too low for me to understand.

“What was that, Buck?”

His face flushed as he looked up at me, his words only coming out barely above a whisper as his eyes darkened from their brilliant ocean blue.

“It’s not you he should be worried about.”

“What do you mean by that Bucky?” The worry in my chest began spreading quickly, hoping this wouldn’t be one of those instances where a soulmate rejects the bond.

“I’ve...I’ve done a lot of bad (Y/N). I could understand if you choose to leave, I’m damaged and I’ve hurt so many people...it wouldn’t be fair to you to be stuck with someone like me...with a monster.”

I felt my heart crack at his words, a few tears building on my lashes as I took a shaky breath before softly saying his name. When he didn’t look up, I placed my hand gently on his chin and raised his eyes to finally meet mine, the pain in his shining bright as fear mixed with it.

“James Buchanan Barnes, what you did as another person was beyond your control. Being damaged is part of being human, you just got a really bad lot in life. But look at what you’ve done to turn it around! You save lives and prevent wars now. From what Steve has told me of you, you are an incredible person with an amazing heart and you’d give anything for those you love. You. Are. Not. A. Monster. Okay?”

By now a few tears had fallen from your eyes, and his as well. He grabbed your hand from his chin, placing a kiss to your palm before letting out a shaky sigh.

“So...you’re not leaving? You’re not scared?”

“Bucky, the only thing that scares me is that I won’t be good enough for you. I’m just a normal person who loves to paint. I’m not skilled or super in any way.”

He laughed lightly at you, shaking his head as he stands and hugs you where you still sit, placing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, doll.”

***

As the weeks flew by, I continued the portraits and spent every spare minute with Bucky I could. I had been saving his portrait for last, even though I’d already had it mapped in my head from the first conversation we had that day in the kitchen. He’d tried to sneak peeks of the other paintings, but hadn’t been successful as I wanted them to be a surprise for everyone.

Now that I’d finally come to his portrait, my time at the compound was almost at an end. I had spoken with Tony and was welcome at any time, and I planned to stay an extra two weeks at the compound before flying back to DC. Back to my life.

As my mind became lost in the strokes of greys, steely blue, and streaks of gold I thought back on my time here. I had come to view these people as good friends, maybe even a second family. Thinking about having to leave them caused a weight in my chest that made it hard to breath.

Finally finished with the final painting of the collection, I set my brushes aside to be cleaned, knowing they wouldn’t dry too soon with the oils smeared across the canvas and my hands. With a heavy sigh I moved to a nearby table and grabbed my phone, knowing it was time for my weekly update with Hannah.

She’d been so excited for me when I told her about Bucky, nearly exploding at my over the phone in typical her fashion. For someone so small, she sure was one hell of a force of nature all her own.

“You better be calling to tell me you’ve finally slept with that fiiiiine hunk of man you get to call your soulmate, lady.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but we are actually taking it slow and he’s been a perfect gentleman, Hannah.”

She snorted into the phone before I heard the telltale sound of the bay doors in the workshop we shared back home. Didn’t feel like home anymore, not with Bucky being here.

“So, judging by the timeframe I guess you’re done and coming home soon, huh?”

“I’m planning on staying an extra two weeks actually...not ready to say goodbye just yet.”

“I can understand that boo. Good thing we run our own company then, right? No need to ask for the vacation time!”

“That’s true. I miss you Han. I hope things go well while I’m still gone.”

“Well, as it happens it’s vacation time for me too lady, so no need to worry about the company! Just relax, and in to weeks we can both come back refreshed, okay?”

“Alrighty. Thank you! I gotta go, but I’ll call soon okay?”

“Love ya, ya weirdo!”

With her final affections given in her typical fashion, Hannah hung up. I gave a sigh before heading out of the studio and to my designated room, which had been moved to the one next to Bucky’s once he came back. I hopped in the shower, letting the nearly scalding water pour over me and wash away the paint and stress of the day.

Soon enough I had to face the music and get out, wrapping myself in a large and fluffy towel before padding my way into my room. Over my weeks here, the room had really become personalized to me, I even had an easel in here near the window overlooking the city. I quickly dressed in some leggings and a longer tshirt, aiming for comfort more than appearance.

I headed back to the studio, cleaning my brushes first in the sink in the corner, laying them next to it to air dry before making my way back to the easel with the latest painting. I smiled softly, this was truly a masterpiece in my eyes, whether it was because of the subject of because I poured every ounce of emotion I had into it I wasn’t sure.

I began moving the paintings into the common area where Tony intended to hang them, moving fast to get them all up. I managed to somehow get all 10 hung before anyone came out, no small feat in this place since they were all back from missions for the moment.

“FRIDAY, could you ask everyone to come here please? Non-emergency though.”

“You got it, (Y/N).”

***

Not long after they’d been called, I watched as all 10 of my friends stared into their portraits. The emotions written on their faces were enough of a response for me, I didn’t need them to voice how they felt.

Tony’s was in brilliant and bold colors, reminiscent of a peacock. With vague white lines indicating the iron man mask overlaying his face and the arc reactor in his chest glowing with leds embedded in the canvas from behind.

Wanda’s painting was a black and white portrait of her smiling wide, a red stream flowing through the background as a ghostly transparent silhouette of her brother Pietro framed her position on the canvas.

Steve’s painting was a mix of charcoals and paints, his pose of him mid laugh at some silly story he’d been telling me of him and Bucky as kids. He looked carefree and relaxed, years younger than his guarded self.

Vision had a black and white painting as well, with silver and gold foiling filling the background and a few lines in front of him creating an intricate circuit board that seemed to stem from the resin crystal emulating the stone in his head.

Clint’s painting had been done in various darknesses of coffee, as nothing could fit him better. He was pictured mid sign, his hands blurred to capture his swift and erratic speech as best I could in a slice of time.

Nat was the only one with a full body, necessary for the ballet pose her body was held in. Reds and black dominated the painting, a peaceful smile on her lips as her body contorted in a graceful way. The tulle attached to the canvas gave depth to her painting more so than I had expected.

Bruce had another black and white portrait, his shy smile painted on his face and his glasses sliding down his nose. Behind him stood a whiteboard with equations I could never make sense of filling the space, though the shadow he cast on the board was undoubtedly that of the Hulk.

Thor had a greyscale painting too, with a pale blue and lavenders accenting it as the edges of the lightning surrounding him and flaring away from his eyes. He was dressed in his royal armor as always, but he wore a cocky smirk on his face, the same he usually sported.

Sam’s painting was made of varying metallic materials in the colors I needed, the textures letting lights shine off it in various ways depending on which angle you viewed it from, making it look like he was composed of fireworks. Like Steve, he was also laughing in his picture, that mischievous twinkle to his eye you’d seen plenty after he played one of his many pranks during your week together.

Finally was Bucky’s painting. His eyes were full of warmth and love, the unending depths of that steely blue leaping from the mostly grey painting. His face was framed by his long hair, and from behind that extended a halo of glittering gold. In that same gold paint a golden heart rested on the sleeve of the Henley he wore stretched tight across his muscles.

There were no words they could find to truly express how the paintings made them feel, but the tight hugs and repeated thanks I received were more than enough to tell me.

Now to enjoy my time before I have to go home. Before I have to leave Bucky.

************

next chapter >

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[storibambino]

Art  and Lessons

A/N: Happy birthday to my boo @therevolution-willbelive This is the first installment of my fics for her birthday bash featuring Shuri and Michelle (Spiderman Homecoming). I barely edited this so if you find a mistake let a sista know.

On Ao3

Warnings: None really. Just some education

Prompt: You pay for your friends

Words: 1.7k

“Are we there yet?” Shuri was growing impatient.

“Princess, we’ve only been in New York for three hours. There will be plenty of time to see everything.” There was a warning in Ayo’s tone but her eyes were soft.

“I am just ready to be out of this vehicle. It’s quite uncomfortable.” Ayo gave a small smile but didn’t respond to the whining princess.

Shuri had good reason to be excited. She was finally able to go out in America without the supervisor of her brother or cousin. Things had been going so well at the institute in Oakland that she was in New York City to scout a new location for expansion. Erik immediately suggested Harlem, citing it was the birthplace of black culture in the city. Shuri had taken to researching the neighborhood and history with such vigor that T’Challa allowed her to go explore without him. It was her first taste of real responsibility in the two years since Erik’s invasion and the battle.

Now she could barely contain herself as the motorcade rode down Malcolm X approaching 135th and she made a point to let the driver know, to the dismay of her Dora Milaje guard. She had reached out to Sam to get an itinerary together. He truly was a bird brain but gave her a list of must-see spots for art, food, and music. The first stop was The Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture.  The car came to a stop and Shuri quickly hopped out to get a look at her surroundings.

The city was not so different from her home, albeit a lot greyer. There were a lot more people that looked like her in the area opposed to the Manhattan hotel they would be staying in. Across the street, a statue caught her eye. It was a bronze sculpture of a black family above a burgundy canopy. The mother and father standing proudly with their children in two large hands. It was like they were being presented as a gift by some body-less god. The building itsself wasn’t all that grand but she couldn’t take her eyes away from the statue.

“That’s the Harlem Hospital Center.” The guide’s words startled Shuri.

“Why does it have that sculpture on the front?”

“To remind us that this was all we had at one point. There was a time that black families could only get medical assistance here in Harlem,” The guide cast a far-away look on the building then a bright smile to the princess “My name Is Vardia, I’ll be showing you around today your highness”

“Ah! No need for all that. Today I’m just a teenager on a tour.” Shuri chuckled.

“Fine by me! Will your, um entourage be joining us?”

Shuri glanced over to Ayo and the other personnel charged with keeping her safe. “Give me one moment and we can go in.” She jogged over to Ayo, waiting by the car. “Do you think I could do the tour alone? The place isn’t too big and it’s just art and stuff, no real danger.”

“I have to advise against that,” Ayo said, throwing a curious eyebrow in her direction.

“I promise I will keep my kimoyo beads on and if anything happens I have my tech with me,” She bats her eyelashes and gives her most innocent smile. “This would be a nice opportunity to see the sights and enjoy yourself, you really do work too hard.” Flattery never worked on the Dora but it didn’t stop her from trying. She technically wasn’t lying either, Ayo worked so hard and this was supposed to be as much a vacation for them as a mission.

“Fine. I will see the sights as you suggested but I will not be far.” With that, she gave a salute and got back into the car.

After a celebratory fist pump, Shuri returned to her guide to begin the tour. They entered the building, walking by the security desk and into a lobby with an intricate painting on the floor. There was a sign on the far wall explaining that the mural was supposed to represent different rivers. Five blue streams ran from different corners of the room to the center where a large blue circle outlined a reddish brown center covered in golden arrows and mathematical symbols. Around the center were the names of the rivers depicted. Shuri was able to make out Congo, Mississippi, and Euphrates before the guide motioned for them to move onto the first gallery.

They went downstairs and came to another mural on the wall that read The American Negro Theater. Further down the hall, they came to a room with art on every wall.

“These are works of the students we have here at the research center. The assignment was identity. Feel free to look around at the pieces and listen to the videos the students made to describe their works.”

The collection was as beautiful as it was varied. There were paintings, charcoal drawings, sculptures and a picture that was made up of quotes from an original poem. Shuri spent at least five minutes in front of each one, taking it in and trying to get into the headspace of the artist. She never considered herself an artist although she constantly marveled at the beauty of her technology and machines. There was a slight pang of jealousy at those that could get pick up a pencil or paint brush and put their story and emotions onto a canvas.

Vardia allowed her to take her time with the pieces, periodically checking her email on her phone. Shuri was wearing the provided headphones for a video presentation when she tapped her on the shoulder.

“I’m so sorry about this Shuri but I have to go to an emergency meeting. Feel free to stay down here as long as you like then we can meet in the Black Power exhibit upstairs.” She said apologetically.

“No worries. Go and handle your business and I will be up there.” Shuri smiled and went back to her video. She spent a little more time revisiting her favorite pieces and headed upstairs to the second floor. A security guard greeted her at the entrance of the gallery. He was an older gentleman with soft eyes and a cheery demeanor. He gave a playful warning about not bringing food into the gallery or he would chase her down. However, he didn’t bother getting up from his seat so she laughed it off and walked in. Passing the theatre playing something called ‘Blaxploitation’ movies, she put a mental pin in that to come back to later.

Upon entering the open gallery she was greeted by a large mural, purple background with a solid black fist and the words ‘Black Power!’ written in white.

It was breathtaking, only two words but it was like they carried a weight with them. The gallery itself was filled with posters, excerpts from books and speeches, art, and pictures. She didn’t notice the group of other teenage girls eyeing her while she picked up headphones to listen to s documentary on Angela Davis and the Black Panther party. That was until one of them tapped her on her shoulder. “Hi. It’s almost finished I think then you can have a turn.” Shuri said with a smile.

“I’m not waiting for a turn. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing here.” She spat. The girl and her friends couldn’t have been more than seventeen. They were all well dressed and their hair was laid nice in neat puffs, braids, and a twist out. If it wasn’t for her accusing tone Shuri might have thought of them as new friends.

“I’m sorry but what are you talking about?”

“Come on Liz, let’s just leave it.” The girl with the puffs said.

“No, I wanna know what the uppity princess is doing here in little ole Harlem with us regular blacks.” Liz quipped back.

“I am not uppity. I’m Shuri you don’t have to call me princess.” Shuri said in a light-hearted tone and extended her hand. The leader, Liz, just stared at it like she was offered a dead cat. “I’m being polite.”

“I don’t give a fuck. Polite would have been never stepping foot in Harlem. Yo Wakandan ass could’ve stayed overseas, we good over here. Your family sat by while we dealt with shit schools, poverty, violence, not to mention the police and our own government trying to kill us.” She gestured to the exhibit. “This is a testament to US. Everything we did we lost without you or your precious Wakanda”

Shuri just stood there. She didn’t know what to say. This was the first time she’d ever been put in this kind of situation and her entire world was off kilter.

“What’s wrong princess not used to people being honest with you,” Liz said with a smirk. “Or are you not used to people not liking you.”

“I-I was just trying to be friendly.” She said in a small voice.

“Friends?” The girls let out a cackle “I bet you pay for your friends. Yeah, got a royal court of bitches that just laugh at all your jokes and give you compliments.” They laughed again. Heat began to rise in Shuri’s cheeks and tears prickled the back of her eyes.

“Hey! Leave her alone you loser assholes.” The words came from a new girl in the gallery. She was glaring at the group of girls harassing Shuri. “You don’t have anything better to do than bother literal royalty.”

“Stay out of this light bright”

“Ah, of course, we go straight from gatekeeping to colorism. Why don’t you just stop the performative activism and let people enjoy the information here.” Her eyes were intense as she spoke but she lazily tossed her long curls over her shoulder when she was finished speaking.

The girls looked between Shuri and the new girl that saved her. The new girl stood straight as they sized her up. Deciding against continuing their assault they turned to leave, Liz being sure to throw an especially dirty look at Shuri on their way out.

Shuri was still looking at the door when the girl approached. “Don’t worry about them. They just have a lot of misplaced frustration and you were an easy target. I’m Michelle.”

“Shuri.”

“Now that’s over would you like a real tour of the exhibit?” Michelle had a bright smile.

“I would like that very much, Michelle.” Shuri returned the smile.

“Actually, you can call me MJ.”

Part 2

If you enjoyed my writing please reblog and send me some feedback!!

[jessahmewren]

Creative Coercion Chapter 1 of 2: Thoughts that Breathe

Written for @thexmasfileschallenge and tagging @today-in-fic​

Day 14: Chocolate

-0-0-0-

“At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” –Plato

-0-0-0-

He was watching her.  Scully could feel the heavy heat of his eyes, the way he tracked her movements, slight as they were, as her pen moved across the page.  

“Say it, Mulder.”

He cleared his throat, and while she did not look up at him, she could feel the slight disturbance in the air as he crossed his legs and leaned back a little in his office chair.  She also knew without looking at him that he was peering at her intently and with the slightest glint of mischief.

“Say what,” he asked with a convincing display of ignorance.

She stilled her movements, stopping her pen on the gentle arc of a cursive “L” mid-stroke and looked up at him.  He radiated warmth; from the honey-gold tint of his skin to the gentle smile that played along his lips to his open disregard for personal space, Mulder was warmth and light and knowing even on his worst days.  

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she relented, forgetting to be angry with him for whatever it was that was supposed to have angered her.  He seemed to sense this, instincts ever acute, and his smile broadened.

“Go out with me tonight.”  

The pen slipped from her grip and clattered to the concrete floor of the basement office. “Shit,” she muttered sullenly, hoping her momentary lapse of composure would dissuade Mulder from his latest entertainment: watching her squirm.  

Her heart was still catching up to her breath when Mulder reached down and scooped up the pen before she could get to it.  He waggled it teasingly in front of her.

“Go out with me. Tonight.”  

She narrowed her eyes at him, hands protectively draped over the paper she’d been writing on.  

“No.”

He appeared wounded, but she knew from their usual dance that this was merely part of the act.   She narrowed her eyes at him. “What would you have me say, Mulder?”  

He pursed his lips, the fascinating curve of his chin jutting forth ever so slightly.  "I would have you say yes,“ he said simply. His eyes sparked with a new curiosity as he noticed her hands shielding the paper on lap.  "What were you writing, anyway?”

Scully unconsciously spread her fingers in an attempt to hide her activities, shrugging her shoulders as if to feign disinterest despite the tension in her arms.  "Nothing,“ she said tightly as her fingers curled over the edge of the legal pad. She averted her eyes.

It was no use.  Once Fox Mulder was on the trail of something, be it person or thing, he wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied.  His eyes centered on the small legal pad she now held crushed against her breasts.  He was coiled, ready to spring on her, and there was a predatory gleam in his eye as he slowly approached her.

"No, Mulder,” she said warningly.  "You wouldn’t dare.“  

Her eyes were wide, the whites almost blue as she stared at Mulder defiantly.  Secretly, he smiled, for he already knew what lay pressed against those lovely breasts of hers.  The hobby she had taken as of late, a means of relaxing after especially difficult cases.

He smiled knowingly and tilted his head, looking at her.  "And indeed there will be time to wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, 'Do I dare?’” he recited with an air of haughtiness, “time to turn back and descend the stair…with a bald spot in the middle of my hair.’” He chuffed dryly and looked at her, his eyes sparkling.  “At least I still have all my hair, Scully.”

She quirked her mouth into a tight smile, relaxing a bit at his humor.  "You’re hardly Prufrock, Mulder.“  But he’s never sounded sexier, she finished inwardly.  She pursed her lips.  "Have you been going through my desk again?”  

He leaned into her space, allowing his knuckles to brush casually against the fabric of her blouse. He slipped the pen into her hand, noting the change in her breathing, how she straightened almost imperceptibly at the newness of his proximity.

“Go out with me tonight,” he said sultrily, “and I’ll keep your secret Scully.” He narrowed his eyes darkly, but failed to drive all of the amusement from them. “Turn me down again, and there will be photocopies of your latest verse on every bulletin board on every floor of this building come Monday morning.”  

She scowled, refusing to meet his eyes.  If she turned her head only slightly to the right, their lips would meet.  He smiled to himself.  Her deep frown had wrought that line in her brow that only appeared when she was thoroughly pissed off.  He could smooth it with his tongue…

“I hope you know that’s cruel, Mulder,” she said to the corner of the room. “Impossibly cruel.”  

He opened his lips to speak, and she could feel the faint puff of air from that movement brush against her cheek. “No more cruel than you constantly turning me down, Scully.”  His lips curled into a languid smile, enjoying the effort it took for her not to turn her face into his.

Damn him, she thought.  Scully sighed. Perhaps giving in to him was the best way to thwart these relentless advances and finally get some peace.  She met his gaze, her nose nearly brushing his, her arms folding even more protectively over the yellow legal pad.  "Fine,“ she spat out.  "But don’t pick me up. I’ll meet you there.”  

-0-0-0-

Scully sat in a dark alcove of the jazz club, her thighs pressing into the cool leather upholstery of the booth as ribbons of nerves alternately tied and unknotted themselves in the pit of her stomach.  This isn’t a date, she reassured herself. This is two people having dinner.

The club was draped in royal blue velvet, suffused with gas lamps and candlelight and shrouded in shadows. The table she had been directed to upon arriving was a secluded corner booth situated in the back of the club; it sat in near darkness, not far from the bar but removed from the general floorplan. Despite its seclusion, Scully had a clear view of the stage where a sultry, statuesque woman sang Billie Holiday in the pale eye of a single spotlight.

Scully passed a nervous hand over her hair; it was swept to the side and secured with a simple silver clip. She wondered suddenly if she shouldn’t have taken more time with it.  Her heart was racing, and she took another long sip of her chardonnay in an attempt to slow it.  

Just two people having dinner who just happened to be extremely attracted to one another, she thought bleakly.

On the tail of that thought, she looked up in time to see Mulder enter through a side door, his tailored suit a dark charcoal grey.  He wore no tie, and the first three buttons of his shirt were undone.  

I’m screwed, she thought.  He caught her eyes across the room and he smiled; it was a brilliant, genuine smile he reserved only for her.  His face was tan and smooth, and his eyes were the color of chocolate.

More than screwed.  She took another sip of her chardonnay.

Mulder settled across from her in the booth.  He was more stripped down and relaxed than she had seen, and Scully was drawn to him.

“Thank you for coming,” he said a little sheepishly.  "I wasn’t sure you would.“  

She was surprised by his demeanor, by the apparent absence of his usual ease and confidence.  She set her mouth.  "You didn’t give me much choice,” she said flatly. “What with blackmailing me and all.”  

He laughed then and motioned to a server. “I wouldn’t say it was blackmail, exactly,” he said, eyeing her, “but I will admit to employing a little creative coercion to get you to say yes.”  

Her mouth quirked into a tight smile.  "Creative coercion,“ she parroted. "That sounds like blackmail to me.”

Mulder only looked at her, the light from the single candle on their table playing softly against the smooth planes and angles of his face.  "So how long have you been writing,“ he asked her quietly.

She dipped her head slightly, studying a stray bubble on the surface of her chardonnay.  When she lifted it again, she met his eyes. "Since high school,” she said easily.  "But I put it down for awhile.  For a long time, actually.“  She smiled softly.  "Figured now was as good a time as any to take it back up again.” She fingered the stem of her wine glass.  

He nodded thoughtfully as the server arrived with his scotch and placed a fresh chardonnay in front of Scully.  She smiled at him, a soft, blushing show of gratitude that Mulder instantly envied. He held the amber liquid up to the candle and watched the light refract, creating a brilliant kaleidoscope that complimented the cut crystal tumbler.  He took a swig.  

Scully was beautiful, always beautiful, but tonight she was even more so.  His throat tightened as he looked at her, ivory skin stretched over the elegant structure of her shoulders and neck. Black lace capped each shoulder, framing her face, providing a neutral canvas for the shock of deep red that colored her full lips.  It was that hue that peppered the apples of her cheeks and sparked in the deep blue of her eyes. The blush was the chardonnay, he decided, but he envied that too, preferring that his attentions rather than any libation be responsible for sullying such perfect skin.  

“So,” she began, a bit unnerved by his attention and needing to break the tension between them. “Did you see anything you like?”

He swallowed hard, his eyes flitting to the lovely swell of her chest.  He’d seen plenty that he liked.  Plenty.  Now if only–

“Mulder?“  

He looked up to find Scully staring at him, a bit bewildered.  "Hmm?  

Her clear laugh broke through the fog of his fancy and he took another drink of scotch.  

"I asked if you liked any of my poetry,” she said with a little uncertainty. “Did you?”

Mulder set the glass down heavily and watched the remaining contents settle in the bottom.  "I didn’t read them,“ he said quietly. "I recognized what I was reading almost immediately and decided not to invade your privacy any more than I already had.” He swallowed.  "Than I already do.“  He looked at her warmly and strangely apologetically.  

She exhaled, somewhat chagrined by the amount of relief she felt, and concentrated on the smooth, steady beat of the music to temper her anxiety.  Mulder had grown up with a with a finer pedigree…the last thing she needed was him critiquing her very amateurish attempt at poetry.  Still, that he had exercised such restraint, such respect for her creative thoughts was warming.  

"Well, she said teasingly, drawing out the vowel, "would you like to hear one?” She caught his eyes over her raised glass, a prim smile on her face.  

He swallowed, looking into her deep blue eyes with some trepidation.  Was he ready to hear the innermost ponderings of her heart?  And what would be the repercussions of that? What if the ponderings of that heart were the tortured verses of a damaged life, words scarred by uncertainty and secrecy, for most of which he was to blame? Was he prepared to truly see Dana Scully for who she was, without pretense?  

“When you’re ready to share,” he said quietly, hoping that time would be later rather than sooner.  He was fiercely protective of her trust; he and Scully had run the emotional gamut in the years they had known each other.  They had a partnership built on absolute trust.  Mulder was skeptical of anything that might threaten that, even if it held the promise of bringing them closer together.

The server arrived with their meals; Spaghetti Carbonara for Mulder and for Scully a mushroom ravioli. Scully shot Mulder a questioning glance, knowing she hadn’t ordered and that none of the other patrons were eating. He only smiled.  They ate, the smooth jazz thrumming around them, cushioning the comfortable silence between them.  

Mulder had shared a handful of actual meals with Scully.  Most of the food the time their meals had been in the context of work–shared Thai in the back of a surveillance van, or fast food stuffed down in their shared basement office.  Every now and then they would have a quick meal in a backwater town and then it was back to chasing little grey men.  

He would make the most of this night, he thought as he watched her chew, drinking in the savoring and slow way she worked her tongue around the fork.  Her eyes drifted to half moons, her face relaxed as flavor exploded over her tongue.  She did not swallow right away; she grew still, her mouth smooth and lips full, and then she opened her eyes to look at him watching her.  In the stasis he longed to kiss her, to share in whatever enraptured her so, but instead he sat there at the little corner table, his growing erection straining against the prison of his slacks and watched Scully tip her chin ever so slightly heavenward as the morsels slid their way down her sinuous throat.  

“I can hear you thinking,” Scully said rather intimately as she looked up over her empty plate.  She angled her head until the candle in the center of the table cast one-half of her face in shadow.  "Are you going to tell me why you coerced me into coming here tonight Mulder?“ Her eyes were warm, luminous with the satisfaction of a delightful meal and good company.

Mulder licked his lips. "Is that what this is,” he asked quietly, acknowledging to himself the low burlap of his voice, a direct result of his aroused state.  He took another swig of scotch, slowly dragging his eyes away from her breasts and up to her face.  "Coercion?“

She noted immediately the change in his demeanor.  He was no longer the quasi-shy boy on a date; it hadn’t suited him anyway.  Maybe it was the scotch, but Mulder’s eyes were dark and they glittered with a dangerous light.  

"You said so yourself,” she said, leaning forward, testing the waters. “Creative coercion.”  

He pressed his lips together.  "Maybe I just wanted to watch you eat,“ he said.  "It reminds me of a poem.”  He worked his mouth, his groin twitching at the thought of that fork ensconced in her warm, wet mouth.

Mulder scooted closer to her, needing to diminish their distance, sliding over the smooth leather seats until his body was angled with hers, but not touching.  He noted her curious glance, but also how she did not shirk away from him.  Good, he thought.  There is that at least.  His arm ran along the back of seat, dangerously close to her hair.  Her heart was beating double-time and it was suddenly a conscious effort to breathe.

“Don’t be polite,” he began in a low rasp, “Bite in.”

Scully pulled in her lower lip and worried it between her teeth. A coil of heat unspooled and settled in the pit of her stomach. She could feel the wetness of arousal between her legs.

“Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin,” he recited, gently moving a portion of her hair away from her shoulder, exposing it to the cool air.  "It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.“  

"Mulder…” she began, already breathless, already weak, not wanting him to stop but needing him to, needing for their assigned roles to main intact.

He ignored her, choosing instead to slip his fingers beneath her hair until they rested hot against the back of her neck.  "You do not need a knife or fork or spoon or plate or napkin or tablecloth,“ he puffed against her ear.  His face was very close to hers, angled to her neck.  Sniffing her? she wondered wildly.  She felt dizzy.  

”…for there is no core, or stem, or rind, or pit, or seed, or skin, to throw away.“

The tip of his nose just brushed the delicate skin below her ear, and she bit down on a gasp.  Had he kissed her?  No, she decided, he had not, but he was slowly driving her mad.

"That was…” she searched for a suitable adjective. “Erotic.”

He smiled, exhaling a short little amused huff, and she could feel the warmth of it stirring the tiny hairs on her neck.  

“'How to Eat a Poem’ by Eve Merriam,” he rumbled darkly.  

“Never heard of her,” she managed tightly.  Mulder still hovered by her neck, agonizingly close to closing his lips over her throat, and all she could think of was how she wished he would.

“She wrote children’s poems mostly, like that one,” he replied, drawing out the last few words as his lips brushed her hair.  

“That was no children’s poem,” Scully countered thinly, her eyes half-closed. She ached for him, the warning bells in the back of her mind long quieted. She needed his touch, the taste of him in her mouth.  She wanted him sunk deep within her, hard and fast until she was sore the next morning.  She needed him.  

“So much of poetry is about perspective,” Mulder said, quietly withdrawing.  Her body sang plaintively at his retreat, but the rational, self-punishing part of her was happy for it.  He looked into her eyes.  "So much of the enjoyment of poetry is what we bring to it.“  

She took another sip of her chardonnay, swallowing until her hand no longer shook.  She carefully placed the glass on the table alongside her empty plate, and that’s when she saw it.  

Fox Mulder, angled in the booth beside her, was fully aroused.

She swallowed hard, trying to rake her eyes away from the prominent tent of his trousers.  I did that, she couldn’t help but think. Me.

His face was flushed slightly, his pupils dark.  He looked feral, on the verge of losing control despite his placid expression. She had seen him like this only a few times, but the engine of that transformation had never been sex, but rage.  And, she admitted, she’d been wary of what he might be capable of in those moments.  Now, though, standing in the blistering heat of his near-volatile passion, she wanted to be engulfed.  She wanted the sun of his desire to completely consume her, to burn away every shred of who she had been before she had met Fox Mulder.

She tore her eyes away from him long enough to see the server arrive and retrieve their plates, and Mulder straightened in his seat.  She was thankful for the reprieve, but she also rued it.  An idea presented itself then, and before she had time to talk herself out of it, Scully had beckoned the server closer and whispered something in his ear.  Mulder was intrigued; he could see the minute change in her and was certain his poem from earlier had affected her in some way.

His reciting it was a shameless attempt at seduction, he owned that, but he was also not sorry.  Mulder was drawn to Scully like the proverbial moth to a flame.  Being in such proximity to her for an extended period of time tonight, alone, had been the tipping point on his restraint.  

A few moments later, Mulder saw that same server whisper something to the band leader who stood atop the small stage in the front of the club.  The man approached the microphone, and a small beam of milky spotlight illuminated him from above.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentleman. Open Mic Night is still a few days away, but we have someone willing to contribute their talents to our little soirée tonight, so if you please, give a warm Blue Pearl welcome to Dr. Dana Scully.”  

Quiet, almost polite and scattered applause spread throughout the small gathering; there were no more than twelve or so couples at this exclusive club, and they were so enveloped in shadows that Scully could only see their hands.  

She cast a glance at Mulder, and for the first time that she could remember, he looked truly surprised.  And pleased. His lips curled into a knowing smile as he clapped along with the others.  She favored him with a shy smile of her own.  

“Looks like it’s my turn.” She quirked her eyebrow at him. “A poem for a poem?”  

He said nothing, but he worked his mouth in that knowing way of his and watched her stand, adjust her dress and smooth her hands at her waist.  She leaned over and placed her hand on his arm. “Wish me luck,” she said huskily, locking eyes with him, close enough for Mulder to have claimed her mouth simply by leaning into her touch.  He didn’t.  He caught her faint perfume from before, and his throat constricted.  "Break a leg,“ he choked out, but it was strained and not his voice.  

Dana Scully has ruined me, he thought as he watched her walk away.  She flashed him a winning smile over one shoulder.  

I am happily ruined.

-0-0-0-

[mirrahs-finest]

Cadence

Dust as thick as snow wafted through the thin sunbeam that pierced between the heavy green curtains. Everywhere else was black. Bare flesh, no trace of deerskin, darted in and out of the light as he searched for a braided cord. He found it, and pulled.

Blinding sunlight flooded the room through large, double hung windows in an instant as the curtains yielded. The afternoon glow washed across a long wall of packed bookshelves, dark-wood chests, and what looked to be a large, glossy black coffin with knobs adjoined to its side. The latter dominated the middle of the room.

The knight turned his head back over his shoulder towards the lady in white, awaiting a response. He looked pensive, for a statue. His hair lit up with a golden glow, cast by the morning rays, but it did not dull the edges and lines that carved his stiff visage. She surveyed the forgotten place from the threshold of the door, looking on in silence at the ancient tools.

She approached the bookshelf directly across the doorway and ran her palms along the brown tips of paintbrushes. Dozens upon dozens lined the shelf in glass jars, each divided--what felt to her fingers--by stiffness of the bristles as well as by size. 

The hairs softly hissed as she brushed her thumbs across them. Some were stained by color, others were worn down to the metal binding, but all of them carried a history of a thousand pictures in one form or another.

Marie pulled her hand away and let her eyes wander to each of the other odds and ends that littered shelves of the room. She found long tubes of oil paints--someone before had clearly favored red-- a whole host of inks and corresponding quills, and more than a few dark, smoky metal tins. 

She could not help herself, her hands were immediately blackened as she picked up the final of the items to inspect. Aslatiel pursed his lips. 

It was full to the brim with black charcoal. She picked a piece out, and it felt strange in the pads of her fingertips. They fit naturally, and her hand knew just how to grip it, but it still felt foreign to her. It was a glove she had long thought lost, found again. How long had it been since the first time she had felt this texture, she wondered? 

The woman looked up at the knight. Finally, he released his grasp on the curtain’s drawstring. His brow and lips relaxed, somewhat, and he dragged his eyes from her greens to over her shoulder. Her attention followed. 

To the back of the room, far from the oppressive gaze of the window’s morning sun, rested the easel. Fine white canvases rested alongside its right leg, hardly touched by damp air or harsh sunlight. She set aside the little metal box of dusty black, coated in her fingerprints, and walked over to it, drawn, slipping passed the coffin for now.

When she inspected the large canvas that was already hung in the easel’s grasp, she found nothing but a blank slate. She was not sure what she was expecting; he had already mentioned how long it had been since he last entered this place, and his forte was most certainly not in oil paints. Though, there must be some half truth somewhere, for what reason would a blank canvas be propped up, then?

He came closer so as to not have to yell across the rather large room. 

“Well?”

There was only the one--albeit large--window, but the light cream walls aided it in illuminating the whole room. The knight took a few more steps, coming to rest by the coffin so as to not get between Marie and any of the artifacts.

“You have a fine museum,” she replied after a brief pause, dragging a finger through the dust on the easel like a ship through the seas. 

She examined, again  the glossy walls and exceptional tools, all things she had not expected to ever own herself, at least not here. 

“Why did you take so long to show me this?”

She did not sound appreciative. Marie could not tell what his goal was; was this meant to be some kind of gift for her, meant to appease his own guilty heart? Or merely an exposition of amassed treasures--an old dragon looking for validation of his trove. Collections are meaningless without anyone to experience them.

“Truly, I had forgotten it even existed. My mind was occupied with other things,” he answered, without pause or hesitation. She had been with him for some of those frozen nights; only Aslatiel of Mirrah could make his being revolve solely around such a dark thing. He looked around the room as if, he too, were inspecting it for the first time.

“Perhaps it never stuck to me because I am simply not the sort of person to make use of any of this. My focuses and skills were elsewhere,” he continued. He seemed relaxed in that white linen shirt, his former apprehensions vanished.

She eyed the polished black piece of furniture that continued to make its weight known to the room.

“I thought you said you played?” she asked, catching his contradiction.

He paused his inspection of the room, and directed his azure back to her, his form framed by the window. The knight did not say anything, he merely looked confused. 

“The piano,” she indicated, “Did you not tell me that you once played music?”

Aslatiel followed her gesture to the ebony he rested his elbows on. He took hold of one of the two nobs and lifted upwards, gently, revealing 88 black and ivory teeth that smiled up at him.

He looked back at her, but she did not yield. Worse; she seemed to be anticipating. His gaze fell back upon the teeth.

“...So I did,” he conceded. Slowly, the vichyssoise that was his memory churned and bubbled, letting the event rise to the surface. There was also a handsome demon, floating across like flotsam, but he did not dredge for it.

The knight sat down upon the cushioned seat beneath the maw, waiting for it to make the first move. When it didn’t, the man rolled up the flowing sleeves of his linen shirt, then made the attack.

A single string, low and lonely, rumbled as a hammer beneath the wood struck down upon it. It danced, reacting to the energy with an eager tone.

The knight closed the shutter that had protected the keys from dust all that time, satisfied.

The woman looked down upon him from the easel, canvas in hand, clearly not as pleased. 

Disapproval rolled along his brow and lips for a moment, before he took a deep breath and spoke.

“Any requests?” he asked as he lifted the shutter once more.

He would turn it against her. Surely, she had heard a thousand tunes in Volgen, and many more on her travels. But could she name a single waltz, symphony, or even sonata? Perhaps some, but none Mirran. 

He was a spiteful thing. Her own brow furrowed as she realized the rules of the game of which he was setting. She continued her motions of setting a new, smaller, canvas upon the rack while she thought.

“I would much prefer to hear something from you, Aslatiel. Surely, someone such as yourself would have made a piece or two?”

She watched as his visage went blank, and took the opportunity to browse through the selection of oil paints a second time while he readied himself. 

Her challenge quickly became insurmountable. 

“I’ve never composed before,” he loosed like a sigh. “I had always enjoyed just playing whatever I found in libraries.”

He was imagining the collections he once had free rein over. Dozens, if not hundreds, of the finest composers all at his fingertips. It was they who were the masters of their craft, and it was from them he had always drawn.

“I never had a need to write, myself.” 

Her search had slowed, unaware how quickly she had cornered him. The brushes called out to her, but she was waiting.

Just as she was about to speak up, another note cut the silence.

Five more joined it as it sounded off again. They did not match, at least not all of them. One or two did not fit so neatly in the perfect chorus, but again he called them anyway. 

Marie resumed looking through the brushes, selected three, then returned to her easel, uneasy, but content enough to listen. She could practically hear the rust falling from his worn hands and the strong forearms they were bound to, and yet he was not creating anything unpleasant. They were only chords, after all, little bundles and collections with no meaning without direction.

As she spread her choices of paint and dabbed the harrowed head of her largest brush into the white pigment, he gave the notes their orders. 

Slowly, they flowed over one another, still drawn from the discordant collection, but they were earnest if nothing else. Occasionally, they stumbled and faltered, but he did not hasten to correct it. Instead, he just let them go. She was not convinced they were mistakes. 

They trickled nearly one at a time through the air rich with sunlight, but come they did. Fingers rolled upwards; he had enough of the low notes, he wanted something brighter. The discordant chorus began its ascent, this time with melody and rhythm. It was something slow, but full. Aslatiel never did things partway.

Soon enough, he had remembered the peddles, which gave the steadily growing stream its weight and longevity. Some notes persisted as he went on to others; a stream was forming.

Aslatiel, himself, looked engrossed. She was almost certain he would not even notice if she flicked some of the green paint on her brush upon his face. He stared on at his fingers as they danced across the keys with the same look one may read a harrowing story with. She poked lightly at leaves.

A river had formed. It bent round wild corners and fell upon jagged rocks, but never slowed. Instead the notes hastened. 88 little hammers battering away at just as many strings, and Aslatiel made sure at least the majority of them were dancing at any given time. Marie could feel its deepest wells in the base of her chest, following along with the pace of her heartbeat.

Gradually, the one or two little notes that had rebelled against the rest lost their voice. They fell in with the rise and fall of the current, swept away by slow, but powerful, torrents. 

The knight knew every key’s tone by heart. He recalled how many times he had requested his own instrument at home be re-tuned, insisting upon not a single note going without their voice. Eventually, he had taken up the job himself, dissatisfied with any other’s work. Once, these voices mattered to him more than anything else. And yet, he had never allowed them to speak on their own accord. 

His fulfillment shown brightly on his face. There was so much color to be found in these black and white keys. 

The woman wondered what story could possibly be playing in his mind. The wind up soldier could not have been daydreaming of wars long gone; there was no snow or ice in this melody, nor a drop of red to be found beneath the trills. The story was one of clouds, and grass, and tall trees that shaded well but let enough golden sunlight through to remind one that it was only the afternoon, and there was still the entire day left to play. The corners of her mouth pulled gently upwards as she pulled the brush across the canvas.

The river ebbed, slowly icing over with the end of the imagined symphony. So came a stream, then the brook. It occurred to him that without paper, he may never be able to play that exact piece the same way ever again, if at all. The brook came to a trickle, until all that remained were two little voices, in harmony with only each other.

Somehow, this realization did not bother him in the slightest. Slowly, he lifted his fingers from the board and began to stand.

“Hey!” she called, her tone awash with displeasure. She looked almost offended.

He froze and locked eyes with her mid-rise, hesitant to move even a single muscle.

“I was not finished,” she said, brush hovering inches from the canvas. Slowly, the knight sat back down at the piano’s seat.

Marie added two touches of blue with the smallest brush she had.